The Unwanted E-Book

James McKenna

• Herausgeber: Lone Cloud
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 413

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Fed up with habitual criminals using prison as a temporary hotel? Directus Iurisdictio has an ancient alternative. Sean Fagan of SOCA is sent undercover to investigate the dark structure of a secret network that executes habitual criminals, dishonest MPs, greedy bankers and spying policeman.Fagan is drawn into a web of deceit as he goes undercover to investigate the dark and secret structures of Directus Iurisdictio, Direct Justice. Dismissing the criminal judicial system as not fit for purpose, a system which repeatedly allows prisoners free to re-offend, Directus Iurisdictio evokes its own ancient system of social retribution. The crime rate plummets as habitual rapists, burglars, paedophiles and other career criminals die or vanish without trace.Enticed by two beautiful sisters who he suspects are members of DI, Fagan gets close enough to discover involvement of senior Whitehall officials using Directus Iurisdictio to save the judicial system billions. When Fagan does not join them as expected they order his immediate execution. Knowing Directus Iurisdictio has infiltrated the police, SIS and Government he is trapped in a world of sinister forces. Only his own determination and skill can extract him.

Leseprobe

THE UNWANTED

By James McKenna

THE UNWANTED

Lone Cloud Publishing

Unit 1 Betjeman Close, Cowper Road,

Harpenden, Herts AL5 4XH

2013

ISBN 978-0-9569723-5-4

[email protected]

Copyright James McKenna 2013. All rights reserved

The right of James McKenna to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

A clip catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade, or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that is which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

For more crime thrillers by this author, and information about his new books, visit James McKenna’s author web page on Amazon or

www.crimefiction-jamesmckenna.co.uk.

Other books by this author:

The Unseen

The Uncounted

Coming soon

Global Raider

James McKenna’s young readers’ book,

The Mind Traveller, the first in a trilogy of action/adventure stories for 9-12 year olds,

will be out in June

CHAPTER 1

A blindfold heightened Justitia’s sense of vulnerability, as did the men’s silence and their anonymity. She suppressed a shiver but fear remained fused with her thoughts throughout the car journey. An hour later she allowed herself to be led into a building, the clicking of her heels on flagstones was the only sound, the grip on her arm the only indication of another’s presence. A door opened and then closed behind. The escort removed his hand leaving silence and darkness to enshroud her. She wondered if they examined her, judged her, as they had judged her over the years she had trained with Universal Youth. During that time they had maintained indoctrination of obedience to their sacred laws, waiting for her acceptance and unquestionable belief in Direct Justice. Self-consciously she straightened, not wishing to show fear. Fear would betray her.

“You may remove your blindfold.” The voice was male, cultured and authoritative.

Justitia found herself standing in a single shaft of light, her surroundings left in semi-darkness. She saw five figures seated before her, one perhaps a woman; shadow left the face and gender uncertain. Bigger shadows stood against the wall, large men who stayed still and silent.

“For someone who will dispense justice, I approve of your chosen lodge name.”

“The Roman goddess who all recognised,” Justitia said. “I wish no one to doubt the nature of my commitment, particularly those who will follow me in our national duty.”

“No one doubts you, Justitia. Your background is impeccable, your training excellent and your employment admirably positioned for our purpose. Without question you are an ideal candidate. But you are also a young woman. Entry to the inner chapel demands absolute loyalty and obedience. You will need to exterminate any condemned by the Grand Lodge, those miscreants who violate the decent citizens of this land. Habitual criminals, rapists, paedophiles, terrorists and, more important, those higher up the feral ladder, politicians, bankers and civil servants who betray their high office for self gain, those who dishonour the trust placed in them and follow the path of greed.”

“By my hand they will die. I give my life to the sacred duty of this lodge,” she replied, watching the speaker lean forward.

“Be aware, Justitia, the condemned may also include any who break our sacred oath of secrecy, men and women you may know. Since the foundation of our order in the times of Roman law, no mercy has been shown to those who betray us.”

“I understand and honour my oath,” she said, hearing her voice sound crystal clear within the stone walls of the cellar. Because I am chosen, she thought, chosen through the acts committed by my father, chosen for the outrage and vengeance left from the child.

“Justitia, you are about to become a soldier of justice, a warrior at war against the dregs of humanity, criminals and terrorists who, in more enlightened times, would have been hanged. But in these days of political correctness, where the thug has more rights than the victim, your acts of justice may be considered murder.”

“I fully understand my legal and moral position,” Justitia said, lifting her shoulders to emphasize the point. She felt faith in these people because they in return placed faith in her. They were people of power and influence, people who represented the nation’s anger, men and women who adopted means to correct the modern laws they judged as failed. She saw their ranks as a place of liberation where she could stand up for those who lived in fear. A perfect place to hide.

“Assassination requires skill,” the voice continued. “The fight for justice may take years. You may be caught and imprisoned but still you will remain irrevocably bound by your oath of secrecy under pain of death. Have you considered what this undertaking places on your young life?”

“Children are violated and the offender is allowed freedom to violate again. Drug dealers become wealthy, burglars repeatedly desecrate our homes. Feral gangs murder, rape and steal. We the people have no protection because criminals’ rights are regarded higher then our safety. Islamic terrorists are granted sanctuary and protection while urging the impressionable to turn against this country and kill us. Too many politicians disregard their responsibilities to satisfy their greed. In defence of the people and this Nation, I re-affirm my oath.”

“In that case, Justitia, this final test will either break or bind you forever to our code of justice.”

She felt a tremor on her skin and prayed it passed unnoticed as a spotlight illuminated an alcove behind. She turned slowly to face her commitment, one that had taken years of preparation. Sweat crept over her skin and the tight knot of her stomach felt clamped by claws.

The prisoner did not appear a miscreant. Middle-aged, with short blond hair he wore glasses and respectable clothes, more a schoolmaster than a criminal. Above the tape that masked his mouth, his eyes protruded under the strain of traumatic terror, his arms and legs were bond, his trousers wet with urine.

“What is his crime?” Justitia said over the man's increasing muffled protests as two hooded figures pushed him from the alcove and locked him by wooden rails over a trap door set within a wooden floor.

“He sold child pornography of a disturbing nature on the Internet,” the voice answered. “Four times he came to trial; four times they set him free due to technicalities. We estimate over forty children have suffered permanent mental and physical damage due to his abuse. Our court has found him guilty. His fate is yours. You may let him go, or you can dispense direct justice. Your decision will reject or accept our laws for the rest of your life.”

They know, Justitia thought, that I cannot, will not let him live. Someone who abuses the minds and bodies of children has no place in civilised society. She crossed to the wooden lever protruding from the timber floor, guessing it had only one purpose. This close she could smell his body, smell his fear. She stared at him, assessing the terror that devoured him. His eyes pleaded, begging her to forgive the sinner, knowing she held his life but a moment from extinction as she placed the noose around his neck, allowing sufficient slack for the fatal drop. Satisfied with rope, knot and its position she returned to the front feeling the shaft smooth and round as she clutched the circumference in her strong fingers.

“He is evil,” she heard herself say and pressed against the lever, forcing the rounded wood against thighs and stomach until it moved forward. At its far reach the trapdoor cracked wide and her victim fell. The rope jerked beneath his weight, the distinct snap of his neck telling her she had arrived.

“Welcome, Justitia, welcome to Directus Iurisdictio, to the inner chapel, the final and direct administration of justice.”

Justitia let go her breath and wiped both hands against her thighs. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I shall not disappoint, I promise you.”

CHAPTER 2

“You realise your request may forfeit a man’s life?”

“Dramatically put.” The Chief of Joint Intelligence smiled without mirth as they passed the statue of Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens. “But the outcome depends on this criminal and Fagan’s reaction. You could say we are leaving it to fate.” He paused to let a mother pass preceded by two small boys. “He will kill of course?” he said in question. “No point plotting this event if Fagan won’t kill.”

John Cobbart let go his breath and flexed his jaw. “In defence of the innocent or himself, I think he would. But killing is not listed as a requirement for employment by the Serious Organised Crime Agency.”

“Quite,” the Chief nodded. “Hence you understand the need for total secrecy. And at this stage that includes Fagan himself.”

“I understand the delicacy of the situation. Fagan will only be informed on a need to know basis as events proceed.” Cobbart grimaced and clasped hands behind his pin-stripped suit before throwing the question which worried him most. “Considering the unorthodox nature of this operation, I trust the Minister and PM are briefed?”

“I’m not a liberty to say. For your purpose you report all information directly to me.” The Chief paused waiting on two joggers to pass. “The Box, MI5, will do the same.”

Which means the operation is deniable, Cobbart thought while standing aside.

“If this ever blew up,” the Chief continued, “the damage would be considerable. Whitehall is full of busybodies trying to be where they shouldn’t and all too ready to prattle should they fall from favour. Therefore at this point only three SIS heads know the scope and complexity of the operation. As for your own man, the shooting will provide cover. His brief would appear on the surface to be solely involved with investigation of the Death Heads, the National Street Security gangs and any active distribution of drugs by them. No one on the other side would ever suspect he had been planted. Who knows, having shot a criminal he might even be approached by Directus Iurisdictio for recruitment.”

Cobbart clasped and unclasped his palms, listening to the sound of ducks as they glided on water. Of course, why else would this conversation be held outside with no records of any sort? Those instigating the investigation did not know who the opposition were, did not know who amongst their own ranks were members of DI. He watched the Chief smile and raise his hat to a pretty young nanny in uniform, her tiny charge possibly Arab or Asian. The nanny smiled back.

“So tell me, what exactly is the ultimate objective?” Cobbart asked.

The Chief spread his hands in a gesture of uncertainty. “To disband Directus Iurisdictio, Direct Justice, from the top downwards.”

Cobbart could tell the man lied and saw by his eyes he realised as much. “My God, you want control.” Cobbart stopped. “You realise the dangers? The laws of Direct Justice are not only unconstitutional, they’re medieval.”

“John, the human race is medieval. Our so called civilisation is a thin veneer over brutal savagery. Evidence is everywhere. If we were not medieval how do you think an organisation like DI could grow until straddling every class of our society? People are angry. In its present form DI is already saving this country millions. Under proper direction millions would become billions. The Street Security gangs might be predominantly rightwing neo-Nazis but via unofficial but central control they could be a national asset. Only the Death Heads with their radical Islamic teachings and their control by hard East European criminals are a serious threat. Authoritative influence on our nation’s will and outlook is eroding; DI is a means to regain Government manipulation. Afterwards, if needed, we eliminate it. But present interest is for the economic good and re-establishment of firm central control over the populace.”

“You mean unseen and unrealised control by an alternative political system not accountable to law.”

“John, you’re been reading and believing too many newspapers. Since the start of history, for the greater good, when has the individual ever been considered? Public relations exercises by politicians expounding the right of freedom and justice are all very commendable. But you and I both know it’s a load of bollocks. The populace has always been manipulated by tight monetary indoctrination, all bundled into the illusion of a democracy which allows individual freedom.” He raised a finger in a gesture of exclamation. “Let’s not bullshit. We must curtail those on the fringes so the inner core is pacified.”

Cobbart clenched fists behind his back and stared across the Serpentine to where a group of children played on the grass, their mothers lolling in idle chatter. He felt sweat on his palms. “Now I think you are being dramatic.”

“John, like it or not, it’s the way civilised humanity works. So, let’s put politics aside. All I want from your agent is information. I have others who will do the dirty work.”

“And you believe killing this dealer will give Fagan entry to DI ranks?” Cobbart asked.

“St Albans City is one of DI’s most active cells. Why do you think it’s virtually crime free?”

“What if DI kill Fagan?”

“Why should they? He has legitimate cover investigating the Death Heads for SOCA. These gangs constitute organised crime. Considering the manner in which he will be sent there, I believe DI will not see him as an enemy but as a promising recruit. He’s perfectly safe.”

“Chief, you know full well if you go undercover as Fagan will, you don’t have a team, only someone co-ordinating information received. Amongst the enemy he will stand alone.”

“I think not. MI5 is also interested. Quite rightly they fear gangs following extremist Islamic and national policies will lead to unrest. Nationwide there are now reputedly over two hundred gangs from both sectors under a central control by Directus Iurisdictio. Local gangs are virtually disappearing. I repeat, this is organised crime, SOCA’s principal business.”

Cobbart shook his head. “Alice Sibree only looks after her own. They don’t call her the Witch without reason. They will know of Directus Iurisdictio and they will have their own operation.” They passed from Long Water to the Serpentine, the breeze rippling the surface to throw sparkled reflections of the afternoon sun. Cobbart kept his gaze on the far bank. “Have you informed Alice Sibree of our intention?” he asked, turning his head.

The man looked uncomfortable. “No, not directly, but she will know, that witch knows everything. I’m almost certain our two operations will eventually link.”

“You’re asking me to throw Fagan into a nest of vipers.”

“John, since taking over this office I have discovered we have more than one agency not spoken of. Fagan will not be alone.”

“I don’t like it, this is no way to treat a dedicated officer.”

“But all for the good of nation, John, all for Queen and country. There’s also talk of a knighthood or two.”

Sean heard the mobile ring the instant before he entered the clearing. In the deep forest it came as an alien sound, a technical intrusion amidst ancient oaks. The agreement had been adamant, only direct verbal communication, no outside interference, no third parties, no traceable mobile signal, no weapons. Both knew distrust or betrayal might be fatal, which was why Sean pressed his thumb against the safety of the Glock 9mm automatic thrust into the pocket of his parka. Vince Grogan was a dangerous and untrustworthy man.

Stepping from cover the sound of Sean’s movement turned Grogan's head. The man had a cell phone to one ear while raising a pistol with his free hand, his eyes and mouth wide, his fear clarifying his intention. Sean dropped to one knee an instant before he saw the muzzle flash and felt the breath of death pass his ear to impact on the tree trunk behind. His response came instinctively and for a second he stayed immobile while aiming. Grogan's gun arm had already levelled for another shot when Sean fired.

The explosive discharge of two weapons simultaneously sent violent sound into the forest and a 9mm bullet through Vince Grogan’s head. Sean realigned his wrist from the kickback and took second aim, only to see Grogan dead before he fell.

Sean lowered the pistol, lowered his head, death gave no satisfaction, only a sense of defeat and revulsion. Grogan had been one on a list. Now the list had been shortened, but this was not the way, never would be. The man would spread no more crime, wreck no more lives, but his death simply left a space to be filled by another. The war remained endless.

Sean’s mind refocused with the echo of shouts amidst trees as his backup team came running. Simmy arrived first, stopping where foliage gave boundary to the clearing.

“Jesus, guv, you sure took him out,” he said, staring at the crumpled body.

“Such is the nature of our game. Shame really, the bastard would have hated prison. What the hell did he think he was doing?” Sean drew an evidence bag from his pocket and carefully deposited his Glock automatic inside. “Here,” he said, handing it over. “You’ll need that for evidence.”

“But you did warn him guv, didn’t you?” Simmy asked, accepting the weapon.

“Sure I did, it came by the working end of a gun barrel.”

Other team members arrived, Jan, Ali and Mike, all keeping their distance as if Sean and the body were carriers of plague. No contamination of the crime scene, Sean thought. These guys were members of the Serious Organised Crime Agency, SOCA, the very best of the best. They knew the drill. They also knew a shot criminal would spread a human rights virus quicker than plague. Sean realised they feared for their own contamination.

“Grogan’s dead. For reasons unknown he decided on a shoot out rather than constructive dialogue,” Sean said to the silent team. “Secure the area, call Forensics and the local boys. Time to do the paperwork.”

“Bad business, Sean,” John Cobbart said, not looking up. “The politically correct smell blood. The media already have a headline story of how gun-happy police shot an innocent and unarmed walker.”

Sean stayed silent, easing his long frame in the chair while staring at his boss. Cobbart wore his usual crumpled suit, his office a shambles of files and papers, an untidy image behind which lurked a shrewd and calculating mind. Sean gave respect to the man, he even liked him, but never quite trusted him. “We’re not police,” he said finally. “We’re the Serious Organised Crime Agency dealing with serious villains.”

Cobbart raised a hand in helpless gesture. “Our problems came with the shooting after 7/7. Now the media blackens every person in the force as a gun-happy killer.”

“Something we live with,” Sean said, clenching fingers on the arm of his chair. “But it doesn’t change the fact our op went seriously wrong. Grogan wanted to pass info on his rival Bently and the emergence of his Dead Head gangs, so why try to kill me? His mobile rang moments before I reached the clearing. It was agreed neither of us would carry a traceable mobile. Someone spooked him, someone changed the scene.”

Again Cobbart shifted papers on the desk, still avoiding eye contact. “So your statement said, and I believe you. But you realise truth has nothing to do with an outsider’s biased interpretation of events. For some, the fact you carried a weapon was an act of premeditated murder. The civil rights and PC brigades are banging their bibles. You think they care about truth, about reality?”

“The guy had a weapon, he fired it.”

“Maybe he was scared, maybe he wanted to surrender. His pistol went off by accident.”

“For Christ’s sake, John, to hell with the PC loose heads. You don’t surrender a weapon by aiming and firing at a target, me.”

“Sean,” Cobbart finally looked at him. “I’m on you side. I know you fired in defence. So will others. But the shit which comes out in court has only to do with proof governed by politics. It has nothing to do with truth.”

Sean clenched a large boned knuckled hand into the palm of the other. Drawing breath through teeth he suppressed a shudder over what threatened to explode inside of him. “The truth, if wanted, is that Grogan was a wholesale drug-dealer. For profit he ruined thousands of lives.”

Again Cobbart moved papers on his desktop, sliding sheets with an index finger. Again he lowered his eyes. “You want to know how some papers describe him? A loving family man; a wealthy entrepreneur who gave to charity. The police hounded him for years without getting a single criminal conviction. The enquiry will be told he was lured into a trap and murdered by a member of the Serious Organised Crime Agency because that was the only way they could deal with him.”

“That’s total bollocks.” Sean sat back seeing the full gravity of what might arise.

“But it’s what we face.”

“What of the truth? He fired first.”

“The truth, Sean, is that you’re in the shit.”

“For doing my job. You set up that meeting, John. Grogan had information vital to our investigation, proof, he said, that Calvin Bently had a national gang of Easties called the Death Heads. I gather criminal intelligence, that’s how we put these guys away.” Teeth clenched he watched Cobbart shift in his chair, sensing the man’s unease and the tension now coiled between them. “Someone put the frighteners on Grogan,” Sean continued. “We need to know who. We need to check that mobile.”

Cobbart continued toying with the papers before him.

“Can we go off record?” Cobbart stared up at him.

“If that’s what it takes for truth.”

“The truth is, we’re both sitting in shit, but shit not of our making. It’s a quagmire of political deceit between the police hierarchy and the political untouchables in the Home Office. We can’t check Grogan’s mobile because Grogan’s mobile was never found.”

“But I heard it, saw it.”

“You were the only one who did. Until I read your statement and report I never knew of any mobile. There is no mention of a mobile in the scene of crime report. Do you realise the complication? It means evidence was removed by one of the crime scene officers, or you are wrong.”

“I distinctly heard and saw a mobile.”

“Tell that to the enquiry.”

Sean saw the dark clouds gather. “Someone fucked our operation, breeched SOCA security.”

Cobbart nodded. “ The thing is, did Bently learn of the meeting?”

Sean continued to stare in silence. He knew Cobbart as devious, scheming and manipulative. He was also Sean’s principal lifeline. It was time to listen with care.

“It’s my belief,” Cobbart continued. “That whoever called his mobile told him you were Bently’s hit man.”

“So who did you tell of this meeting?” Sean asked.

“I had to clear it from above, inform St Albans station we had an armed team in the area. Like it or not, others are involved. Bently was not the only one connected to the Death Heads. They’re national. MI5, the Joint Intelligence Board and God knows who else are all lurking in the shadows.” Again Cobbart raised his hands. “Someone is meddling.”

“So who else wanted Grogan dead other than Bently?”

“Perhaps someone higher up the criminal ladder. Someone is organising the Death Heads, infiltrating local territory and gangs, then taking them over.”

“Is that why MI5, K branch is involved? Did they set this up?” Sean asked.

“Alice Sibree might be called the Wicked Witch, but MI5 wouldn’t risk your life to have you take out a drug baron. Like it or not, in shooting Grogan you’ve been thrown into the middle but that also gives an ideal opportunity for you to start SOCA’s own investigation at St Albans. We need to know who is killing who and why. Is Bently alone or is he part of an organised criminal syndicate out for control of the British drugs trade? A lot is at stake including whether you and I remain in SOCA. Some will argue that in shooting Grogan you opened the door for Bently to expand his territory.”

Sean let the significance of Cobbart’s words sink in. The police had been his life since leaving school. From Hendon College, through the ranks to CID, the National Crime Squad and finally Grade One, Senior Investigator in the Serious Organised Crime Agency. The job had broken his marriage, taken away his children and dominated his life. “I ain’t going to stand for this,” he said feeling the web of injustice tighten over his body. “Just what the fuck’s going on?”

“For both our sakes I need you to find out. Calvin Bently is suddenly centre stage. Alice Sibree of MI5 is also watching through K branch.”

“Bently must have spooked Grogan,” Sean said. “So I take the team and go after him.”

Cobbart shook his head. “We don't have time for the formal route. There's more at play here than meets the eye. It’s my belief there are hidden players and none of them are on our side.”

“So what’s the game plan?”

“To play by different rules. You go covert. Enquiries against both Grogan and Bently are still carried out by St Albans CID. They have the files, but within their ranks will be other knowledge never recorded. You go there as a lone operator from SOCA seeking info, evidence for SOCA’s defence at the enquiry but also looking into the Death Heads while offering any assistance required. If there are more murders, involve yourself. Then by whatever official or unofficial means necessary, you find out who is really culling the street dealers. Someone within Hertfordshire Constabulary removed Grogan’s mobile. St Albans has a high success rate in crime reduction, in fact the best, but then it would have if every mainstream criminal had been exterminated. Something there is not right. Trust no one.”

“Do we have any allies in this?”

“Alice Sibree. Like her or not, she is on our side and she does have players in the field. I have a briefing with the Chief Constable and Minister tomorrow. They'll encourage co-operation, but ultimately will only be looking to have clean hands. I’ll be honest, Sean, if you accept, you’ll be going into the snake pit. There is more to this than spilling feral blood.”

Sean examined the man’s expression and his eyes, realising he had not been told the whole truth. “Do I have a choice?”

“No.” Cobbart stood and reached out his hand. “You’re the best there is, Sean, and more than myself will be relying on you. I’ll do what I can to cover your back. Start immediately, and for God’s sake watch out.”

CHAPTER 3

Justitia focused her mind allowing the concentration of conviction to infuse with righteous indignation. This man had raped and to violate one sister was to violate all. He had no place upon this earth. Jogging to the park in the morning sunshine she felt far from the reality of her surroundings, more a warrior going into battle, all energy concentrated for the ordeal ahead. Now the climax of the operation was imminent she chose as always to act alone. During the past years, since joining Directus Iurisdictio, she had deliberately never asked for help in the final act of execution, preferring each kill to demonstrate her commitment. In consequence she accepted the danger, accepted her plans might go wrong, accepted the fear which knotted in her stomach. On learning of his crime she had personally requested this drug-dealing rapist be added to her list, knowing in so doing she must act with speed while he was free from prison. Within months, crime would have returned him inside where execution became more difficult and undertaken by others. For what he had done she wanted this animal for herself.

Weekday morning the park held few people, ideal for her victim who preyed on young mothers with pushchairs and toddlers. Her breath laboured as she ascended the hill following the path from open parkland into woods. Traffic noise became muted and shadow cast her into a grey isolated world. In her head the coursing of blood mingled with the harsh intake of her breath and the rhythmic slap of her running shoes. Sweat glistened over her skin, soaking her vest and the elasticated waist of her running shorts. She saw no one ahead, not even a dog walker and found her spirit in being the warrior knight increasingly clawed by fear.

The tarmac curved for three hundred metres and she had covered half before he came into view. He had positioned himself perfectly, taking maximum advantage of the sweeping path and surrounding trees. No one could see them. In the centre of the city park she was alone with a serial rapist.

He was running on the spot in an absurd manner, almost slow motion, watching as she approached. She was conscious of her bounce and the minuscule cover of her outfit. Revulsion over what he intended pitted her stomach, but she also felt a deeper conflicting sensuality which coiled in mind and body. In a moment she had passed him, then in dread heard him fall in behind. Involuntarily her pace quickened. She could sense his presence closing in on her, sensed his eyes on her movement, her body and her legs. Then he drew alongside and began to overtake. Next moment his arm went around her neck. She screamed, hearing the squeal of her own voice as if it was someone else. Swung into the bushes, the momentum crashed them both through bracken and branches until she fell on wet earth.

Instantly he came on top of her, his hands everywhere. Her vest went up while she grappled to save her shorts. Her scream stifled by his hand, she tried to shift his fingers now clamped over her face but in so doing left her lower body defenceless. The next moment she reached back, desperately scrabbling in her pocket for what it contained before her shorts were ripped away. She could feel her exposure, see his teeth and smell his breath. He used one hand to clamp her jaw, the other to assault her. When she thrust upwards she capitulated to her predominant senses and watched the shock of pain spread over his face. Her sisters were avenged.

From the moment he left the flat and slotted himself into the car, Sean sensed he was being followed. He figured it maybe primeval instinct or training but any close proximity of a malevolent presence always brought a feeling of unease. He shifted lanes, altered speed, but in the morning rush hour the motorway was packed with aggressive traffic. In the end he noted six vehicles which might have been following and memorised their make and colour. In between times he mused how his security could have been compromised. Only SOCA and those close knew his address. If his sanctuary became known to any of the opposition he would need to move out, not that the flat amounted to much, but until now it had at least provided a refuge. School fees for two teenaged daughters ate most of his salary and the financial bribery of his ex-wife for unhindered access to them, ate most of the rest. He loved the girls and believed they loved him back. They gave life a purpose. Victoria Lawless lived in Maida Vale very close to his Camden flat. She also gave life a purpose. MI5 kept her busy as SOCA kept him busy but like the bachelor pad, he felt each provided the other a refuge when needed. In normal times Camden was fine. SOCA's Head Office stood in Pimlico and operations were primarily in London. But St Albans was a pain. Too close yet too far. In rush hour the journey lasted ninety minutes, three wasted hours a day. He had suffered it for two weeks along with the whole of Herts Constabulary treating him like a leper. Still, the tea lady once smiled at him. Acceptance came slow out in the sticks. More important he had to find a room, lodgings, somewhere to stay within the operational area where he could think, work and hopefully stay safe.

Guiding his aged Mercedes off the motorway he glanced again in his rear mirror. Two of the suspect cars followed, a blue Vauxhall and a red Mondeo, both lagging well behind. They stayed until once more he pushed into heavy traffic near St Albans city centre. The towering 11th century abbey gave the city some sense of ancient history but though relatively free of crime, dark spots still marred its middle class surface, mostly fed by drugs. Two weeks after start of operation he had only uncovered what he already knew; that Grogan’s patch was up for grabs, with Bently and the Death Heads taking over. Members of the Hertfordshire Constabulary had been polite, professional but decidedly distant. He knew they didn’t trust him and who could blame them? To them he represented the gung-ho SOCA agent looking for dirt on their home turf. He’d feel the same in their position. But somewhere amongst their ranks hid one or more bent coppers. Sean figured conventional policing would achieve little in the timescale available, better, he felt, to rattle the silence and see who dropped out of the darkness, who got irritated and edgy, who made a mistake or gave the wrong reaction. He just hoped the result did not come at high velocity via one of Bently’s Death Heads. Bent coppers might squeal in the sunlight, but to stay in the shadow they’d sell their souls. As he drove he began to wonder if the one he hunted had tipped off the opposition to follow him home, turning the hunter into the hunted.

Sean manoeuvred his Mercedes to see what he could of the following two cars and mentally noted their registrations. Then he phoned Heidi, his admin assistant at SOCA headquarters in Pimlico.

“I possibly have someone tailing,” he told her over the mobile and gave registrations, make and colour of both vehicles.

“Leave it with me, boss,” Heidi answered in her soft cherub voice.

Sean imagined her chubby presence, her radiant smile. He considered her the best in the business. Someone who got the job done, the only member of his team he had been allowed to retain, even then her time was shared with other operations.

“Cheers,” he said, and cut the call while watching his rear-view mirror. For the first time he managed a clear sighting of the red Mondeo’s occupants. Two males, shaven heads, lean faces; they could have been a couple of thugs or a couple of policemen, they certainly had the hard look of the professional. The blare of his mobile from the hands-free socket interrupted concentration. Chief Superintendent Hackett, head of St Alban’s District spoke over the cell phone, his voice clipped and to the point.

“I’ve an emergency,” Hackett told him. “I'm stretched and need your help in a new investigation.”

“If it's to do with Grogan, it's why I'm here.”

Hackett went silent, his breathing hesitant before he answered. “Some idiot let Frank Routt out of prison and he's gone missing. Area priority is to find him.”

“Missing persons are not my speciality. Bently and Grogan are.”

“Routt used to work as Bently’s enforcer. He's an animal whose whole life is wrapped in violent brutality. I'm not asking your help to find him, I want you to look into a murder I believe he's just committed in Verulamium Park.”

“How do you know it's him?” Sean manoeuvred the car to a side road and stopped.

“Has all his trade marks. The guy stabbed and gutted was an ex-dealer for Bently, probably fiddled Bently’s payment. Routt is like an automated killing machine, even the Death Heads would run. Look Fagan, all my guys are tied up. I’ve already got a detective sergeant who does most of our pleb killings down there, but I’d like your opinion. Go find out what's happening will you.” Hackett switched off.

To Sean’s knowledge, Hackett had one of the country's best records for reducing crime, fifty percent in four years. That made him a clever and shrewd operator who knew the system, best to give him some leeway. He tapped fingers on the wheel. Street level crime invariably provided a fast track to involvement with the locals, and lower ranks often knew more than those above.

He left his Mercedes at the back of Verulamium Park, locking the doors while watching the red Ford Mondeo drive by. Neither occupant took interest in him but their proximity was too much of a coincidence. These guys were professionals.

The sense of a malevolent presence did not ease as Sean walked the last few hundred yards across open grass and climbed towards trees and the crime scene tape.

Forensics were there, stalking through the undergrowth in their blue overalls, others picked painstakingly over ground near the path. A tent shielded the corpse and surrounding bushes. Beyond the trees he saw uniformed police dotting the grasslands in their yellow coats, unwinding yet more tape to keep away dog walkers, curious mothers with pushchairs and passing joggers.

One person stood alone, her arms folded. Tall and slender with black hair coiled to a bun, she turned on his approach, her eyes large, dark and questioning.

“Sean Fagan,” he said, showing his ID.

“I’m Sergeant Robson. Chief said you were coming. A top man from SOCA, you going to solve this?”

He guessed her of Asian mix. A mix resulting in delicate features and a honey complexion. Her arms remained folded until he offered his hand.

“Not me, but together you and I might.”

She clasped his fingers with her own, her grip slight and non-committal.

“That depends on whom listens to whom, sir.”

“I’m not police, I’m SOCA, so call me Sean. What’s your first name?” he asked, watching her large brown eyes narrow.

“Anjali, sir. So who’s going to be up front, write the report and do the briefing?”

“You take the glory. I’m just a back shadow helping if needed. My interest is any connection to Bently or Grogan.”

“When out of jail the victim worked for Bently. All the hard-boils here sold for Grogan or Bently. And not just in St Albans, both groups worked areas from Cambridge, Luton, Stevenage, right into Watford and North London.”

“That I know, but brief me on this guy.”

“The corpse used to be Wayne Finck, a violent druggy, thief and rapist. They released him three weeks ago. On first evidence it appears he attacked another woman, save it didn’t go as expected. She fought back.” Sean watched a smirk of satisfaction touch her lips.

“So you don't think it was Routt?”

She shuddered and shook her head. “Routt is not human, he wouldn't have cut the guy's genitalia off, he would have ripped it off. Besides, this guy wasn't gay, or female. Routt stood trial for beating a woman to death with a six pound club hammer. Slime bag lawyers got him off. Didn't the boss tell you, that's why you're helping because every single person in the station will be looking for the brute. One week, two weeks and Routt will kill again. Not good for statistics.”

“And what's your opinion?” he asked.

“I'm a sergeant, sir, I do as I'm told.” She turned away and called to one of the forensic team. “Can we go in?”

“Just stay within the guide lines. Doc Kielly’s in the tent,” someone answered.

“So who's Finck?” Sean said to Anjali and lifted the tape so she might pass beneath. They walked across grass between markers.

“A habitual and aggressive criminal. Eighteen months ago I helped in his arrest. He served only half his sentence, probably let out on the whim of some psychiatrist from a prison with no room to keep him.”

“Ours is not to reason why,” Sean quoted, glancing to her, seeing lips compress.

“Maybe, but we still have a duty to protect the public. I live close by and regularly jog through this park. I recognised Finck ten days ago. He was lurking around, just standing about, looking for another victim I guess. I informed the boss who told the park police who said thanks, but they didn’t have resources for dedicated surveillance. They were too busy watching for paedophiles and litter louts, and Finck broke no laws.”

Both stopped by the tent and drew on white coverall suits before Sean lifted the flap allowing Anjali to enter. The tent covered as much ground as the trees allowed, including the surrounding bushes. Anjali gave a wave of recognition to Dr Kielly who knelt by the corpse with an assistant. Sean stopped before an internal tape preventing further advance into air permeated by the victim's exposed viscera.

Anjali shrugged. “I knew this guy. I had to do something so I approached a girlfriend on the local rag. We made up a photofit and put it in the paper suggesting a rapist was stalking the pathways. Next day the park was empty,” she said, face smug.

“Very community-spirited but was it wise?”

“Definitely. The courts don’t protect us so women need to adopt alternative measures.”

Sean glanced at her and saw an expression reflecting her words. “But your actions also emptied the park, ideal for a rapist, or for someone who on discovering Finck was here, came to kill him. A past victim maybe.”

She screwed her nose a little. “Finck never took the help offered by Social Services, never accepted advice or opportunities to change. He was a lost cause.” She sniffed. “Maybe providence gave him early release so he could receive the justice he deserved.”

“Maybe.” Sean glanced to her then across to Kielly. “Anything for us?”

“At this stage just educated guesswork. The autopsy will give more substantial facts.” Kielly straightened up from her work, hand on back, rising from a knee stool she may have used when tending her garden. Mid-fifties, solid and bespectacled, Sean felt she had the quaintness of one attending the Women’s Institute rather than a murder investigation. But she was also the person who wrote Grogan’s crime scene report. Unless someone had removed the mobile before her arrival, she was a prime suspect. The corpse lay on its back partly supported and propped by crushed bracken. His T-shirt sagged to one side with the disembowelled contents of his stomach, while his shorts were askew around his thighs to reveal a mutilated groin.

“You think he attacked someone, or someone attacked him?” Sean asked.

“There was definitely a struggle, then both went down on the ground. Knee marks suggest he finished astride. We’ve found fibres of pink polyester cotton, also a torn length of elasticised lace probably from female underwear. Most interesting discovery is a wad of tightly wrapped tissue paper with a central channel that possibly held a short blade. Also strands of long black hair snagged by bracken. Definitely not from the corpse. But this place is open to the public. They could be from anyone.”

“But his killer was probably female and not one of the Death Head gang?”

She gave a sharp grimace. “By assumption rather than fact, yes. Finck was a convicted sex offender and first evidence points to his victim being a woman, one who turned the tables. That person stabbed him in the side, then up under the ribcage which caused him to roll off and try to crawl backwards allowing the killer to eviscerate him. The final strike was under the groin, the blade ripped upwards to sever the genitalia. His shorts must have already been down which indicates what he intended before the victim retaliated. Unless the Death Heads have female members, this guy was killed by one angry woman. He died from blood loss but the autopsy will show all.” Kielly knelt back to her work, going first to one knee then two.

“I can see why Hackett figured Routt did this,” Sean said to Anjali. “The guy wasn't murdered, he was butchered.” Sean lifted the flap and they returned outside, striped off their white coverall suits and shoes then placed them back on the pile.

“Never thought the DH, sorry, Death Heads, might have female members but it’s possible, would certainly wrap it up as gang warfare,” Anjali said.

“Would a DH member cut off male genitalia then gut the victim to make it look like Routt's work?” Sean asked.

“DH or lone female jogger. Someone brutal or someone with cold anger,” she said and raised a hand in question. “Not all the Death Heads have Islamic leanings, many from Chechnya and such are just gangsters. But I’d say this one was definitely female.”

“Or someone playing at female to blur the facts. Someone who carried a short bladed knife sheathed in tissues, realising if they got into a struggle it would do less damage to themselves than a long bladed knife. How many joggers carry knives?”

“Possibly one determined to run and also to defend herself if attacked. Unlike Routt, this guy won’t be coming back. I can’t feel sorry about that.”

“Feel as you want, but there are still two options, defensive retaliation or premeditated murder.”

“You should know, like carrying an automatic pistol just in case,” she said, looking to him, her expression clear.

“Point taken. But I know the circumstances of that particular incident, and it’s not as you suggest.”

“Then ’til we find the circumstances of this incident we should reserve our judgement, sir.” She stopped before him. She didn’t quite smile but it was the nearest to one since they had met.

“Can we be friends?” he asked.

“Certainly, sir.”

“Sean.”

“OK, Sir Sean. It’s my morning break, care to join me?”

They walked slowly downhill and found a coffee shop near the abbey entrance. Inside Sean sensed her relax a little. He could smell the faint essence of her perfume and felt the ambiance of her personality. Anjali, he decided, had something special.

“Tell me more about Finck,” he said, matter of fact, keeping the conversation on business.

“Serious low-life feral,” she answered. “He had five convictions for burglary with another forty-three taken into consideration. Two for aggravated burglary and rape, one for rape while on probation and six for possession and selling of Class A drugs. And that count is only when he got caught. Yet still they let him out. It’s no wonder the population get angry. His big mistake was working for Bently instead of Grogan. That’s why the Chief thinks it’s Routt.” She sipped her coffee and looked across the tables amidst the clatter of coffee cups and the hiss of espresso machines.

“But you think someone else was angry enough to kill him,” he said and watched her expression. “Are you angry too?”

“Angry over the harm he caused for bestial gratification, angry over the injustice of it all for victims while the politically correct crusade for his criminal rights. I’m quite pleased he’s dead though.” She put down her cup and looked across at him. “You glad you killed Grogan?”

“No, I wanted him on trial and in prison.”

“Killing him did no good. Bently and the DH will take his place.”

“I know that, it’s why I’m interested in Bently, why I’m here.”

“You won’t get Calvin Bently so easily, the man’s a shrewd and careful operator. He administers crime but never participates. He has the DH, sorry, Death Heads, to do that.”

“So tell me what you think,” Sean said, trying gentle encouragement.

She shrugged. “It’s my belief Bently’s a front man for someone hiding in the shadows. Someone supplying drugs to build a street army not unlike the right-wing gangs of Street Security. Using Bently he’s killed off Grogan’s men to enlarge his territory. It’s also my belief Bently’s bumping off his own indigenous guys and replacing them with the Death Heads. They’re named that on account of their black T-shirts and skull head logo. Some members are radical extremists who impose Sharia law in their territories. Others are a mixture of Brit and East European hoodies. If it was a member of the Death Heads who killed Finck it’s like they’re swatting flies who are a nuisance. Finck was one of the last half dozen of the indigenous dealers. Bently’s street sales have now spread to every city. If radical and fundamental Islam takes hold of the DH then Britain has a much greater problem than drugs.”

“