Read Online London Large: Blood on the Streets by Roy Robson, Garry Robson - Free Book Online Page A

and sounding like she
was on the verge of losing control.
    Welcome to my world.
    ‘H…it’s…heads down there.
Severed heads wrapped in blankets. They’re finding severed heads in blankets.’

20
    The kid’s lapel camera
had not done it justice - seen up close, The Island was an absolute mess. Some
of the caravans had practically been demolished, shot to pieces and left
hanging in bits, their interiors on display. Like something straight out of a
war zone. H had not seen a place so shot up since he’d left the army. Not in
his twenty years of coppering in the metropolis.
    Fuck me, what sort of
weapons are these bastards using?
    All was quiet now. The scene
was secure, and they knew the tally: two dead and half a dozen injured, most of
them inside the caravans. And to top it all off, two heads, each in its own
wrapping. On their way now to forensics. Eye witnesses, from both on and off
the site, were being gathered at the local nick. Interpreters had been called
for to help with the former, but H knew that would lead nowhere: they would all
play mute.
    ‘Well, there’s not much we
can do here for the minute, Ames. Let’s go and see if Confident John can help
us start to pick the bones out of this fucking mess.’
    ‘Guv, you’ve never really told
me why you insist on calling him “Confident John” all the time’, Amisha asked
in the car. ‘That’s not what it says on his birth certificate, is it?’
    ‘Because that’s his name
Ames. Has been for years. When I was a kid there were a lot of Johns about round
here. As we got older we had to find ways of distinguishing them. So we had
John the Plumber, John the Mechanic, Postman John, Sex-Case John, John the
Scaffold Murderer, and Confident John. Actually he was called Shy Nervous John
for a long time, but then in his thirties he fell in love with a bird and
changed. Became more confident.’
    They found the man himself
plotted up at the bar in the Crown and Anchor, studying the racing form in his
paper. His usual pitch, this time of the day.
    ‘What’s happening, John?’,
said H, patting him on the back.
    ‘Hello H. Long time no see. I
wondered how long it’d take you to get down here. What you drinking?’
    ‘I’ll have a large scotch.
She’ll have orange juice’, said H, motioning to Amisha with a nod of his head.
‘We’ll be over at the corner table.’
    Settling down into her chair,
Amisha realised how she’d come to love these sessions. It was like being an
anthropologist, getting to know some exotic tribe. These guys had their own
history, their own way of behaving, their own way of understanding the world,
their own language. It was the language she really liked, and she’d noticed
lately that it was beginning to rub off on her.
    ‘Mark my card for me, John.
What the fuck is going on here? What was that turnout at The Island all about?’
asked H.
    ‘Give me a chance, mate, it’s
only just happened. Obviously someone’s had a pop at the Albanians on the site.
You’ve got two choices, basically. It’s either the Russians, part of the bigger
thing that’s been going on, or another Albanian firm. One of their vendettas.’
    ‘Which would you put your
money on?’
    ‘Neither H, at this stage.
The thing is, these Balkan Mafioso always keep schtum. You never get a dickie
bird out of them. Not that they speak a lot of English. They keep themselves to
themselves. They’re violent, ruthless. And they’re tooled-up to fuck. This is
all way past sawn-off shotguns, mate.’
    H sighed, heavily. ‘Tell me
something I don’t know, John.’
    ‘What you don’t know, H, is
that this bollocks is only just getting started. Whatever that was about this
afternoon, they’ll have to meet fire with fire. If it was the Russians we’ll
wind up in the middle of a full scale war. If it was another Albanian firm
it’ll be part of a vendetta, which is almost as good as a war. Those fucking
things never end. The fun and games we’ve had so far are going