OUT FOR REVENGE
By Tony Bassett
Chapter 1
The ginger-haired customs officer squinted suspiciously over his glasses at the holidaymaker standing before him at Birmingham Airport.
‘Would you step over here, please, sir?’ he demanded as he inspected the man’s British passport.
Tadeusz Filipowski was led, cursing his luck, to a table at the side of the customs hall, where they were joined by a female officer. He hoisted his two blue cases onto the tabletop.
‘The reason we’ve stopped you today, Mr Robinson, is you seemed to be in a particular hurry,’ he said.
‘Well, of course,’ said the passenger, indignantly. ‘I’ve been on the bloody plane for more than three hours and I want to get home.’
‘Everybody coming through here wants to get home, sir. Have you got any cigarettes?’
‘Two hundred cigarettes, five bottles of wine and five six-packs of lager,’ he said without taking his eyes off the man.
‘I’ll just open your bags and check.’
Filipowski scowled as both his cases were opened. Shirts and white underwear began to spill out.
‘Do I look like someone stupid enough to try and smuggle something?’ he asked.
‘You’d be surprised what people will do,’ the customs man replied. ‘You’ve been away for the whole of Christmas and New Year, sir?’
‘Yes, just visiting friends.’
The two uniformed officials spent a few minutes rummaging around in both cases before the ginger-haired man adopted a look of resignation.
‘You see? I told you.’
The official gave a weak smile. ‘You’re free to go,’ he said. ‘Enjoy the rest of your day.’
The traveller zipped up both cases and stomped off, privately relieved that neither the customs officers nor the Border Force staff he passed earlier had taken a close look at his forged passport.
Within a few minutes, after finding a trolley, he reached the bustling arrivals hall and scanned the rows of expectant faces for his associate.
By now, Filipowski was out of breath. His face, lightly tanned from the glow of the Spanish sun, was glistening with perspiration. He was glad to be back in the Midlands, but irritated by the loudspeaker announcements, the squeaking escalators and the hubbub of conversation.
He was exhausted after his flight from Malaga. All he wanted was to find the house his cousin had arranged for him, put his feet up and have a cup of British tea.
He felt a tap on the shoulder. He spun round and was greeted by the smiling face of his minder, Tyrone Blake, a giant of a man from a West Indian background.
‘Good flight, my friend?’ Blake asked.
Filipowski frowned. ‘Flight was all right, but this bloody place with its bloody officials makes me depressed. Come on. Let’s get out of here.’
Blake took the handles of the trolley and they set off through two sets of glass doors. Filipowski shivered as he felt the cold English midday air on his skin.
‘Where’s your motor?’ he asked.
‘In the drop-off car park. It’s only a short distance. So you got through all right?’ said Blake. At thirty, he was more than twenty years younger than his Polish boss.
Filipowski grinned for the first time since leaving Spain.
‘Load of jerks work in passport control these days, Blake. Guy barely looked at my picture. Suppose it shows old Inky Taylor hasn’t lost his touch.’
‘You’ve been so lucky over the past few weeks,’ said the younger man as they crossed the road.
‘I know. I couldn’t believe it when they let me out of the Winson Green happy farm last month.’
‘They got you confused with another Polish guy?’
‘Yes. A guy called Filipowicz. I wasn’t going to argue, was I? Couldn’t believe it when the door opened, and I stepped into Winson Green Road. Of course, I jumped on the first plane to the Costas.’
‘Don’t know why you didn’t stay there. The cops will be on the look-out for you.’
‘Business is business, Tyrone. You know, my heart was in my bloody mouth when that guy searched my cases.’
‘You didn’t try and bring anything through?’
‘Nothing sizeable. Just some speed for my cousin in the heels of some cheap beach shoes.’
Blake inhaled sharply. ‘Lucky guy,’ he murmured.
They wove past dozens of cars on the ground floor of the car park until they reached a black Mercedes saloon. Blake pressed the remote.
‘Like your style, Tyrone.’
Blake shrugged. ‘It’s a good runner. You know I love a Touareg, but I just couldn’t get one. Rather than hang around, I picked this one up.’
‘Where did you–?’
‘Don’t ask, my friend,’ he said, raising the boot and placing the suitcases inside. ‘Let’s just say it was a reliable source and the cops aren’t looking for it. But I still reckon you can’t beat a Touareg. They give a nice smooth ride – like my girlfriend.’
‘You still with that girl? She must’ve the makings of a saint. Come on. Let’s go.’
‘Where we heading, boss?’
‘My cousin’s got a place for me in Balsall Common till the manor house is completely finished. It’s a shame we can’t go back to the Badminton Road house. I liked it there. Any news about Jake?’
‘The cops had him put down after he bit one of their officers.’
‘I thought that might happen. You couldn’t trust him with strangers. Still he was a bloody good guard dog.’
‘Don’t know Balsall Common,’ said Blake.
‘Nice village,’ said Filipowski as he climbed into the back of the car. ‘It’s only fifteen minutes down the road. I’ll explain how to get there.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ve got me sat nav.’
‘I forgot to ask,’ said Filipowski, as he searched around for his seatbelt. ‘Have you spoken to Tahir?’
‘Yes, and the trade’s going well. Lots of people wanted a bit extra for Christmas. He reckons we’re easily going to hit December’s target. And the accountant’s very pleased with the figures.’
‘That’s good news,’ he mumbled as the car lurched forward and left the car park.
They had only travelled a short distance along the airport exit road when a blue Audi R8 sports car came hurtling out of a turning on the left like a bullet train. Blake was forced to pull up sharply and both men were thrust forward in their seats.
‘What a bastard!’ screamed Filipowski. ‘Is he blind? Isn’t he seeing us?’
Blake frowned. ‘Don’t know, boss.’ He sounded his horn for several seconds.
At once the Audi driver slowed down in the middle of the road and made a two-fingered gesture from his open window. Filipowski began cursing and screaming before the fair-haired driver made off at speed.
‘Get after him!’ he ordered and Blake lowered his right foot to the floor.
Filipowski, who was known among acquaintances for his fearsome temper, was incandescent with rage as the two vehicles sped along the dual carriageway towards the Coventry road.
‘Ram him,’ he demanded.
‘Boss, are you sure?’ asked Blake. ‘Is this goon worth it? He just made a stupid mistake.’
‘Has made a very stupid mistake, messing with us. Ram him.’
As the vehicles were travelling at more than sixty miles an hour, the C-Class Mercedes lurched forward until its front end was just feet from the Audi. Then Blake gave the pedal one final push, and their Mercedes struck the rear of the blue car.
Immediately after the impact, the driver glared at his pursuers in his rear-view mirror with angry eyes and his vehicle carried on along the road, making a clunking noise.
By the time he reached a roundabout on the outskirts of Meriden, a village renowned for centuries as marking the centre of England, he was finding it hard to drive.
He slowed the car and steered it into a deserted side lane in this secluded countryside location before coming to a halt on a grass verge.
The pursuing driver spotted the damaged sports car crawl into the lane.
‘Pull up behind him,’ barked Filipowski, ‘and bring your new toy.’
Blake stopped his car on the verge a few metres behind the Audi. Then he reached into the glove compartment and grasped his Beretta APX Centurion before the two men leaped out.
The other driver was still inspecting the damage to the rear of his car. Then he glared at the two men – both much taller than him.
‘Look what you’ve done,’ he exclaimed before eyeing the pistol in Blake’s right hand. ‘Now hold on a minute…’
Red-faced Filipowski shouted, ‘You cut us up, you bastard. Then you give us two fingers.’
‘Look, I’m sorry,’ the man pleaded. ‘I shouldn’t have pulled out.’
‘Too right,’ said Filipowski. He punched the man in the stomach and then ordered, ‘Shoot his tyres.’
‘No,’ the man screamed as he clutched his stomach and glanced in fear at the weapon. ‘Look, I’m really sorry. Forget about the damage to my car. I can sort that out. Just leave my tyres alone.’
But, as he was trying to reason with them, Blake strolled round the sports car and systematically shot all four tyres.
‘Maybe you’re following the Highway Code a little more conscientiously in future,’ muttered Filipowski as he climbed back into the Mercedes.
Chapter 2
Sunita Roy was in a state of panic. She was at risk of being late for work and couldn’t find her car keys.
She ran from room to room in her flat near Warwick Racecourse, searching, and finally found them on the dining room table. She grabbed them and dashed out of her front door, slamming it as she went.
She had only managed to take a few steps along her garden path towards her white Peugeot 208 on this cold, grey day when her mobile phone rang. She glanced at the screen. It was one of her close friends.
‘Hi, Rupa,’ she said. ‘We’ll have to make this quick because I’m a bit rushed.’
‘I was just wondering how your date went?’
Sunita shook her head. ‘It hasn’t happened yet. I had to delay it because of work.’
A computer technician called Samir had called the young detective sergeant on New Year’s Eve to invite her out for a meal.
‘Where’s he taking you?’
‘We’re going to an expensive seafood restaurant in Coventry, which he’s heard good reports about.’
‘Sounds cool.’
‘I’ll let you know how it goes.’
‘Oh, I was just curious. I was meant to be meeting a guy myself on Saturday, but the swine never showed.’
‘It’s so annoying when that happens. Look, I’d better go. I don’t want to annoy the boss.’
Half an hour later, Sunita drew into the car park at St James Street police headquarters, and she ran up the stairs to the CID office, swinging her small, brown handbag.
She was only ten minutes late, but as she greeted her colleagues and switched on her computer, she continually glanced at the chief inspector’s door in case her poor timekeeping had been noticed.
Her colleague, DC Omar Khalid, grinned as he caught her attention.
‘You’re all right, Sarge,’ he said. ‘He hasn’t been asking for you.’
Sunita, who was slim with dark, flowing hair and large, attractive eyes, smiled back at him.
‘That makes a change,’ she murmured.
‘Did you hear about the shooting yesterday?’ asked Khalid, sipping tea from a cardboard cup.
‘No. Anyone hurt?’
‘No. It was a strange one,’ he said. ‘Could be road rage. A guy called in from Meriden, complaining two thugs in a Mercedes tried to ram him off the road and then shot his tyres. The guvnor’s got hold of some CCTV and he’s also looking at a photo the driver took of the Mercedes as it sped off.’
A few minutes later, DCI Gavin Roscoe appeared at his door and called for her in his rich Birmingham accent, ‘Sergeant, can you spare me five minutes?’
She joined him in his room – one of four private offices partitioned off at the side of the open-plan department.
‘Come and have a look at this,’ he urged her, turning his computer screen round before settling himself down in his executive chair. ‘It’s CCTV from the Kenilworth Road near Meriden – one of six new cameras paid for by the parish council.’
At first, all Sunita could see was footage of two cars, a blue Audi sports car and a black Mercedes, pulling over onto the grass verge along a narrow country lane with hedges on either side.
Then she saw a fair-haired man getting out of the sports car and examining his rear bumper. The driver berated the two men emerging from the Mercedes before his manner changed.
One of the pair was tall, aged around thirty and of West Indian appearance. The second man was older – slim, in his mid-fifties and seemed to be barking orders at his companion.
The older man punched the angry driver while the taller man fired his gun at the sports car’s wheels.
‘Don’t you recognise them?’ said Roscoe, gazing up at his sergeant. ‘It’s the drug baron Tadeusz Filipowski that we had in custody for a short time last year and his side-kick Tyrone Blake.’
At first she was confused. Then a glimmer of recognition flickered across her face.
‘Oh my God,’ she exclaimed, putting her hand to her mouth and sitting down on a chair by the door.
Her mind sprang back to the moment seven weeks earlier when DI Tom Vickers, her ex-boyfriend, was gunned down at a house in the town of Sedgeworth and surgeons waged a battle to save his life. He had been lured there by an anonymous phone call while investigating a murder.
‘They’re the men in the frame for shooting Tom,’ she said.
Roscoe, who was a little taller than her and with his grey hair reminded her of an agitated uncle, nodded as he collected two sheets of paper from his nearby printer and handed them to her.
‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘They’re back in Britain and we’ve got to do our damnedest to track them down and make them pay for what they did to Tom. Now have a look at these.’
She glanced at the printouts, which showed photographs and descriptions of the two criminals.
‘After the shots are fired, the Polish guy glances down the lane towards the roundabout in the distance where he’s spotted another vehicle. You can clearly see his small eyes and slightly pinched face.’
‘Oh, it’s definitely Filipowski, sir,’ she said. ‘And the guy with the gun definitely resembles Blake.’
He returned to his chair and spun the computer back until it faced him.
‘This was a serious road rage incident,’ he said. ‘The victim made a full report to Warwick police and he’s got my full support and sympathy. He was lucky not to be killed by these maniacs and he’s been left with an horrific bill for bodywork repairs and new tyres. You can see the number plate clearly. I want you to trace this Mercedes as a matter of urgency. Get Omar to give you a hand if need be. We need to find these guys quickly.’
Chapter 3
Chief Superintendent Nicola Norris was sitting at her oak desk with the door wide open.
‘Is that you, Gavin?’ she asked as heavy footsteps echoed round the stairwell outside her second-floor office.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he replied as he reached the landing, straightening his tie. He strode into her office, closing the door behind him.
‘Pull up a seat,’ she said, stroking her grey hair absentmindedly. ‘By the way, how’s your son, George?’
‘He was fine the last time I spoke to him, ma’am. He’s still learning the ropes, doing basic police training over in Warwick.’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘Look, Gavin, I’ve called you up here because, I’m afraid, I’ve received a worrying report about one of our detectives.’
Norris, who had been badly injured in a horse-riding accident a few years before, manoeuvred her wheelchair closer to her desk.
‘Disgraceful, but no big surprise. We had an inkling, didn’t we, ma’am?’ he said while sitting down on a small chair.
‘Yes,’ she said, peering over her reading glasses. ‘You don’t need reminding that some of the information I’m going to share with you must remain strictly between us.’
‘Of course.’
‘Your suspicions towards the end of last year have proved correct that one of our detectives has gone rogue. But it’s only this week we’ve received clear evidence of this.’
‘From a reliable source?’
‘A very reliable source. From my own goddaughter, who works on the support staff with Summerstoke police. We now know we’re dealing with a serious case of police corruption.’
He shrugged. ‘Unfortunately, there’s always been an element of it.’
‘Yes, I know, and whenever it rears its head, we take swift action. But this isn’t a case of a traffic officer turning a blind eye to his cousin’s driving offence or a constable taking a backhander from a pimp. This concerns a detective inspector at Summerstoke who, for all intents and purposes, is involved in running an OCG linked to the drugs trade.’
Roscoe folded his arms. The suggestion that an officer might be closely linked to an organised crime group was an abomination to him. ‘Deplorable, ma’am,’ he remarked.
‘Previously, as you know, Tom Vickers was examining whether Summerstoke CID had properly investigated the “body in the bath” murder case concerning the death of the artist Brendan O’Sullivan.’
‘Yes, ma’am. Operation Sepulchre.’
‘That’s right. Things have moved on since then and we need to focus totally on this bad apple. What I’m proposing, after consultation with the Assistant Chief Constable, is that we set up a new taskforce – codenamed Operation Temple. Earlier today, I had a quiet word with Tom. He’s been kicking his heels since he came back to work, and this is a role suited to him.’
