The Rebel: The new crime thriller that will have you gripped in 2018

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.’

2

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 known what was coming ever since the Home Office announced a major new offensive against organised crime in London. It was essentially a political move over widespread concern that the problem had got out of hand.

There had been an epidemic of gun and knife crime in the capital, and during the past three years no less than thirty people had been murdered during gang turf wars.

The press had also been making a big thing of the fact that the annual cost of organised crime on the London economy was now running at billions of pounds.

The task force that was put together was well resourced and had managed to rack up some early successes, Harry Fuller being the biggest scalp so far.

Before him there was Paul Mason, who’d run the East London mob for five years. And before Mason there were the Romanian brothers – Stefan and Anton Severin – who were known as the kings of crack cocaine north of the Thames.

Slack didn’t shed a tear for any of them. They were rivals, after all, and he’d been mopping up some of their business. But the downfall of such heavyweight villains was a sure sign that this time he couldn’t afford to be complacent.

The task force presented a credible threat to his illicit empire, which was spread across all of South London, as well as the lucrative West End.

But clinging on to what he’d built up over many years wasn’t the real driving force behind what he was planning.

And neither was fear of ending up behind bars like Harry Fuller and the others.

What Slack intended to do was motivated by something far more profound and much closer to his heart.

Revenge.

Slack hadn’t yet told anyone what he planned to do but that was about to change because he was going to confide in Danny Carver. He needed Danny to help him put the wheels in motion.

Now that the Fuller trial had ended they’d be coming after him with all guns blazing.

There’d be raids on his businesses and the homes of his employees and associates. Surveillance would be stepped up, all his financial affairs would be probed like never before, and the bastards would cause as much disruption as possible to his operations.

They’d push and squeeze and threaten in their desperate search for something to use against him. And if they weren’t successful then he wouldn’t put it past them to fit him up.

They were probably expecting him to batten down the hatches before pissing off to his villa on the Costa del Sol. So they were going to get a big fucking shock when he retaliated by launching a pre-emptive strike.

‘The slags won’t know what’s hit them, babe,’ he said to the framed photo on his desk. ‘Mine is going to be the loudest swansong this city has ever heard.’

His late wife’s smiling face stared back at him and brought a lump to his throat. Even after all this time he still found it hard to accept that Julie was gone.

The photo was taken on their honeymoon in Capri twenty-three years ago. They were standing together with the sea in the background and he had his arm around her shoulders.

She’d been at her most gorgeous then – blonde and tanned and slim, with a face that had squeezed his heart the moment he’d laid eyes on it.

Back then he hadn’t been so bad looking himself. His hair had been thick and black and there’d been no fat on his frame or lines on his face.

Now, at the age of fifty-seven, his hair was grey and wispy and he had a gut the size of a rugby ball. Years of hard living were evident in the creases on his forehead and neck, and in the dark pouches beneath his eyes.

‘You need to speak up, boss. I didn’t catch what you just said.’

Danny’s voice snapped him out of himself and he wrenched his attention away from the photo.

‘Sorry, mate,’ he said. ‘I was miles away and mumbling to myself.’

Danny was sitting on the sofa below the window that offered up a view of the rooftops of Rotherhithe. He leaned forward and picked up the TV remote from the coffee table in front of him. He used it to mute the sound of the Sky News reporter who was summing up what had happened at the Old Bailey.

‘This is serious shit, boss,’ he said. ‘So I think it’s time you told me how the fuck you intend to respond.’

Slack clamped his lips together and nodded. ‘You’re right, Danny old son. But what I’m going to say is just between you and me, at least to start with. I don’t want the other lads to freak out before the fun even begins.’

3

Laura

The media circus outside the court ended as quickly as it had begun. After giving his interview, DCS Drummond was whisked away in a car driven by someone from the Crown Prosecution Service.

Harry’s Fuller’s lawyer then made a brief statement announcing that they’d be appealing both the conviction and sentence, but he refused to answer any questions.

Kate and I were both on a high as we walked to her car. It was a terrific feeling knowing that we’d helped to end the career of another vicious mobster.

At times like this I realised why I loved being a copper. But it wasn’t just the exhilarating sense of achievement. It was also another result in honour of my dear departed dad.

I knew he would have been proud of me, and it was such an awful shame that he couldn’t tell me how much.

He was still alive back when I followed in his footsteps and joined the force twelve years ago. He’d risen to the rank of detective chief inspector in Lewisham CID, and he’d always been my inspiration.

‘Policing is a noble profession, sweetheart,’ he told me when I announced my intention to enrol on leaving university. ‘But as you and your mother know only too well it’ll take over your life. So you need to be one hundred per cent certain that it’s what you want to do.’

‘It is,’ I said.

‘In that case you’ll have my full support. But promise me one thing, Laura. You’ll always be true to the oath you’ll take at the outset. If at any time you feel you can’t, then pack it in and go work in a shop or a factory.’

He made a point of telling me that, because my first six months on the job coincided with a relentless wave of negative publicity for the police.

Corruption within the Met was being exposed on an almost weekly basis, and a lot of new recruits like myself became disillusioned.

But for me the scandals served only to strengthen my commitment and my resolve to be a good, honest copper like my father.

It wasn’t as if I hadn’t been aware that the Met in particular was infested with officers who were on the take. While at university a report was published that claimed there’d been a sharp increase in the number of officers dealing in drugs and abusing their power for ‘sexual gratification’.

I’d since discovered myself that the force did indeed have its share of bad apples, but most officers walked a straight line and were a credit to the profession.

Of course, being above board and serving with distinction did not make it less likely that you’d come to harm in the line of duty. My father found that out the night he opened his front door to a man who shot him three times in the chest.

Seven years on – with the killer still out there somewhere – the memory moves me to tears and gives rise to a blast of anger.

It’s only about two miles from the Old Bailey to New Scotland Yard. But the traffic was murderous so it was slow going in Kate’s pool car.

She took us via the Victoria Embankment and there was gridlock for much of the way.

We were passing under Waterloo Bridge when my mobile rang. It was Aidan.

‘I gather congratulations are in order,’ he said. ‘I just heard it on the news. You must be pleased.’

‘I’m over the moon,’ I said. ‘We all are, which is why we’re going to the pub for a celebration drink.’

‘You deserve it, hon. Have a great time.’

‘Are you home already?’

‘No, I’ve only just left the school. I’ll grab a takeaway. Do you want me to get something for you?’

‘No, don’t worry. I’ll sort myself out.’

Aidan was a teacher and worked in a big comprehensive near our home in Balham. We’d been together for four years, having been introduced by my matchmaking mother who was one of his colleagues.

‘I’ll see you when I see you then,’ Aidan said. ‘And try not to get too tipsy. There’s still a big stain on the carpet from the last time you rolled in drunk.’

I laughed and told him that I loved him, then put the phone back in my shoulder bag.

‘From the sound of it, things are still great on the home front,’ Kate said.

I nodded. ‘It couldn’t be better. We’re a good match, and thankfully Aidan’s pretty understanding about all the unsocial hours and stuff.’

‘You’re lucky. I’ve come to the conclusion that good men are a dying breed.’

Kate had been bitter and cynical about men ever since I’d known her, but I had some sympathy. Her marriage came to a brutal end after only two years when she found her husband – a fellow detective working at the same station – in bed with another woman, for whom he promptly left her.

What compounded her suffering and humiliation was the fact that most of their colleagues had known he’d been having an affair for months and no one had told her.

But the sorry saga did not end there. Two months after walking out, her husband died in an accident outside his new home when he was struck by a car that mounted the pavement. So grief was suddenly added to Kate’s emotional burden.

‘Are you seeing anyone at the moment?’ I asked tentatively.

She shook her head. ‘I was going out with a bloke until a couple of weeks ago. He was some kind of financial adviser, and that was the problem. He kept trying to get me to part with money. When he said he could double my savings I realised he was a wrong ’un and told him to sod off.’

I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her, but then it was a familiar story. I knew a couple of other middle-aged women who’d had similar experiences on the dating scene.

‘I made the mistake of telling that lech Tony Marsden that I was single again,’ Kate said. ‘And he had the cheek to ask me if I wanted to go out for a drink with him.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I told him that I wasn’t that bloody desperate and that he should be ashamed of himself.’

I grinned. ‘I’m sure he’s heard that before.’

‘Maybe so, but the slimy toerag then said I didn’t know what I was missing.’

We both laughed and I went on to tell her about how Marsden tried it on with me at the last Christmas do.

‘It wouldn’t be so bad if he wasn’t by far the worst of a bad bunch,’ I said.

Tony Marsden was another of the detective sergeants on the team. He was an opinionated prick who despite being married with a young son was known to play away with anyone who’d have him, including prostitutes.

It was no secret that he was addicted to gambling as well as illicit sex, and he had always struck me as a pretty dodgy character, the kind of copper my dad would have hated working with.

And it was just our rotten luck that Marsden should arrive at the Rose and Crown at the same time we did, after Kate had dropped off the pool car.

He was a squat, bullish man in his late thirties, with a florid complexion and fair hair that was as short as putting-green grass.

When he saw us approaching, he opened the door to the saloon bar and treated us to one of his lascivious smirks.

‘Evening, ladies,’ he said. ‘I trust you’ll both be on your best behaviour. If not then I can assure you that it won’t be a problem, at least with me.’

‘Grow up, for pity’s sake,’ I said as I brushed past him, noting that his suit carried the heavy stench of cigarette smoke.

Inside it looked like the start of a boy’s night out, which was usually the case when the team got together socially. That was because Kate and I were two of only four women among the twenty detectives.

One of the others was Janet Dean, who was the same rank as me. She was already at the bar and waved when she spotted us.

Janet was in her late forties, and it was fair to say that she was the most unpopular member of the team. She was a miserable bitch most of the time and rarely attended social functions. When she did she tended to drink too much and slag people off.

‘So what’s your tipple, girls?’ she said as we approached the bar. ‘The booze is on the house so we might as well get stuck in.’

Her thin face was flushed and there was a wet patch on the front of her cream blouse. It was obvious she had already downed a few glasses of something.

I opted for a gin and tonic, and Kate had a white wine.

‘I’m surprised you’ve graced us with your presence, Janet,’ Kate said. ‘I can’t remember the last time you joined us for a drink.’

Janet lifted her shoulders and eyebrows at the same time.

‘It’s a special occasion,’ she said. ‘And besides, Ethan is spending a couple of days in Brighton working on the boat so I’ve got no reason to rush home.’

That was the other thing that people didn’t like about Janet Dean. She too often boasted about how well off she and her husband were. They lived in a town house in Chelsea, owned two BMWs, and their latest acquisition was a cabin cruiser that was moored in Brighton marina.

Of course, their lifestyle wasn’t funded by her copper’s salary. Her husband worked for an investment company in the City, although she’d always been vague about exactly what he did, and kept schtum about how much he earned.

I was on my second G and T when DCS Drummond decided to propose a toast to the team’s latest success.

‘You’ve all done a great job and I’m proud of you,’ he said. ‘But make no mistake – things are about to get much tougher. Roy Slack is a master when it comes to evading prosecution. And there’s no one who’s as cautious as he is at avoiding surveillance. As you know from the intelligence packs you’ve been given, he uses unregistered mobiles and employs debugging devices in his home and office. He also has powerful friends and we suspect there are officers in the Met who are in his pocket. Those are among the people we aim to flush out during this investigation.’

We all knew it wasn’t going to be easy. Slack was London’s longest established crime boss and it was strongly believed that he had connections with senior officers, the Crown Prosecution Service and several MPs. It was one of the reasons he had managed to reign supreme for so long.

‘When we get together tomorrow I’ll give a full briefing on our approach,’ Drummond said. ‘But one of our main lines of enquiry will continue to be the disappearance of firearms officer Hugh Wallis. I still believe that it’s highly likely that Slack had something to do with it, despite his denials.’

Officer Wallis had vanished while returning to his home in Shoreditch from a late shift just a week ago. His car was then found the next day parked behind a warehouse a few miles away in Stratford. The keys were still in the ignition.

No one had heard from him since his disappearance and no clues to his whereabouts had been offered up by traffic cameras and CCTV.

According to his wife there were no issues in his life that he might have decided to run away from. It was therefore feared that something bad had happened to him.

The task force had been alerted because Wallis had been involved in a joint operation that had been mounted three months ago with the NCA. Raids were carried out on the homes of twelve known villains, including a man named Terry Malone, who worked for Slack.

Wallis had shot Malone dead when he thought the guy was about to attack him. But there was a bit of a rumpus because Malone’s girlfriend – who sadly miscarried during the raid – later claimed that Malone had not posed a threat, and that the officer had fired the three fatal shots because he panicked.

An investigation cleared Wallis and accepted that the action he took upon entering the couple’s bedroom that night was justified.

But the decision caused a ripple of alarm within the criminal community and the word on the street was that Roy Slack’s people had been using their contacts to try to find out the identity of the officer, which hadn’t of course been made public.

Personally I had my doubts that Slack would be so stupid as to seek retribution against the police, especially on behalf of someone who was fairly low down the food chain within his organisation.

But as we would soon discover, the man was far more ruthless than his reputation had led us to believe.

And he had secrets that would turn out to be just as shocking as his actions.

4

Slack

It didn’t take long for Roy Slack to reveal his plan to Danny Carver. It was a simple one, after all.

Danny’s reaction was predictable. His jaw dropped and the colour retreated from his face.

‘Is this a fucking joke, boss?’ he said, his voice stretched thin with shock. ‘Because if it ain’t, then I think you might have lost your marbles.’

Slack stood up and stepped out from behind his desk. It was uncomfortably warm in the office so he slipped off his cardigan and threw it on the chair. His white shirt had dark patches of sweat under each armpit.

He crossed the room to the cabinet with the bottles of spirits on top.

‘Care for a whisky, Danny?’ he asked.

‘Too bloody right I do,’ Danny answered. ‘And please make it a large one because I think I need it.’

Slack smiled to himself as he poured out triples of his finest malt, flown down from his favourite distillery in the Highlands.

He handed a glass to Danny. ‘You’ve been with me a long time, mate, and you’re the only person in this world who I’d trust with my life. It’s why I’ve told you what I intend to do and it’s the reason I’m now going to tell you why I want to do it.’

Danny’s hard face fisted into a frown and he rolled out his bottom lip.

‘Well, I’m all ears, boss,’ he said.

Slack sat down beside him on the sofa and sipped at his whisky.

‘I also need you to know that you’re going to be well looked after whatever happens,’ he said. ‘I’m going to transfer a large sum of cash into your offshore account first thing in the morning. If the firm survives then you can stick around if you want to. If it doesn’t you’ll have the option to fuck off abroad and enjoy an early retirement.’