Hi there. This story is the third in a series of six connected stories. The plots don't make a whole lot of sense if you haven't read them in order. The two stories before this one are London Fields and Playing with the Big Boys.
I
Dorothy Lange, crime lord.
"It's just not really a crime lord kind of name." Lange, Hunt practiced saying it – Long-ee – and stared at her mug-shot. Dorothy's arrest for fencing stolen goods in 1977 must have caught her in between visits to her hair-dresser because the women staring out in mild surprise sported a short, thick, frizzed blonde perm that had flattened out at her dark roots.
"That family tree tells its own story, wouldn't you say?"
Hmmm … Hunt stood back from the white board, which had Dorothy at its centre surrounded by twenty or more photos of members of her family. Some had been captured for mug shots, some in surveillance. Six of the photos had a red 'X' marked over the faces.
"According to her tax return," Assistant Commissioner Adrien Vanderzee slapped a folder into his hands, "Dorothy runs a loss-making cab business covering Stepney and surrounding areas of the East End. Go pretty much anywhere within a five mile radius of her business and every single person will tell you she's a lovely person and shut their door in your face."
Hunt had to admit grim tidings had visited Dorothy Lange's family often over the past 10 years. The red Xs represented one husband dead of a heart attack, three nephews bottled or stabbed, a son taken by leukemia at age 15, and her second son found three days ago with five bullets in his chest.
"What kind of names are they?" He pointed to the photos of her six sons. Evariste. Charles. Marc. Roger. Didier. Achille. No idea how that last one was pronounced.
"Dorothy's second husband – the heart-attack victim – was Alain Michaux, originally from Marseille and in England illegally. She had her first child with him at age 35, and then another five sons all named after Alain's uncles. Hence the fact you can't pronounce them."
Hunt turned away from the whiteboard. "So, beside her trying to sell some dodgy bicycle tires in 1977 why are you interested in her?"
"Dorothy got off that fencing charge," Vanderzee replied. "She's never been convicted of anything."
The photo showed him a woman tough enough to birth six children and ravaged by the effort, a broiler red face even back in 1977, he thought. Her eyebrows had been plucked to a thin arching line.
"I've been looking into this lady for a few months." Vanderzee nodded to the stack of files waiting for Hunt. "Now I'm being told it's not a priority for the Met so my resourcing is being pulled. We've watched this entire family for months so the timing is horrible. But trying to do something preventative is expensive, and frankly no one cares about the gangland wars we could prevent. Not here anyway."
"Poor kid with the cancer aside, these bastards should be rubbing each other out. Sir, if they were to sit around playing Russian Roulette in their kitchen, what kind of preventative measures would you take? Me, I'd prevent them from walking away by putting six bloody bullets in the chamber."
Adrien Vanderzee's moment of silence reminded Hunt that the man had no sense of humour. Jokes wasted time, and he hadn't called Hunt up to the fifteenth floor to spend a leisurely hour. In fact, Vanderzee seemed anxious to get them out of his office.
Them. The women in the room, who had been sitting silently in the corner with her arms crossed. Vanderzee waved a hand her way without looking at her.
"Annette Simock is my only resource left on this case. She's been working in one of Lange's clubs for the past six months. Now with those introductions underway, you and she can plan out how you are going to get me some results within your existing baselines."
His index finger jabbed the photo of the newly dead Charles Michaux. "Three days ago, Charles here stepped outside his door to find a motorcyclist with a gun. Being the gentleman he is, Charles grabbed a teenage girl passing by and used her as a shield. Didn't stop him dying unfortunately, or her."
Hunt paused beside the white board again. "I guess we'll stop by the funeral."
"It's on Thursday at St Mary Martyrfields," Annette said. East End accent, he noted. Chippy sounding.
Vanderzee saw him to the door of his office. "It may be a mystery to the Met how these stupid crime family wars start, but I can see the beginnings right here. Someone targeted Charles because he was Dorothy Lange's favourite son. Presumably wanting to start one of those vicious little wars that wreck the neighbourhoods they want to control."
He waited until Annette had got half-way down the corridor. "It's been a month, Hunt. I've been waiting for Chief Super Paulson to inform me that his unfortunate experiment in progressive recruitment has been transferred elsewhere."
Hunt looked down at his driving gloves. "It's fine, sir. Under control. DI Drake is doing a lot of filing."
DI Drake had in fact been doing exactly as she pleased. Willfully ignoring his orders. Using the terms "cognitive dissonance" and "borderline behavioral disorder" despite warnings. Ignoring his specific order to conduct an audit of the office's evidence storage practices. Thieving the Quattro when she could get the keys. And ignoring another specific order to "buy a shirt that covers both sides of your bloody shoulders at once".
No change there then.
And life is good, Hunt concluded, as he sat back in his chair and the man reflected back in his computer nodded, I'm in control of this floor and I say who comes and goes. To confirm that exact thought, Chris Skelton came in a minute later with the results of the research exercise Hunt had asked him to conduct.
"Ah, it's a minute in basically."
"Good. Worth staying til the end?'
"Uh no. Not unless you want to see a bloke in shiny gold armour."
"Date movie?
Chris shook his head.
"You'd see it again?"
"Uhh … it was kind of frightening."
Hunt nodded thoughtfully. "You'll see it again."
"Yes, Guv."
Hunt breezed out through the office, pulling his coat on. "Wrap up, Raymondo. It's bitter out there."
Alex Drake looked up from her desk. "Are you heading out for a case?"
"Why no, DI Drake." He pulled his driving gloves on. "We're going on a cultural excursion. Not quite A Midsummer Night's Dream though."
"Great." She made to rise. "Where's Shaz? We can all go. What is it?"
"Excalibur," Chris said miserably.
"Oh." Alex sat down again. "Never mind, Shaz. We'd best not interfere with their male bonding rituals. They want to hold hands in a dark theatre while women in see-through gauze get pole-axed by Arthurian knights."
"I'll be there for the historical depiction, Drake." And Hunt clapped his arms around the shoulders of Carling and Skelton and marched them out the doors.
Alex dropped her pen and sat back in her chair. It was like all the energy had been sucked out of the office. It had annoyed her a little because she couldn't put her finger on it. She stared absently at Shaz who was concentrating on typing. Hunt had been just that little less grim, just a bit less bored since their return from the...she blew out a long breath at the horrible memory...Brighton conference.
I could flatter myself and assume it's about me. But, somehow she didn't think it entirely was.
She finally recalled herself. She'd been staring at Shaz for a good minute and now Shaz was looking back. "Oh sorry." She picked up the pen again. "Shaz, what's Chris been saying about work lately?"
Hunt switched on the car engine in the picture theatre's underground carpark. "Are you quite sure there's nothing else worth seeing after the first half hour, Chris? Got to say Drake had it right about the pole-axing. That dozy bird in the opening bits didn't know what hit her, did she?"
He could tell that Ray would have happily stayed until the end of Excalibur, but he said nothing as they drove out into a street teeming with wintry rain gusts and rapidly flooding gutters. "Where are we off to now?" Ray asked finally as it became clear they were headed in the opposite direction of CID.
"It's a perfect day for a funeral, don't you think." Hunt enjoyed their confusion for a moment. "I didn't come out with you two this afternoon just to sit in the Odeon with those weirdos and pervs. We've got a job on." He caught Chris's attention in the rear-view mirror. "And you, Zippy the minute man, are going to keep your big gob shut about it."
As crime family burials went it started off with relative decorum. The four hearses containing the coffin and the family were delayed by mourners crowding the cemetary's narrow lanes, but that was normal. Back in Stepney shops would be shut up and other businesses deserted as locals assembled here, a calculated grief on display. Hunt assumed the family hidden behind the hearses' mirrored windows were taking note of who had come to demonstrate respect.
The heavy rain had turned the cemetery lawns verdant but also slippery, and Hunt led them carefully to a good viewing position next to the last resting place of – he glanced at the gravestone – Albert Tufnel, dearly beloved husband of Ruth.
"Cheers Albert." Hunt shared around his hip flask, keeping an eye on the coffin's slow progress from hearse to grave. At least a thousand people had come out on this inclement day. They stood ten deep on the roads and another burial procession had to reverse back to one of the cemetary's other entrances.
"What do you think's happening?" Chris asked.
"That priest is making a song and dance out of the comfort the grieving mother can take in knowing her favourite son Charles is resting next to his dad, younger brother and various inbred cousins."
Never had so many scrubby bastards looked so uncomfortable in formal attire. Men with hands scrummed down into pockets of their new cheap suits, women perched on high heels and holding umbrellas. It was easy to spot the French connection – as it were. A tight circle of pale, lean, dark-haired young men clustered around their veiled mother. Dorothy Lange. Long-eee.
"What's the deal with these people anyway?" Ray looked miserable as his cigarette fizzled out in the rain.
As Hunt turned around to answer, a strangled wail rang out behind him. Ripping the fascinator from her face, a young woman next to Dorothy pointed across the top of the mourners to a car that had slowly coasted to a stop behind them.
"It's only the fucking-" The woman's accusation was lost in an instant howling. Apparently the appearance of the people inside the – Hunt squinted – Mercedes were not only unwelcome but about to be taught the consequences of crossing Dorothy Lange. The Mercedes reversed at speed but the young men in the crowd fell on it in remarkably short time, hammering on the windows and bonnet. Behind them the more half-hearted, wheeze-chested mourners staggered in as back-up.
"Shouldn't we do something?" Chris slid on the grass behind him.
The Mercedes' windows were shatter-proof and the crowd gave up the attempt to smash them in, now tried to roll the car.
"No I don't think so." Hunt began picking his path back down the slushy lawn.
Three great platters of antipasti were laid out before the entire team. They had all arrived straight from work as usual, sweeping into Luigi's tonight as if they'd won some extraordinary victory, and again as usual within an hour most other diners hastily finished their meals and left.
Seven o'clock saw the arrival of the blonde lady Hunt had been using to make Signorina Drake jealous. Luigi always made a great fuss of taking her coat from her bony shoulders and treating it carefully. He vacillated between pity – she would sit there like a statue among the high spirits – and despising her for acquiescing to Hunt's pathetic ruse.
It was obvious Signore Hunt felt in his element tonight – enjoying himself thoroughly as he forced Rodney and Lewis to drink Chianti and eat the "strange muck" on the antipasti platters. Luigi knew half of them would prefer to be down at the Red Lion two streets over, tucking into roast lamb specials and pints.
Cazzone, Luigi thought as he placed the wine glass back on the shelf and took up another. What happens if you get your way and she invites you back to her home? I would be relentless, merciless. Hunt, you would be a rabbit ripping its leg from the trap to get free.
"Luigi." Chris brought one of the antipasti platters up to him. "What's this?"
"Mortadella, signore." His eyes flattened a little. "Luncheon."
He'd had a good day – big operation starting up and on the quiet too. On the quiet meant no daily calls from CS Paulson wanting to know if there was progress he could report to the higher-up brass. Now the higher-up brass are dealing directly with the Gene Genie.
But that could wait until tomorrow … he glanced at his watch and the stairs leading up to the first floor. The only problem would be if, for whatever reason (for she never said), Alex didn't come down from her flat. The thought of that possibility tonight deflated his jubilation a little – another night of strained conversation with Lorna.
Hunt caught Luigi staring at him. Shut it. And across the room Luigi dipped his head as he cleaned a wine glass with a tea towel. What are you smiling for, you bastard? Do you know something? The other fools in this place considered Luigi to be a simple-hearted Italian twat who liked nothing better than to serve them beers and wait for the "grassy-arse" encores – I'd have thumped Skelton for that long ago – but Hunt knew better.
Bloody Drake. This is a team dinner and every member of the team should be here.
"Another round, Guv?" Ray stood up.
"Eh? No." He muttered an excuse about needing to get a file from CID...
Alex whistled quietly to herself as she bounded down the steps to Luigi's. "Oh hello." She stopped herself from running into Hunt as he came barreling out the door, laughing as she fended him off with a hand. "Whoa there, where's the fire?"
"Where you been? It's late."
Oh? She checked her watch though she knew very well the time. "Gosh, I've been missing all the fun then," and she glanced through the windows to the long table where the team sat, fixated on the new television they'd obliged Luigi to install above their table. She noticed Ray had also acquired a stolen VCR from the evidence room, and they were watching a tape of last weekend's City versus West Ham match. "Sport on two televisions here now. Great. Just like the trattorias I remember from my holiday in Siena."
Alex made to step past him but he blocked her path.
"Don't come between me and a glass of wine, Guv," she joked and squeezed past him through the entrance, eyes lowered.
"Biro, you have hidden depths." Alex graciously accepted the origami swan he'd made with his unused napkin.
"Biro, you twonk." Ray half-turned away from the television. Conversation, except occasional abuse for the ref, had ceased. All eyes were raised up to their new television.
All except your eyes, Gene. She had been ignoring him as he sat along and across the table from her, one arm around Lorna's shoulders, another stretched over the back of the chair vacated by Rodney, who had darted away to vomit up chianti in Luigi's immaculate bathroom.
Rude, Alex thought. Don't you look at me like that when your girlfriend's right there.
This time last month Alex had been waiting for him to dump that cold fish and take his chances. In Brighton – she almost smiled at the thought – they'd been on the verge of flying in the face of what was left of her common sense.
Pocky, rough, a bastard, willfully under-educated, violent. The shift in her thinking – when had it occurred? – was a mystery to her. Hunt was still all those things but somehow those things didn't seem quite so bad. How had this ridiculous, bullish man begun to look handsome to her? She couldn't quite fathom it but she'd started to wait for his next move.
Only he hadn't made one and she knew he was taking his time and enjoying this new equilibrium between them. The memory of her hands all over him in that tacky dark Brighton club was enough to sustain him for now, it seemed.
It made her burn with embarrassment. She'd wanted him. For the second time she would have been his for the night if he hadn't stopped it. Lonely enough, drunk enough … she glanced over in his direction, thinking be honest. Attracted enough to pursue him.
When had it occurred? Two months ago and she'd treated him almost as a joke, keeping him at arm's length even as she responded to his bantering come-ons. Now I'm sitting here and he's looking at me like we have this secret between us.
"Rodney!" The berk had made them all get up to let him past just at a penalty corner.
Another night and she might have felt jealous at Lorna's hand sitting there on Hunt's, of the whispers passing between them out of ear-shot of the others.
Tonight though she felt quite another emotion. Satisfaction. Alex turned away from the television, putting down her glass on Biro's origami swan, and hoped her look said it all: I know what you're up to.
Hunt had issued his invitation to the team earlier in the day – Luigi's, my shout – and she'd waited until they all trooped off at half-past five and the night desk was settled in at reception. In Hunt's office, with the door closed, Alex had found the note from Vanderzee's secretary in the rubbish bin requesting an urgent meeting, and a stack of files that she hadn't had time to read.
So don't you sit there and think you've got me where you want me, you tricky bastard.