The Stevic brothers were already moving, the sound of Zoran’s choked breathing, the suppressed gunshot and the tell-tale splash of blood, some of which had spattered through the door, alerted them. Palmer strode into the room with his gun held out. He shot the nearest brother, Sreten, in the face as he tried to get up out of his armchair and the body slumped back down into a seated position, eyes still open in shock. The second brother Marko had already reached a shotgun and was turning to aim it straight at Palmer when he was shot twice in the chest in quick succession. He fell backwards, upending the table, dislodging glasses and papers and making a din that alerted the men on the ground floor. They began to run up the stairs, shouting.
Dusan was the last brother left alive — he managed to pull out a gun and dive behind the upturned table. He reached his hand out over the top of the table and fired blind three times, missing Palmer by inches. Palmer returned fire, pinning the guy down. Dusan’s hand went back behind the table, as bullets hit the solid wood but failed to penetrate it. Palmer could hear the two big Serbs crashing up the stairs. They would reach him in seconds and he’d be caught in a fatal crossfire between them and Dusan. It would all be over for him if he couldn’t kill the last brother quickly.
Palmer made a decision then and dropped his gun. He took a step forwards and scrambled for the shotgun Marko had dropped. As Dusan raised his gun hand to fire once more, Palmer turned the shotgun on him and returned fire. The first round went into the table and there was a scream from the other side as the pellets did some damage and Dusan let the gun fall from his injured hand. Palmer ran towards the upturned table, put one foot on the edge and peered over at him. Palmer pointed the gun downwards just as the wounded Dusan rolled onto his back and looked up into the barrel.
His terrified scream of ‘No!’ was stifled by a shotgun blast in the face.
Palmer threw himself over the upturned table and hit the ground just as the two big Serbs burst into the room, still shouting. He rose to his feet again with Dusan’s handgun and took out the first enforcer before he had time to take in the scene of carnage before him; two bullets into the chest putting him down. The second Serb swore and brought round his own gun but, in his panic, he was too quick to fire. His bullet cannoned into the wall behind Palmer who took more care with his shot. The first round hit the big Serb in the shoulder but, amazingly, he stayed on his feet. Instead of falling, he tottered backwards, cursed loudly, and tried to raise his weapon once more. Palmer took a step forwards, aimed carefully and put three more bullets into him. The man went backwards and fell onto his colleague who was still moving, desperately trying to drag himself to his feet, despite the bullets inside him and the dead weight on top of him. Palmer put a bullet in the back of his head on his way out of the room.
Palmer went down the stairs like they weren’t there and was out into the street. He had entered the building unarmed and left six men lying dead behind him.
46
The day after Palmer killed the Stevic brothers, Vasnetsov finally lost patience with me and a file arrived at my house. In it were photographs of my daughter out for walks in the park with Joanne and a bodyguard. The message was clear. Cooperate or Emma would face the consequences.
Later that same day, I took a call from one of Vasnetsov’s men. He gave me a date, a time and a flight number. I had been summoned to meet Vasnetsov’s first Joe and my destination was Helsinki.
Detective Sergeant Nigel Kelly was wading through the files on Dusan Stevic’s computer, as part of the Lothian and Borders Police investigation into the killing of six Serbian gangsters who’d set themselves up in the city. It made for interesting reading. Some of the files were encrypted but others weren’t. It seemed the Stevic brothers were not as careful as they might have been, exhibiting an arrogance that, according to some, had been fostered by a belief that they were somehow untouchable by the authorities. Well, they might all be dead now but the information they left behind could be priceless, enabling a thorough investigation into their criminal network, which would undoubtedly lead to further arrests. There were even spreadsheets detailing payments received and those made, along with the names of the recipients.
Kelly was about to take a break when he stumbled upon a Real Player flash video with a Serbian title. On a whim he clicked on the file and waited while it opened. He wasn’t expecting such a stark image.
The girl was bent over with her face virtually pressed into the camera. She was naked and her large breasts dangled beneath her, swaying from side to side, as the older man took her from behind. From the look on her face, she was enduring the sex, not enjoying it. From the look on his, he had no idea they were being secretly recorded.
‘Wahey!’ shouted Detective Constable Russell when he looked over and noticed the film playing on Kelly’s computer, ‘Kelly’s watching porn!’ and he wandered over to get a better look. The first thing he noticed was the naked girl being taken from behind by an old, fat bloke. His eyes zeroed in on the distinctive tattoo on the girl’s arm, then he clocked her face.
‘Bloody hell, that’s her,’ he said, ‘that’s the girl we’ve got downstairs. She’s one of those trafficked Ukrainian lassies the Serbs brought in. We picked her up a couple of hours ago. I didn’t recognise her with her clothes on but she’s got that big fuck off tattoo on her arm. It’s definitely her alright,’ but Detective Sergeant Kelly didn’t answer him. He had not been so easily distracted by the naked girl and her tattoo, instead he simply whispered the same word three times. ‘Fuck… fuck… fuck.’
It was then that Russell tore his gaze away from the girl and finally took a closer look at the man who was screwing her. He was podgy and balding, with a thin wisp of combed-over ginger hair, his face was red, sweat poured from his forehead and he was grunting like a pig, as he thrust into the unfortunate girl over and over again.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Russell, when he finally recognised the man, ‘Jesus Christ.’
‘No,’ answered Kelly, ‘but it might as well be.’
Colleagues heard the muttered curses of the two detectives and wandered over to see what had distracted them. Others followed and soon there was a small cluster of men and women who’d abandoned their desks to view the film of the fat man and the girl. He was putting his back into it alright. From his face, it was hard to tell whether he was having an orgasm or a heart attack. The finale was greeted in near silence by the posse of detectives.
It was DC Heather Shaw who finally put it into words, ‘Is that…’ but she couldn’t quite bring herself to finish the sentence.
‘Assistant Chief Constable Brinklow,’ confirmed DS Kelly, who’d at least had a little time to get used to the idea, ‘it only bloody is!’
News travels fast, particularly when that news involves the arrest of an Assistant Chief Constable on charges of corruption. We watched it on the TV at the Cauldron.
‘They reckon Brinklow will get at least fifteen years,’ explained Sharp, ‘five years for what he did, five for his rank,’ then he added, ‘and five years extra for that bloody video.’
Brinklow’s unwitting porn video was already the stuff of police legend. It was probably true that the footage of Brinklow raping that trafficked Ukrainian girl would be the difference between ten years, out in six and fifteen years, out in ten, if the parole board didn’t actually think he should go right to the end of his full term because the abuse of power had been so great.