expression of membership—’
‘Where’s my fucking mug, John?’
‘
Listen!
’ Fallow exclaims.
Fallow rarely raises his voice, but when he does it is surprisingly loud, and it has the effect of instantly silencing the room.
‘Thank you,’ Mayson Calvert says, fingering his collar.
‘You could just get to the point, Mayse,’ Seagram says.
He looks momentarily put out but continues nevertheless. ‘I believe I have identified the peculiar branding marks on the victim’s testicles,’ he says.
Huggins chortles. ‘You really do know how to enjoy yourself of an evening, don’t you, Mayson?’
‘The KK symbol stands for Kaplan Kirmizi, which in turn is Turkish for Red Tigers. The Red Tigers began life in the 1950s as a gang exporting heroin across the Kurdistan border on its way to western Europe. In recent years, they have spread across Europe to the extent that there are cells in most of the major cities synonymous with the drug trade.’
‘And they go around branding each other’s balls?’ Fallow winces.
‘Only those with a direct connection to the original gang,’ Mayson says. ‘It’s a sign of leadership and of clan membership. And if it makes you feel any better, the branding is done at the age of two.’
‘Trust me, Mayson,’ Huggins says, his expression aghast, ‘there is no good age to get your balls branded.’
‘So if Ahmed Doe is a member of this Red Tigers organization,’ Seagram says, ‘what the hell is he doing hanging from a railway bridge in Stannington? The last time I looked there
was
no big-time heroin trade in Newcastle.’
‘None that we are aware of,’ says Mayson. ‘But that has always made Newcastle an exception to the rule in this country.’
Huggins, happy now that he has found his mug, sits down on the corner of his desk. ‘Maybe our friend was trying to set up some business over here.’
‘Which someone clearly took exception to,’ Fallow says, nodding.
‘Which is why they were keen to send the Turks a message,’ says Seagram. ‘Good work, Mayse. You’d better print something out for the boss when he gets back. Meanwhile, you two hit the phones; I want to know where our Turkish gangster came from.’
‘What the hell is the boss doing at HQ?’ Huggins says. ‘He’s missing all the fun.’
SIX
‘Let’s start from the beginning, shall we?’ says retired Detective Superintendent Malcolm Gilcrux of South Wales Police in a manner that suggests he’s been waiting for a long time for this moment.
He’s a fat man with piggy eyes who must have thought his career and its associated importance were over once his thirty years were up, Vos thinks. But a job as an investigator with the Independent Police Complaints Commission has resurrected both, and he has clearly made an effort this morning: crisp shirt, egg-free tie, freshly pressed suit, polished shoes. It looks like his hair has been recently clippered at the sides, and his cheeks have been shaved so closely they are shining like two slabs of red-veined marble.
‘You had been investigating Jack Peel for a number of years, is that correct?’
The two men are sitting in an interview room at police headquarters in Ponteland. The room has been kept deliberately sparse in order to focus minds. The only furniture is a couple of plastic chairs and a table between them. On the table is a thick file. Gilcrux methodically scrolls back through the pages.
‘You could say he had been on our radar for a while, yes,’ Vos says.
‘How long?’
‘Two years, give or take.’
‘Why?’
‘Come on, Mr Gilcrux. You know how it works. You get to hear things, then you get to hear some more things, until eventually you decide it might be worth a look.’
Gilcrux makes no comment. He makes no indication of having heard a word Vos has said. Vos can imagine that the fat Welshman was a shit-hot interrogator in his time. And even though he knows this stonewall technique by heart, Vos still feels uneasy, because
‘Where’s my fucking mug, John?’
‘
Listen!
’ Fallow exclaims.
Fallow rarely raises his voice, but when he does it is surprisingly loud, and it has the effect of instantly silencing the room.
‘Thank you,’ Mayson Calvert says, fingering his collar.
‘You could just get to the point, Mayse,’ Seagram says.
He looks momentarily put out but continues nevertheless. ‘I believe I have identified the peculiar branding marks on the victim’s testicles,’ he says.
Huggins chortles. ‘You really do know how to enjoy yourself of an evening, don’t you, Mayson?’
‘The KK symbol stands for Kaplan Kirmizi, which in turn is Turkish for Red Tigers. The Red Tigers began life in the 1950s as a gang exporting heroin across the Kurdistan border on its way to western Europe. In recent years, they have spread across Europe to the extent that there are cells in most of the major cities synonymous with the drug trade.’
‘And they go around branding each other’s balls?’ Fallow winces.
‘Only those with a direct connection to the original gang,’ Mayson says. ‘It’s a sign of leadership and of clan membership. And if it makes you feel any better, the branding is done at the age of two.’
‘Trust me, Mayson,’ Huggins says, his expression aghast, ‘there is no good age to get your balls branded.’
‘So if Ahmed Doe is a member of this Red Tigers organization,’ Seagram says, ‘what the hell is he doing hanging from a railway bridge in Stannington? The last time I looked there
was
no big-time heroin trade in Newcastle.’
‘None that we are aware of,’ says Mayson. ‘But that has always made Newcastle an exception to the rule in this country.’
Huggins, happy now that he has found his mug, sits down on the corner of his desk. ‘Maybe our friend was trying to set up some business over here.’
‘Which someone clearly took exception to,’ Fallow says, nodding.
‘Which is why they were keen to send the Turks a message,’ says Seagram. ‘Good work, Mayse. You’d better print something out for the boss when he gets back. Meanwhile, you two hit the phones; I want to know where our Turkish gangster came from.’
‘What the hell is the boss doing at HQ?’ Huggins says. ‘He’s missing all the fun.’
SIX
‘Let’s start from the beginning, shall we?’ says retired Detective Superintendent Malcolm Gilcrux of South Wales Police in a manner that suggests he’s been waiting for a long time for this moment.
He’s a fat man with piggy eyes who must have thought his career and its associated importance were over once his thirty years were up, Vos thinks. But a job as an investigator with the Independent Police Complaints Commission has resurrected both, and he has clearly made an effort this morning: crisp shirt, egg-free tie, freshly pressed suit, polished shoes. It looks like his hair has been recently clippered at the sides, and his cheeks have been shaved so closely they are shining like two slabs of red-veined marble.
‘You had been investigating Jack Peel for a number of years, is that correct?’
The two men are sitting in an interview room at police headquarters in Ponteland. The room has been kept deliberately sparse in order to focus minds. The only furniture is a couple of plastic chairs and a table between them. On the table is a thick file. Gilcrux methodically scrolls back through the pages.
‘You could say he had been on our radar for a while, yes,’ Vos says.
‘How long?’
‘Two years, give or take.’
‘Why?’
‘Come on, Mr Gilcrux. You know how it works. You get to hear things, then you get to hear some more things, until eventually you decide it might be worth a look.’
Gilcrux makes no comment. He makes no indication of having heard a word Vos has said. Vos can imagine that the fat Welshman was a shit-hot interrogator in his time. And even though he knows this stonewall technique by heart, Vos still feels uneasy, because
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