I parted the hanging clothes in the walk-in wardrobe and pulled up the carpet. The floorboards looked normal, but by pressing the top right corner I released a catch that opened a foot-square panel. From the hole beneath, I removed a 9 mm Glock 19 and silencer, two nine-round clips, a set of knuckle-dusters and a sheathed Glock 78 field knife. I also removed my walkie-talkie and headset from the charger in the hole. Karen would have had a fit if she'd found my gear.
Dave Cummings had spent the last two years teaching me and the others how to behave like soldiers. Now I had to prove that I'd been a good pupil.
"Hello, Karen."
"Guv." Oaten shook the hand extended by Detective Superintendent Ron Paskin of Homicide Division East. He was her ex-boss. They were both in white coveralls and overshoes. "I'm surprised to see you down here."
"Mm." Paskin was a grizzled bull of a man, who had a reputation for being hard but fair, both with criminals and his subordinates. "I'll get merry hell from the wife. Normally we spend Saturday mornings at the supermarket." He lifted the barrier tape and led her down the lane from the black minivan. A tent had been erected over it and the surrounding area. CSIs were coming and going, two of their vans on the pavement to the rear.
"As you know, there's been some shit going down among the various Turkish gangs, particularly the Shadows," the superintendent said, his voice low. "But this fellow is a Kurd, a pretty small-time member of the King's family."
Oaten chewed her lip, then remembered Inspector Neville's habit of doing that and stopped. "Do you think the Turks and Kurds are building toward an all-out war?"
Paskin took a deep breath. "If they are, it'll be the first we've heard of it," he said, expelling the air from his barrel chest. "You know how it is on the streets. The small guys play tough, but the bosses are happy enough with the status quo. They all know that they can't have everything and they prefer to get what they can with a reasonable degree of security."
"How about the Albanians?" Oaten suggested. "They've been growing their operations recently."
"Possible," the superintendent admitted. "They're the kind to gut a man, too. But we haven't had a whisper from our snouts. You?"
She shook her head. "Not about this area. They've really got a grip on Soho now, much to the disgust of the Chinese, and they've been making inroads into Bayswater and the knocking-shops around Paddington. But out here, no."
"Still," Paskin said, "it could be a splinter group from any number of nationalities. If anyone can wrest the heroin trade from the Turks and Kurds, they'll own the city-the whole of southeast England, in fact."
Oaten nodded. "So what happened here?" She saw John Turner, in a white coverall, come out of the tent. He didn't look a well man.
"As I said, the victim was gutted with a long-bladed knife, which was taken from the scene, probably by the killer-though you never know what kids will pick up around here. His name's Nedim Zinar. He was a big man, over six feet, and the doc thinks a smaller guy did for him. The wound suggests that the initial thrust was between the groin and the navel."
"Delightful. Did you know him?"
The superintendent nodded. "He was a friendly type for an enforcer-had a gang of kids. Mind you, though he'd been in the game for at least fifteen years, he wasn't much more than standard muscle. If you wanted to make an example, he wouldn't be your man. Then again, he was an easy target. From what I've heard, he parked his car here every night and supervised the locking up of a shop down Lower Clapton Road."
"Did he have a record?"
"Only minor stuff when he was younger-a bit of thieving. I seem to remember he broke a guy's jaw outside one of the King's clubs, but he got off on self-defense."
Oaten glanced at the tent. "I suppose I'd better have a look," she said, without much enthusiasm. "Suit yourself," said Paskin. "Oh, there's one thing that you won't find." "What's that?" "Tough guys like him carry a weapon. The CSIs found three full clips of 9 mm Parabellum rounds in a stash box under one of the rear seats." "Shit. That means one more handgun on the streets of London. Unlike in the U.S.A., where weapons grow on trees, that's seriously bad news." "Correct, Karen." Ron Paskin smiled at her. "Still, you highfliers in the VCCT must be used to that kind of thing." Karen Oaten knew her former boss was only teasing, unlike most of the other divisional officers she came across. "Oh, we get all sorts of weapons. Including knives." "Does that mean you're going to take over this case?" "It almost sounds like you want me to." "Well, we're as snowed under as ever." "Ditto. I don't see any reason for us to come in yet, but we'll keep an eye on your reports. What about that Turk who was killed the other day? Could this be a revenge hit?" The superintendent's brow furrowed. "Maybe. Again, I doubt they'd have gone for someone as minor as Zinar." The chief inspector nodded. "You know that if I can conclusively tie this murder to another one inside or outside your division, I'll have to take it." Paskin nodded. "No problem." He inclined his head toward John Turner. "How's Taff doing?" "Good. He's been my right-hand man ever since we were transferred." "His face looks like a three-day-old piece of cod. He obviously still has that aversion to dead people." Oaten watched her subordinate as he spoke to one of the local detectives, taking notes studiously. "I sometimes wish I hadn't got so inured to the results of violence. I think Taff's more of a normal human being than I am."
Paskin nudged her. "Steady on, girl. You've got as far as you have because you can shut off your emotions. I don't see Taff ever running things like you do." He took another deep breath, and then expelled it forcefully. "Christ, this lane stinks. Hell of a place to die."
"Hell of a way to die, too," Oaten added.
"Could have been worse," the superintendent said, lighting a cheroot. "He could have had his head chopped off, like that victim in your first big case with the VCCT. The White Devil was really something, wasn't he?"
Karen Oaten nodded. "He certainly was. East End boy, as well."
Paskin grinned, showing teeth stained by countless cigars. "We have a long tradition of master criminals here. What was the name of that writer-fellow the killer targeted?"
"Matt Wells." Karen wasn't sure if Paskin knew of their relationship. He might have heard on the grapevine, but it wasn't in his nature to pay attention to innuendo.
"There was a sister too, wasn't there?"
She nodded.
"If she's anything like that callous bastard, let's hope she doesn't resurface."
"Here's hoping, indeed." The chief inspector stuck out her hand. "Good to see you again, guv. Take care. You mustn't have long to go till retirement."
"Three months," he said with a smile.
"What are you going to do?"
"We've got a cottage in Brittany. I can't understand a word the locals say, but the food's a sight better than what the wife comes up with these days. Nothing but bloody salad."
Karen waved her arm as she headed for Taff. She wasn't looking forward to examining the body. She'd been on edge all morning and her stomach was still upset. Chewing antacid tablets had only made her feel more queasy.