Both Murders Were Carried out in West London

A book.

Vengeance is Mine.

Scenario:

A leading underworld figure is found shot dead. It is a perfect hit in his home with no sign of a struggle. His right hand man was found the same day and had exited life in a similar way. The dead men were completely evil and no one would mourn their passing.

Both murders were carried out in West London.

Chapter one.

Friday 2nd May

Detective inspector Frank Farren looked an unlikely figure as he sped down the Portobello Road in Nottinghill weaving through tourists and shoppers on a bright, clear as a bell,March morning. Neatly uniformed children, being dragged to school by busy business mothersor Polish au pair girls sleepy eyed from another late night, a lot different from when Frank first moved here. Then greasy spoon cafes full of builders, now all café latte, espresso and Hugh Grant sound a likes. Too many follicles, too much wavy hair, all style and little substance, no body short of food or trying to find Rackman’s rent, just a race for the latest aid to being so cool in this coolest of places.

However if you looked closely there was still the odd twitchy character, fallen by the wayside, looking for that first fix. Then there were the faces of the disappointed discovering that acquisition never lives up to that desired. All manor of life was here on the edge of the tide of gentrification that was working its way north along the Portobello Road.

At six foot three and weighing 19 stones the bike he rode appeared in imminent danger of collapse as he cycled with a passion weaving through the people on his decent of Portobello Road. A strange site indeed as Frank made no concessions to the usual fashion donned by the modern cyclist. No Lycra shorts or safety helmet. Frank wore the same style of clothes every day for work. He had seven suits all the same charcoal grey mohair and many ivory coloured silk shirts, his shoes were black Nike leather trainers and he had only one tie that was in his pocket and worn only when convention really left no option. It was of course black.

Frank believed in being comfortable and as the suits and shirts were tailor made in Sayville Row . He looked right and at easeas people often do when they care much more about being comfortable than fashionable.

Although 47 years of age Frank was a very fit, having enjoyed taking part in sport most of his life. Now he did not play but attended a gym and relaxed in the sauna as often as he could to keep trim without worrying about what he ate and drank.

No one needed to worry that the bike may collapse as it was his usual form of transport when he was working close to home.The light weight city bike was purchased in Belgium with reinforced wheels and all bells and whistles, making cycling in London as easy as it could be.

Frank chose to use his bike on this case as he lived at Palace Gate just across the park, KensingtonGardens, from Notting Hill he knew it would be faster than his car and the exercise would blow away the cobwebs of the usual late night.

His destination was the town house of Stefan Rodenski. Frank thought he should be happy as it was a sunny day and he had just heard that Rodenski had been found with a bullet in his head, however he felt robbed. He had wanted to get Rodenski for a long time and he knew that he would have had him soon.

For the past year he had been sure that Rodenski was responsible for the death of Sally Gray, a one time art student,who had been sucked into his web of drugs and prostitution. Sally had been a beautiful naive girl at the start of her life. Too beautiful to be allowed to survive, Rodenski had to have her, humiliate, desecrate and then finally destroy.He was so good at doing it, slowly changing the victim’s perception of reality until they had left behind any certainties from their past, believing that the environment Rodenski had created for them was all that existed and all they deserved. Rodenskishould have ended in a jail rotting away for thirty years, he had got off light.

Frank arrived at Rodenski’s home, a six bedroom mansion in KensingtonParkGardens. Rodenski lived in this multi-million pound villa on his own, apart from a house keeper a lady who looked like one of those Russian dolls. The large painted black front door with its obligatory brass furnishings was open with a young constable standing guard in the marbled pillared porch.

Frank parked his bike in the front garden, pulled out a paper suit and shoes then ran up the stairs to enter. “Look after my bike son, not all the thieves has been shot. Where is he?” Frank asked as he donned the paper suit and shoes coverings so as not to contaminate the crime scene.

“The bodies in the room at the back, on this floor, over looking the garden sir” answered the young police officer looking a bit green around the gills having come face to face with his first murder victim. “Are you OK? You look a bit queasy” inquired Frank. “It’s my first one. I guess I will get used to it.” “ No you won’t, not if you want to be a good cop, murder must never become normal. It’s the passion and anger that keeps us motivated.” Frank had a reputation for being approachable and fair, young cops wanted to work with him and go that extra yard to be in his team. One of the reasons he had the best clear up rate in the Met.

The room was immaculately furnished with large French windows overlooking a garden that would not be out of place at the Chelsea Flower Show

The room looked as though it came straight from of a Knightsbridge showroom, every thing including ultra modern porcelain figures, clocks and mirrors seemed to be white, black or grey. The only contrasts seemed to be the colour from the magazines on a coffee table, arranged to be looked at rather than read. Every thing ordered and in its right place all individuality expunged from the room.

Rodenski sat slumped back in a pale greyleather chair, mouth and eyes wide open in an expression of complete terror with a small red mark between his eyes, another point of contrast that did not seem out of place. Standing back Frank looked at the whole scene thinking it was almost like a piece of modern sculpture from some one like Tracy Emin, an obsessive compulsion for order, then death. There was very little blood as a head shot will stop the heart pumping blood at once, it looked like a .22 calibre weapon that they would be looking for. This was often the choice of the professional who was sure of his shooting abilities. In a head shot a more powerful missile might pass straight through the victim and leave them alive to tell the tail. A bullet from a .22 would ricochet around the brain causing critical damage especially if the bullet was hollow tipped. Frank stared into Rodenski’s pale blue eyes and wondered what their final image had been, if there was any justice in this world, he would have seen the doorsof damnation opening for him and all the fear and pain he had inflicted on others as his eternal future.

Every thing in the room and the clothes Rodenski wore reflected the persona he wanted to portray, expensive and stylish all chosen for value and cache. A man who was blind to all but profit. Franks dealing withhim had shownRodenskionly valued objects or people by their worth in cash or influence, just an entry in a ledger. No merit was given to beauty, wit or charm, unless they could be used to make a profit.Normally the characteristics of a shallow person, but you could never call some one who had plumbed the depths of depravity, as Rodenski had, shallow.

Frank felt a flash of rage and lifted his fist to punch the dead body but let his hand fall to his side and said with a sigh. “I wish I could bring you back to life and boil you in oil.”

“I thought you were keeping off the fry ups” DS Van Delft had arrived looking as she had just walked off the catwalk even in the paper clothing. Strong sunlight from the window behind caused a hallo like effect around her hair, a scene from some renaissance religious painting, so incongruous here. Ilse smiled enigmatically and Frank dropped his gaze from this Mona Lisa like image.

DS Ilse Van Delft was Frank’s partner at work and some thought in other ways to. They were known by their colleagues as beauty and the beast.

Frank had a face of character, moulded fromyears of playing rugby and boxing for the police. Long arms, wide shoulders and a barrel chest gave him a gorilla like poise. He looked dangerous and this demeanour was very useful in keeping the local yobs quite. Others might think that it would be easy to pull the wool over the eyes of some one who looked a lot like the missing link, they would however be sadly mistaken. Nobodies fool, Frank was quite happy to allow others think him short on brain cells if it gave him an advantage, their realization that they had badly underestimated his ability was a nice bonus.

His governor new that Frank could have made superintendent or even higher if he had been so minded. He also knew that he was a man oft misunderstood who although quite able to take part in the light banter of office and pub. Frank would follow all sorts of lines of thought and was just about impossible to put in a category, this along with a passion for fair play and willingness to be responsible, helped to make Frank a brilliant detective

DS Ilse Van Delft also was often misread. An epitome of femininity, she was tall, long haired with a head turning figure, the face of an angel, voice of a seductress and then, to the surprise of those who had pushed their luck to far, the kick of a mule. Kick boxing was Ilse’s hobby.

Her biggest talents was her ability to get people to open up to what appeared to be a child like curiosity, the most unwilling would be singing like a bird after just a few minutes of her company.

Because people so often do not realize that some do operate outside of the envelope of their appearance, dismissing them as beauty and the beast, helped the pair to become a formidable murder investigation team.

“From what’s not here tells us some thing. There will be many that would have happily pulled the trigger but not many would have these professional skills and got this close” Frank proposed. “He must have known his executioner and felt safe with them otherwise he would have his minder present.”

“There is no rage here. Judged, sentenced and executed.”

“ A pity he was not given a little time to ponder his demise ” Ilse replied wondering ifFrank was going to put a lot of effort into this investigation, considering his loathing of the victim, knowing him as she did made her dismiss this thought at once.

Frank did not like unsolved mysteries, the mystery of life was the only one he was prepared to put up with and that left him rather anxious. “I have a feeling forensics will have a hard time Frank ,she always called him, Boss or Guv in front of colleagues, refusing to confirm or deny their relationship to others. It’s a strange room itlooks almost sterile, like a picture from a top design studio where nobody lives.” “I reckon not much forensic then, but the bullet will tell a story.” Frank replied and went on to say.

“He must have been at ease with his killer, he had so many enemies his paranoia was well justified, any one he was unsure of would never get this close.” Frank pulled on a surgical glove and tried to move one of the corpse’s arms. It was in full rigor mortis. “At a guess I would say he has been dead about twelve hours meaning he was shot some time last night.”

“Do you know who called it in?”

“His house keeper called the police at about 8.30 am when she returned from visiting friends. The PC told me that she is downstairs with a WPC where she has a separate apartment”

“We better go and have a chat with her. This floor and the upstairs rooms we better let SOCO (Scene of crimes officer) have a look at this floor and upstairs before we go tramping all over the place. Do you know who SOCO is today?” “Your old pal Stats” replied Ilse. “Good, good” said Frank rubbing his bunch of banana hands together and looks slowly around slightly sniffing the air like a hunting animal. Frank was on the case. “Lead on Ilse, let’s talk to the Matryoshka.” They had both been to the house before interviewing Rodenski and Matryoshka was the nickname they had given to the house keeper after the Russian nested wooden dolls that she looked like. “Can you remember her real name Ilse?”

“I have it written down somewhere in this note book, it was pretty hard for me to pronounce” Ilse was a language expert, speaking her native Dutch, Spanish, French, German, Russian with a good bit of Mandarin. The language skills were becoming more important in the multicultural London of today.

“The attempt you made of saying her name on our last visit was very close to the Russian word for prostitute, judging from the expression on her face and you will know doubt pronounce the name wrong again. So I better do the introductions” “Nobody likes a smart arse Frank whispered playfully” with a grin .” “Do not worry Frank, you will never be accused of being one” parried Ilse.

Most detectives working on murder cases would take part in some banter that would surprise and shock the layman. It is a shield, to dwell on the dead and the consequences of the murder upon family and friend is not helpful in solving the crime and can cause severe problems with the mental health of the investigators. You would have to be devoid of feelings not to be effected by the murders that most investigators deal with and all bear some mental scars including Frank and Ilse.

Dead bodies every day desensitise. In the day they must be just a problem to solve, in the small hours their faces come back to remind of the humanity once shared.

The house keeper’s apartment was in the basement. The door was open and Ilse called. “Hello”. A rotund lady dressed all in black with black shawl appeared clutching a gold framed icon of the Madonna. On sighting Ilse she wailed a cried saying something in Russian and throwing her arms around her.

“Well people cried at Stalin’s death.” Frank said ready to jump back in case he was given the same treatment as Ilse tried to untie herself from the grips of this formidable woman.

“I bet she built tractors in Russia and is worried she might have to go back there.”

WPC Wood, stood uncomfortably in the backgroundshe was of the new school, a politically correct university graduate who was on the fast track to run the Met. She regarded Frank as dinosaurs wereas she was still young enough to know it all and believed that community policing and inclusion was the answer. A new order with new forms a new dogma, policing politically, where ticking the right boxes and spinning crime figures to match objectives given was more important that catching criminals. She had already made a complaint about the familiar way Frank addressed her. This complaint had made her very unpopular with her peers, whom she thought would be soon left behind as she rose through the ranks, but popular with one or two officers climbing the slippery pole of promotions.

Frank had never sought popularity and realised that some people will never like you, he did not make an effort to change their opinion. “Make yourself useful dear and make me and DS Van Delft a nice cup of tea, both no sugars and a little milk. Off you go then Woodentop.” Ilse gave Frank a frown and shook her head, not wishing to see Frank make unnecessary enemies knowing he regarded that as one of his little amusements.

Frank edged pass the wailing woman and Ilse and went into the living room that was furnished as well as upstairs and had French windows to the back garden. On expensive looking casual tables framed black and white photographs of stern looking men and women glared out from a harder time. More Russian tourist trinkets of poor quality stood on an Adam marble mantelpiece above the fire place. Had they been given to her or had she bought them herself?