Renegade, p.9
Renegade, page 9
‘That’s cheap coming from you.’
‘And what the hell does that mean?’
Ryker looked Winter in the eye.
‘If the UK government thought that its police forces were adequately equipped for every type of investigation, what’s the point of having the likes of the JIA?’
‘I’m not arguing against the point of the JIA,’ Winter replied. ‘I’m arguing about objectivity and bloody common sense. You’re not on a secret undercover mission in some backwater corner of the globe. You’re running a very public operation on home soil. I’m sure it didn’t escape your attention that the scene you took these phones from was filmed by several bystanders and made the national news just minutes after–’
‘I get it.’
Winter sighed. ‘You say that. But your actions suggest otherwise.’
Perhaps that was true. Ryker did understand that Winter wanted him to see what he’d done wrong, but his taking the phones from the crime scene had jump-started the investigation as far as Ryker was concerned. If it was public perception of the police or MI5 or whatever that bothered Winter, he obviously was talking to the wrong person. The only problem Ryker saw with his actions was that those phones would likely never be admissible evidence in a court case now. Ryker had never been tasked with building a court case. Such a finality had rarely been a consideration throughout his long and fraught career.
‘I’ve got names for all of the dead men,’ he finally said. ‘Plus two others who were in the car with Parker. And I also think I know who they were working for.’
Winter shook his head, but didn’t say anything. Was he still incredulous or quietly impressed?
‘What I don’t have is any hint of a link between these people and Parker or Yedlin.’
‘And we still haven’t had a sniff of where Yedlin might be,’ Winter said. ‘Despite your efforts.’
‘My best guess would be anywhere but England right now. What about Garcia?’
‘I had MI5 haul him in to interview him. It didn’t take long. Money. Simple as that. They offered him more.’
‘And his family?’
‘He chose this path.’
Ryker said nothing. Did he feel sorry for Garcia and his family? A little. Would he intervene? Probably not. Not if it was simple greed which had led Garcia to turning.
The two went silent. Ryker watched a young couple strolling in front of them. They were hand in hand though weren’t talking to each other at all, and the woman had a thin scowl on her face. Something about the two didn’t look right, though they continued away casually and were soon well out of earshot.
‘So?’ Winter said.
‘What?’
‘Are you going to give me anything?’
‘I already did.’
‘Names?’
This was the sticky part. Ryker did trust Winter, mostly. Not one hundred per cent, in every instance, but enough for him to still be working with him. But that didn’t mean that he would reveal his full hand at the first opportunity. Of course, Winter had the resources at his fingertips to assist Ryker here, but he also remained inextricably tied to the big machine. Winter had bosses who needed answers, who he had to keep sweet for the sake of his own career path. There wasn’t anything necessarily wrong with that – Winter was no different to the vast majority of other people on the payroll of any company or organisation. But it did mean that Ryker wasn’t sure he wanted to give Winter everything, all of the time. Not if there was a chance that the information could be passed along to MI5 or to the police, and for Ryker to then have them stepping on his toes.
If he needed help, he’d ask for it.
But he also couldn’t say nothing.
‘I’ll send you the names. The guys in the Range Rovers were mostly of German and Turkish descent, although they were all UK citizens.’
‘Germany? Turkey? What’s that got to do with–’
‘Parker and Yedlin? Perhaps nothing. These were all young guys. Oldest, twenty-five. Most likely they were nothing more than hired help.’
‘Yet they were hired for something pretty damn high profile.’
‘They probably couldn’t have cared less what it was all about. They probably weren’t even told.’
‘Plus there was that man and woman in the square–’
‘I’ve got nowhere identifying them,’ Ryker said.
‘No. Nor has anyone else, as far as I know. Which says a lot, don’t you think?’
‘I agree. And most likely it means they weren’t with the Range Rover guys at all.’
‘So who was paying our young German friends?’ Winter asked.
Ryker thought about that one. ‘When I find out, you’ll be the first to know.’
He held Winter’s eye for a few beats. Winter didn’t seem convinced but he didn’t question Ryker’s answer either.
‘Anything else?’ Winter said.
‘No. But keep me in the loop with what you’re hearing on the official side.’
Winter sighed, though he had a slight smile on his face. ‘Talk about a one-sided arrangement.’
There was an awkward pause before Winter rose to his feet. ‘Stay in touch.’
He headed away, back the way he’d come. Across the water Ryker still had one eye on the couple who’d passed by him and Winter. They were still strolling, paying no particular attention to Ryker. They still looked like they didn’t belong.
Ryker looked around him. No. No one was spying on him here. He was pretty damn sure of that. Alone. Anonymous. That’s what Ryker was in this world. And thinking back to the less than satisfactory time with Moreno last night, that fact filled him with a certain dread.
He looked at his watch. It was time for his next stop. Despite what he’d told Winter, Ryker had a very good idea who had paid Tufan and the others for their services. What Ryker didn’t know was how on earth the man named Yunus Akkan fitted into the story of Parker and Yedlin.
There was only one way to find out.
16
Like many parts of London, the cluttered area of Shoreditch was a clashing neighbourhood that included plenty of up-and-coming trendy locales, yet poorer and more run-down parts were never more than a street or two away. It was the latter where Ryker was walking.
Having already a grasp of the immediate area from satellite and street photos, he felt an eerie familiarity as he walked alongside a row of bland mid-twentieth century terraces. Run-down businesses took up the ground floors, and he slowed as he approached one of the more obviously-used establishments; a Turkish café called Mehmet’s. He glanced through the windows as he walked by to scope out the inside. Quiet. He decided to head in.
A bell above the door tinkled as he entered, causing most of the half-dozen punters in the place to glance over. One man held his gaze on Ryker far longer than the others, a heavy-set man in his thirties with a thick-and-scrunched-up face. He was sitting in the corner on his own with a small cup of coffee that was dwarfed by his meaty fingers. The man wasn’t Akkan, nor anyone else that Ryker recognised from his online research, but certainly someone to keep his eye on, he decided.
The café was something of a middle ground between fast-food outlet and restaurant. Functional tables and chairs were topped off with more lavish furnishings that gave flashes of the Middle East. Most of one side of the modest space was taken up by a glass counter that contained both desserts and a multitude of salads and other accompaniments to the savoury food items. As Ryker browsed one of the menus at the counter he realised most dishes consisted of grilled meat. Despite the tempting offerings he ordered only an Americano from the pot-bellied man at the counter, then took a seat at the back of the café, in the opposite corner to the gruff customer who by now had his eyes set on a folded newspaper.
Ryker soon had his coffee and took out his phone as he waited, and hoped for a lead. He hadn’t just happened across this place. Research on social media had shown this to be a regular hang-out for Tufan and his crew, and a little more digging had revealed that the owner was Yunus Akkan’s uncle.
Akkan himself, from what Ryker had deduced, was a forty-something local thug, likely one with gangster tendencies. Or was it desires? Akkan was born in London to Turkish parents, known to the police as a petty criminal with a string of offences that had started in his teens, from car theft to burglary to assault and drug possession. He’d spent five years of his earlier life in jail, though had been a free man, and apparently law-abiding, since the age of twenty-eight.
Ryker didn’t quite buy the law-abiding part. He hadn’t yet met Akkan, but felt he knew the type well enough. Most likely he was something of a local gang leader, who kept his nose relatively clean, with runts to do his dirty work. The immediate area around here had large immigrant populations from all corners of the world, it had for decades, and it was common for the unscrupulous to make easy money by terrorising those within their own hard-up communities. Ryker could imagine a younger Akkan, poor family in a poor neighbourhood, drawn into a life of crime like so many others, fighting through his formative years to make a name for himself and rise through the ranks.
One by one, Ryker spied on the scattering of people within the café as he waited. Other than the man in the adjacent corner, the others all seemed innocuous enough. Still, Ryker covertly took pictures of them with his phone to check back on later.
He had only a lukewarm sip of his coffee remaining when he finally got the action he’d been hoping for. Mr Gruff across the way had already checked his watch four times since Ryker had taken his seat, and on the fifth occasion he put his paper down onto the table, got up, his jaw pulsing from being clenched so tightly, and moved through a bead curtain into a back room.
Someone was late.
In the next few minutes all the other punters left, except for two teenage girls who took up stools in the front window. As if the others had known welcome time was over.
Ryker heard them before he saw them. Laddish voices, shouting and heckling. As the three men stepped into the café and the bell tinkled, though, their conversation died down to a hush. Ryker looked over each of them as discreetly as he could. He recognised one of the three: Tufan. Ryker, fork in one hand, phone in the other, clicked away on his phone’s camera as the three held a brief conversation with the waiter before moving toward the back, Tufan in the lead.
He’d only seen Ryker with a baseball cap on the previous day, though there was still a chance that Tufan might recognise him now. Nothing he could do about that. He exited the camera and dropped his phone to the table as the men neared. Bowing his head slightly, he flicked his eyes up to keep watch. All three gave him the eye as they passed.
Tufan pushed through the beads and headed out of sight. The next man followed. The third man paused. Ryker lifted his head. The guy, all of twenty years old, fresh-faced but with a sneer that he must have practised for hours in the mirror, had his deep glower locked onto Ryker.
‘What?’ Ryker said.
The kid was about to bite back when the waiter shouted over in a jumble of Turkish – a language Ryker only had a basic grasp of. The young man looked over and shot back a short, angry retort, before he once again set his eyes on Ryker and snorted, as though Ryker was beneath his lofty status in life. Without another word he moved off through the beads to disappear into the back with the others.
Ryker downed the remainder of his coffee as he listened, but all he could hear were distant muffled voices.
He realised the waiter was staring at him.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ the man said.
‘It’s fine.’
‘Perhaps you should go before they come out.’
Telling, yet perhaps kindly advice to which he didn’t reply.
The waiter hesitated a moment before getting back to whatever he was doing behind the counter. Ryker got up from his chair. His eyes moved to the bead curtain to his right. A small part of him tried to drag him over there and through the beads to see what was beyond.
No need. Not yet.
Ryker made his way toward the exit.
‘See you again soon,’ he said to the waiter as he passed. No response. Just a look, somewhere between apprehension and confusion.
Ryker opened the door and stepped out. He headed right, walking casually along the street as he slipped a cap over his head. He pushed his hands into his jacket pockets and carried on. The row of shops soon came to an end and gave way to dilapidated and mostly derelict industrial units. There were few people around. A hundred yards from the café, Ryker ducked off the street and into an alley. He looked out, back up the road. Stood and waited. And waited.
Twenty minutes passed. No one went in or out of the café in that time. Several pedestrians sauntered past him, though he received only a few disinterested glances.
Anonymous. Again.
It was more than half an hour before anyone emerged from Mehmet’s. Ryker watched as the three young men headed out, one after the other, Tufan now in the middle. Once they were all outside they congregated for a moment, chatting, lighting up cigarettes, before they set off. In Ryker’s direction.
Ryker pulled back into the alley. The men passed by, oblivious to Ryker’s presence. He leaned out and watched them heading away, and when he was satisfied they were at a safe distance, he set off in tow.
Less than five minutes later the men had led Ryker on a traipse through what were surely some of the least salubrious parts of the least salubrious parts of the East End. They ended up on a narrow lane with more potholes than tarmac, lined on either side with derelict, industrial, grey-brick buildings that loomed high. Ryker waited at the top of the lane in the doorway to one of the buildings and watched as Tufan and the others carried on.
The lane was a dead end. At least, as far as Ryker could tell there was no through road in sight. But there was a building. Smaller and with two storeys, it looked like some kind of old workshop with a plain door as a side entrance and a much larger metal roller door that was currently pulled down. Above that door was a faded sign that Ryker couldn’t make out.
The men reached the property and stopped. They milled for a few moments until there was a loud clunk and then rattle as the roller door lifted. Ryker took his phone out and as discreetly as he could, he snapped away, though at this distance he’d be lucky to get a decent glimpse of anything from the pictures. What he could tell was that the building wasn’t empty. There was racking and tooling all over – a garage perhaps? And a fourth man inside who Ryker didn’t recognise, not from so far away.
Ryker expected Tufan and the others to disappear inside. Instead, all four men remained waiting. Then the sound of a high-powered car engine caused Ryker to jolt. He swung his head to the left to see a hulking Mercedes SUV pull into the lane.
Ryker threw himself back as far as he could, up against the padlocked door to the building. The Mercedes shot past, its dark glass making it impossible for Ryker to tell if anyone inside had spotted him. He didn’t move for several seconds as he strained his ears. The Mercedes came to a stop. The engine was shut down. Doors opened then closed.
Ryker risked a peek.
Three more men had arrived. All tall and stocky, suited up like nightclub bouncers. Even from so far away Ryker knew these men meant business by the way Tufan and the other youngsters looked sunken now, tails between their legs, their previous bravado on the wane.
Of the three men who’d emerged from the Mercedes, one stepped forward to Tufan. As he did so he fleetingly glanced over his shoulder. It was enough for Ryker to catch a glimpse of his face.
Enough to realise this was the very man Ryker had come to find. Yunus Akkan.
17
The exchange outside the garage continued, though Ryker couldn’t hear, or even read the mood of the conversation from such distance. Akkan remained facing away from Ryker, though the other two from the Mercedes, standing guard, were looking this way and that, and frequently back toward where Ryker was standing. He was sure he hadn’t been spotted yet, but if he stayed where he was, there was a good chance he would be as the Mercedes left. Plus, at this distance Ryker couldn’t hear a thing, and he was too far away to take any useful pictures.
It was time to get a closer look.
Ryker fished in his pocket and seconds later was picking the rusting padlock securing the door he was standing by. The mechanism would have been easy enough had it not been so weathered and he had to jerk and tug with force to get the pins released. Doing so wasn’t exactly silent, and every few seconds he peeped out to the group further down the lane. The conversation was still in flow, giving no indication they had become aware of Ryker’s presence.
Finally the lock popped and Ryker creaked the door open as quietly as he could. A waft of dusty air burst into his face as he slunk in through the narrow gap and closed the door behind him.
He paused as his eyes adjusted to the darkened space. Whatever building this was, or had been, he hadn’t come in through the main entrance, but what looked like a little-used service entrance or even fire escape – there was nothing in front of him but a mottled concrete floor and a ditto staircase.
Ryker headed for the stairs and climbed all the way up to the fourth and top floor. He eased open a door that led onto a narrow and dark corridor. Rough carpet underfoot, a series of doors off to his left and right. Ryker carried on, peering in through the mostly glazed doors as he headed to the far end of the building adjacent to the garage.
It was apparent that this place wasn’t derelict at all. Rooms were filled with all manner of clutter; mainly boxes and old-looking office equipment. While the building was decrepit, this floor at least was being used as some sort of storage dump, it seemed.
