Broken Windows Read online

  Janet Pywell

  Broken Windows

  A Mikky dos Santos Thriller

  First published by KIngsdown Publishing 2020

  Copyright © 2020 by Janet Pywell

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Janet Pywell asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  Janet Pywell has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

  Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

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  Foreword

  Broken Windows – A Mikky dos Santos Thriller

  MIKKY IS DETERMINED TO MAKE A DIFFERENCE. LIFE CAN’T STAY THE SAME. NOT AFTER WHAT HAPPENED.

  Buckle up – this rollercoaster of a thriller will leave you breathless!

  Mikky’s task is simple. Find out who owns the valuable dagger, the talisman and symbol for a cult-like group in London’s underworld – a drugs gang led by the Asian, who controls the streets with ruthless violence. He recruits children: befriending them, grooming them, and controlling them through fear, as they package and sell drugs.

  The Dixon Trust provides a safe house and haven for these unprotected and extremely vulnerable kids. Run by Matt, an ex-convict, and supported by a local politician, Raymond Harris, these men are determined to rescue and protect the children, and save lives.

  Given another chance, and taught by Matt, the Parks become experts in freerunning and parkour. It gives them a sense of worth and purpose, and when they’re asked to participate in an action-packed movie, their self-esteem knows no bounds.

  None of them expects death.

  Mikky gains access and insight into their world as she films a documentary. But devastated by shocking events, she is determined to find the dagger, and to flush out the cult leaders and hold them all to account – even if it means risking her own life.

  The story weaves around the mesmerising parkour kids – the Parks. They will have you hooked – their stories are captivating and heartbreaking, and they will have you gunning for each of them until the final twist.

  Set in London (England), Ouarzazate (Morocco), and Basel (Switzerland).

  Acknowledgement

  When I began Masterpiece – the first Mikky dos Santos thriller – in 2016, I had no idea where the talented art forger and sometimes morally wayward protagonist would head. All I knew was that Mikky would be different, and over the years – along the way – I’ve had to keep up with her skills and all the useful technology and gadgets that have been used in the series. I’ve had the help of experts and friends, and this book is no different – so I’d like to thank Carrie Breed, Katie Hickin, Mark and Sally Rogers, Tracey Falcon, Matt Maguire, Pete Bennett, Mark Swift, and Amanda Gerrard.

  Chapter 1

  “Drugs are a waste of time. They destroy your memory and your self-respect and everything that goes along with your self-esteem.”

  Kurt Cobain

  PROLOGUE

  I’m running for my life. The staircase is steep and dark. I smack the button for the light, leaping in the air, narrowly missing a curled-up body in the doorway. It groans and moves.

  The stench is oppressive.

  My breath is in raspy gasps. My knees are growing weak.

  Another floor, higher and higher, up the tower block.

  A gunshot echoes over my head and instinctively I duck. I’ve lost count of the number of floors – maybe twenty, more?

  Breathlessly, I turn another corner, and up more stairs, conscious of my assailant’s steps behind me, looming closer.

  There’s a glint of light at the end of the passageway, and I’m halfway along the corridor when another shot rings out, pinging off the metalwork.

  I throw myself at the emergency exit, pushing the bar, careful not to drop the prize wedged under my arm.

  The door flies open. I blink. Suddenly, I’m in natural light, but it’s dusk. The December sun is fading, and the bitter wind bites at my ears and nose.

  Gasping lungfuls of air, panting heavily, I glance across the rooftops, getting my bearings: London. More specifically, Islington, and in the distance, Regent’s Canal.

  Another gunshot ricochets off the steel railing. I duck and run for cover behind a giant pipe, probably heating ducts. The man following me slows his pace and approaches cautiously. He knows I’m trapped.

  I peer over the edge. We’re twenty-five storeys high.

  I have vertigo.

  My head swims.

  My mouth is dry.

  I raise my right leg and swing it over the wall, dangling it into the empty void and hugging the bag to my chest.

  ‘There’s no way out.’

  His Asian accent is strong, and his voice is loud across the open space between us, drifting in the breeze. ‘Give it to me!’

  I’m not armed. I wish I was. I swallow hard, staring down at the drop below; my head swims, and my hands begin to shake. I’ll never survive.

  My pursuer, small and wiry, takes a step closer; his dark almond eyes are devoid of emotion.

  ‘Put the bag on the ground, or I will kill you.’ He points the Smith & Wesson, a powerful handgun, designed to stop any game animal, at my chest.

  I hesitate.

  He takes a step closer.

  ‘It’s not worth it.’ He grins. ‘I will kill you.’

  I’m astride the low wall, probably over seventy metres above the ground. My assailant is six metres away, not close enough for me to charge at him or to throw the bag at him. There’s no way out. Sweat breaks out on my forehead.

  He’s a professional.

  I swing my leg back over the wall, face him, and lower the bag to the ground, conscious of the vast open space behind me.

  ‘Open it!’ he demands, waving the gun at me.

  I bend down and unzip the bag, and show him the dagger that still has traces of my blood on its blade.

  He smiles.

  I shout, ‘We can come to some sort of agreement! Make a deal. Work together. I’m on your side.’

  I raise my arms wide, stretched out like I’m Jesus on the cross, wearing only my hoodie. My coat was torn from me, and I lost my phone. I know Peter won’t be able to follow me.

  I call out, ‘I can pay you—’

  ‘You’re a liar, Mikky. You tried to fool me once, but you won’t do it again. I’m the Asian. No one messes with me – and gets away with it.’

  ‘I didn’t, I—’

  I turn to my right, distracted by the noise of a helicopter, its motor humming, whining and growing closer.

  ‘You hear me? I’m the Asian,’ he shouts. ‘They’re not going to save you, Mikky. No one can!’


  That’s when he fires his gun, and the shot hits my chest. Air explodes from my lungs. The powerful force of the bullet lifts me backwards and up into the air. I fall back over the concrete ledge, and I’m suddenly spiralling head first, from the twenty-fifth floor, toward my fate and certain death below.

  Chapter 2

  “Crime has always been a regrettably consistent element of the human experience.”

  Mark Frost

  TWO WEEKS EARLIER:

  The Ivy Brasserie on London’s South Bank overlooks the bright blue and red towers of Tower Bridge. It’s one of London’s most iconic landmarks, that crosses the River Thames toward the Tower of London. The imposing bridge towers are joined at the upper level by two high-level walkways forty-two metres above the water, and a movable bridge that is, on this mid-November evening, busy with vehicles and pedestrians. I’m contemplating the Tower of London, north of the river, wondering how it would feel to be incarcerated in the cells before being executed.

  ‘Mikky?’

  ‘Sorry, yes.’ I return my attention to the two men dining with me. My handsome, dark-haired Spanish boss, Inspector Joachin García Abascal, and his friend, Chief Inspector Mulhoon from London’s Metropolitan Police.

  ‘Quite frankly, I welcome Joachin’s involvement in this case.’ The chief inspector rubs his palms together slowly, but it’s also the intense expression in his green eyes that gives away his nervous demeanour. ‘And yours, of course, Mikky. I don’t know what else to do. In the past year, I’ve lost two outstanding undercover police officers, and we’re still not getting anywhere.’

  It’s mid-November, we’ve finished an early supper, and although it’s barely eight o’clock, I’m sipping a brandy, with black coffee.

  ‘So, you want me to look for a sword?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s not just any sword,’ the chief inspector replies. ‘It’s a specific one that we believe the gang members swear allegiance to; it’s a ceremonial one, hugely significant like the cross is for Christians or the Kirpan worn by followers of the Sikh religion that—’

  ‘But you have no idea what it looks like?’

  The chief inspector shakes his head. ‘No. The two undercover officers didn’t get close enough to find out. You have to remember this gang is professional, and they’re recruiting young kids, vulnerable people, and press-ganging them into selling drugs on the street. In the past few months, we have managed to break up a few drugs rings, working across counties with different forces, but this one is different. It’s operating independently and multiplying. It’s a cult-like environment; the kids are fanatic, they’re sworn to secrecy, and we can’t break through to get to the cult leaders …’

  ‘But you’ve managed to rescue a few of them, Mulhoon?’ Joachin leans his elbows on the table, his dark Spanish eyes regarding his friend’s reaction carefully.

  ‘Yes, but we can’t prove they were part of this particular group. They won’t say anything. Although we work with social workers, and we’ve managed to arrange for some of them to go into specialist foster care, they still fear for their lives.’

  ‘But you think they were in this cult-like group?’ Joachin asks.

  ‘We believe so. We definitely know they were involved in selling drugs, but it’s not worth prosecuting the children; we need to get the organisers – the leaders, the guys at the top. One of our guys – undercover – was friends with Ali; he’s one of the Parks.’

  ‘The Parks?’ I query.

  ‘Parkour – it’s a discipline, a sport, a thing that the young kids have started to do; they often use these skills to run from the police. But this is run by an ex-con who wants to turn his life around, so he trains these kids specifically, to keep them out of trouble. So many of them lack a father figure in their lives and Matt is making great progress with them. He’s organised a group of Parks to go to Morocco, where they’re making a film. There are a couple of action scenes where they want these kids freerunning – their stunts are amazing, and as far as I’m aware, there’ll also be a couple of scenes set in London – it’s one of those action movies by Sandra Worthington.’

  ‘Didn’t she get the Oscar last year?’ Joachin asks.

  ‘Yes, finally a black woman – an English woman – won the award for best director,’ I reply. ‘I remember reading an article about her.’

  ‘So, let me get this straight,’ says Joachin. ‘You want Mikky to go to Morocco, make friends with this group of Parks, gain their confidence and see if she can find out about this cult?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In the hope that we can find this sword—’

  ‘Well, we’re not sure what it is; it’s a talisman of some sort,’ the chief inspector interrupts me.

  I continue, ‘This talisman, which – you think – may be a sword, and once we find this, we can trace back ownership of the sword to the cult leader?’

  ‘Yes.’ The chief inspector nods seriously. ‘It’s not dangerous. You won’t be in England, so there’s no conflict with the Met and Europol, and, after what you told me, Joachin, Mikky is an expert in cultural artefacts.’

  Joachin looks at me and raises an eyebrow, barely hiding his smile. ‘Mikky has an appreciation of all art forms, isn’t that right?’

  I grin back at him. ‘Absolutely.’

  The chief inspector washes his hands in an imaginary fashion, then leans back in his chair and folds his arms.

  ‘I want to stress, Mikky, this isn’t dangerous. Your life will not be threatened. We just need the information, and when you know what the sword is like, hand that information over to us and it’s job done – you can go home.’

  ‘And Sandra is cool with this?’ ask Joachin. ‘She doesn’t mind Mikky going onto her film set?’

  ‘Yes, following our last conversation and your advice, Joachin, Mikky can travel to Morocco under the guise of a photographer making a documentary about the Parks. Sandra’s happy about it, as it may even give more credence to her next film.’

  ‘So, Sandra Worthington is happy for me to go over there?’ I double-check.

  ‘Yes.’ The chief inspector nods vigorously. ‘She has no idea that you are part of Europol. She thinks you’re a photographer and that you’ve approached the Met police and social workers here in London. The documentary will be focused on the Parks and their skills, and how they have turned their lives around.’

  ‘Mikky can do that, can’t you?’ Joachin looks at me.

  I nod and drain my brandy.

  ‘There is one other thing,’ the chief inspector says. He lowers his voice in the busy restaurant. ‘The prime minister will be very grateful for your involvement.’

  ‘The prime minister?’ repeats Joachin, raising his eyebrows.

  ‘Yes, as you know, the election is coming up next month – on the 10th December. The prime minister wants to spearhead his election campaign knowing that the cult leader is under arrest, and that this particular drugs ring has been exposed, then he will have more, how shall we say, kudos with the voting public. He will have delivered on his last election promise to make the streets safer, and he will be extremely grateful.’

  ‘And so will the public,’ adds Joachin.

  Chief Inspector Mulhoon looks at me. ‘This is a grave matter, Mikky. This affects not only London but the whole of the UK. This gang seems unstoppable. It’s growing at an alarming rate. Two of my guys have been discovered and killed. There’s no one on the streets willing to reveal anything – they’re too scared. It’s a long shot, but we need more details about the sword they swear allegiance to. Someone must perform the ritual or whatever it is they do. We can’t get anyone close enough here to get more information, but with your background, asking questions, under the guise of a self-employed film-maker in Morocco – I feel it’s a risk worth taking.’

  ‘What happened to the undercover officers?’ I ask.

  The chief inspector gazes out of the window before answering quietly, ‘They were executed.’

  ‘How?’ I insis
t.

  ‘They were shot from a very short distance.’

  ‘Okay, well, there’s one condition for me going to Morocco,’ I say.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘No one else must know I’m going. It’s just between the three of us.’

  ‘I’m not happy about that,’ replies Mulhoon.

  ‘That’s how it has to be,’ I insist.

  Joachin stares at me. ‘If you leave tomorrow, you’ll be in Morocco for four nights, and you’ll be home by Friday. And, after that, you can go back to travelling the world with Marco.’ He looks at the chief inspector. ‘Mikky is right, Mulhoon. No one else needs to know about her visit.’

  ‘Who’s Marco?’ asks Mulhoon.

  ‘Mikky’s getting married,’ Joachin explains.

  I hold up my hand and laugh. ‘Steady on, Joachin. We haven’t set a date yet, and besides, we’re not in a hurry; it might not even be for a couple of years.’

  Joachin smiles. ‘If you leave tomorrow, a couple of days won’t interrupt your schedule too much, will it?’

  I shake my head. I know I’ll go to Morocco.

  ‘I’m looking forward to it already.’ I smile.

  ‘I’ll organise your flight for the morning.’ The chief inspector picks up his phone that had been lying on the table and begins searching through his contact details. ‘They’re filming over there now, they have a couple more days left, so we haven’t much time. You must leave in the morning. Will Marco be alright with that?’

  ‘It’s not Marco I’m worried about.’ I stare at Joachin and smile. ‘I’m staying with my mother so, Joachin, I suggest you explain to Josephine why I have to disappear so quickly.’