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DI Simon Wise Crime Thriller Book 1
RICH MEN, DEAD MEN
It doesn't matter how rich you are when death is at your door.
A killer stalks the streets of London, murdering the richest people in the capital. Is this the work of a serial killer or someone striking out in anger at the super rich? Or is there another reason why billionaires are being killed every three days? Detective Inspector Simon Wise, his personal life a mess and harbouring more than a few secrets of his own, is assigned to the case. But the killer leaves no clues as to their identity, only bodies in their wake. With pressure mounting from the higher ranks within the police force and the government, has Wise got what it takes to solve the case before the murderer attacks again? RICH MEN, DEAD MEN is the first book in the DI Simon Wise Crime Thriller series and set on the streets of London. If you like dark police procedurals, complex characters, and shocking twists, then you’ll love Michael Dylan’s pulse-pounding debut novel. |
CHAPTER 1
Detective Inspector Simon Wise held out his hand, desperate to stop a murder. ‘Give me the gun. Please — think of your wife. Your kids.’
The gunman stared back at him with wild eyes, sweat pouring down his face, pistol shaking in his hands. ‘I can’t do that.’
They were on the roof of the Maywood estate in Peckham. It was still hot despite it being 11 p.m., the June heat stored deep in the concrete. The surrounding buildings overlooked the unfolding drama, all washed blue by the flashing lights of the army of emergency vehicles below.
There were two others on the roof with Wise and the gunman.
Derrick Morris, the star witness in a gangland murder trial that was due to start in the morning, was on his knees. Barefoot and shirtless, he looked like he’d been dragged out of his bed and hauled up onto the roof. He had his arms around his girlfriend, Tasha Simcocks, who was also on her knees next to him, wearing only her nightdress. Both were crying, eyes fixed on Wise with the desperate hope that he could keep them alive just a little bit longer.
The trouble was Wise didn’t know if he could because the other person on the roof, the man Wise was pleading with, had his gun pointed at Morris and Simcocks’ heads. If Wise couldn’t find the right words to stop him, he was going to murder the pair of them.
It was a bad situation made far worse because the gunman was a police officer, a Detective Sergeant in one of the Metropolitan Police’s Murder Investigation Teams. He was a man Wise knew better than almost anyone else in his life, and seeing him there with a gun and intending to kill a witness made no sense at all.
Andy Davidson was his partner, after all. They’d risen through the ranks together, helped each other, supported each other, and did a damn lot of good together. Not only that, Andy had been Wise’s best man at his wedding, godfather to his kids, and whom he’d been drinking beer with only hours before.
There was no one he knew better — except Wise didn’t know Andy at all.
‘Please, Andy. Before Armed Response gets here. Give me the gun.’ Wise took a step towards his partner, hand still out.
‘Don’t come any closer,’ Andy cried, his eyes wide and bulging, burning cocaine bright. Sweat glistened across his face and soaked his t-shirt. He pressed the revolver against Morris’ head, but Wise could see the shaking in his hand. Was that a sign of his resolve weakening or just his desperation? ‘Another step and I’ll shoot him.’
‘Mate, please,’ Wise said. ‘I don’t know why you’re doing this, but we can sort it out. We can fix it — whatever it is — if you give me the gun. You’re not a murderer.’
‘You don’t know what I am!’ Andy screamed. He wiped his free hand across his face, rubbing the snot from his nose, blinking tears away. ‘I have to do this.’
A red dot danced across Andy’s shoulders, seeking his head, finding its spot, stopping on his temple, dead still. An ARO in one of the neighbouring buildings had Andy in his sights, the laser targeting locked on a kill shot.
‘No!’ Wise shouted. He thrust both hands up in the air, turning, trying to see where the sniper was, trying to block his line of sight. ‘Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot.’
Time stopped as Wise waited for the crack of a shot and the sight of Andy’s brains punched from his skull. But no shot came. No order given to terminate his friend. Someone still hoped Wise could stop this without bloodshed — for now. The clock was ticking, though. The order would come soon enough. No one would risk Andy killing their star witness.
He turned back to his friend. ‘The AROs have got you in their sights, Andy. Please give me the gun before it’s too late. Think of Debs. Think of Katie and Mark.’ Think of me, he wanted to say. He’d already lost his actual brother, he couldn’t cope with losing Andy too. ‘Please, mate.’
‘If I don’t do this,’ Andy said, ‘he told me he’d kill them.’
‘Who did?’ Wise took another step forward. ‘If someone’s threatening you or your family, we can stop them. You just have to trust me and give me the gun.’
The two men stared at each other. Twenty years of history being relived in their eyes. Their friendship. Their bond. Surely, he’d give up. Andy was no killer.
‘Please, mate.’
Andy shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Si. I’m sorry for ev—‘
Something punched Andy off his feet a heartbeat before Wise heard the crack of the gun. Time slowed as Andy tumbled forward, red mist leading the way, his brains and blood already splattered across the rooftop. He landed on the concrete with a wet thud and lay unmoving, his eyes open and fixed on Wise, a hole in the side of his temple where the red dot had been.
Wise couldn’t move. His mind couldn’t take in what his eyes told him, refusing to accept it.
‘ARMED POLICE! ARMED POLICE! NO ONE MOVE!’ The AROs ran out onto the rooftop, all dressed in black, balaclavas covering their faces, bulletproof helmets on top of those, goggles covering their eyes, Heckler and Koch MP5 machine guns in the ready position, shouting orders, looking for more threats, making sure Andy was dead.
They got Morris and Simcocks to their feet and bundled them away to the stairs, down to safety, to medical help. One snatched up Andy’s gun, made it safe, and bagged it. Another checked Andy and shouted that the target was dead.
Then an ARO was saying something to Wise, but Wise couldn’t understand him, couldn’t reply, couldn’t move. All he could see was the jerk in Andy’s head as the bullet struck him, the shape of his mouth as his last breath left his body, and the look in his eyes as he fell, accusing Wise.
More people rushed out onto the roof. More police. An ambulance crew.
Someone put a tinfoil blanket over Wise’s shoulders. Said more words he couldn’t understand. Some of Wise’s team were on the roof, too. Madge appeared, hand over her mouth, staring at her dead colleague, her dead friend, then at Wise.
Wise felt the judgement in her eyes. Their condemnation. He was their leader. He should’ve stopped this from happening.
Wise couldn’t comfort her, couldn’t say anything that would make this horror any better. He couldn’t even blink.
All he could see was Andy dying.
Andy dead.
Dear God.
The gunman stared back at him with wild eyes, sweat pouring down his face, pistol shaking in his hands. ‘I can’t do that.’
They were on the roof of the Maywood estate in Peckham. It was still hot despite it being 11 p.m., the June heat stored deep in the concrete. The surrounding buildings overlooked the unfolding drama, all washed blue by the flashing lights of the army of emergency vehicles below.
There were two others on the roof with Wise and the gunman.
Derrick Morris, the star witness in a gangland murder trial that was due to start in the morning, was on his knees. Barefoot and shirtless, he looked like he’d been dragged out of his bed and hauled up onto the roof. He had his arms around his girlfriend, Tasha Simcocks, who was also on her knees next to him, wearing only her nightdress. Both were crying, eyes fixed on Wise with the desperate hope that he could keep them alive just a little bit longer.
The trouble was Wise didn’t know if he could because the other person on the roof, the man Wise was pleading with, had his gun pointed at Morris and Simcocks’ heads. If Wise couldn’t find the right words to stop him, he was going to murder the pair of them.
It was a bad situation made far worse because the gunman was a police officer, a Detective Sergeant in one of the Metropolitan Police’s Murder Investigation Teams. He was a man Wise knew better than almost anyone else in his life, and seeing him there with a gun and intending to kill a witness made no sense at all.
Andy Davidson was his partner, after all. They’d risen through the ranks together, helped each other, supported each other, and did a damn lot of good together. Not only that, Andy had been Wise’s best man at his wedding, godfather to his kids, and whom he’d been drinking beer with only hours before.
There was no one he knew better — except Wise didn’t know Andy at all.
‘Please, Andy. Before Armed Response gets here. Give me the gun.’ Wise took a step towards his partner, hand still out.
‘Don’t come any closer,’ Andy cried, his eyes wide and bulging, burning cocaine bright. Sweat glistened across his face and soaked his t-shirt. He pressed the revolver against Morris’ head, but Wise could see the shaking in his hand. Was that a sign of his resolve weakening or just his desperation? ‘Another step and I’ll shoot him.’
‘Mate, please,’ Wise said. ‘I don’t know why you’re doing this, but we can sort it out. We can fix it — whatever it is — if you give me the gun. You’re not a murderer.’
‘You don’t know what I am!’ Andy screamed. He wiped his free hand across his face, rubbing the snot from his nose, blinking tears away. ‘I have to do this.’
A red dot danced across Andy’s shoulders, seeking his head, finding its spot, stopping on his temple, dead still. An ARO in one of the neighbouring buildings had Andy in his sights, the laser targeting locked on a kill shot.
‘No!’ Wise shouted. He thrust both hands up in the air, turning, trying to see where the sniper was, trying to block his line of sight. ‘Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot.’
Time stopped as Wise waited for the crack of a shot and the sight of Andy’s brains punched from his skull. But no shot came. No order given to terminate his friend. Someone still hoped Wise could stop this without bloodshed — for now. The clock was ticking, though. The order would come soon enough. No one would risk Andy killing their star witness.
He turned back to his friend. ‘The AROs have got you in their sights, Andy. Please give me the gun before it’s too late. Think of Debs. Think of Katie and Mark.’ Think of me, he wanted to say. He’d already lost his actual brother, he couldn’t cope with losing Andy too. ‘Please, mate.’
‘If I don’t do this,’ Andy said, ‘he told me he’d kill them.’
‘Who did?’ Wise took another step forward. ‘If someone’s threatening you or your family, we can stop them. You just have to trust me and give me the gun.’
The two men stared at each other. Twenty years of history being relived in their eyes. Their friendship. Their bond. Surely, he’d give up. Andy was no killer.
‘Please, mate.’
Andy shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Si. I’m sorry for ev—‘
Something punched Andy off his feet a heartbeat before Wise heard the crack of the gun. Time slowed as Andy tumbled forward, red mist leading the way, his brains and blood already splattered across the rooftop. He landed on the concrete with a wet thud and lay unmoving, his eyes open and fixed on Wise, a hole in the side of his temple where the red dot had been.
Wise couldn’t move. His mind couldn’t take in what his eyes told him, refusing to accept it.
‘ARMED POLICE! ARMED POLICE! NO ONE MOVE!’ The AROs ran out onto the rooftop, all dressed in black, balaclavas covering their faces, bulletproof helmets on top of those, goggles covering their eyes, Heckler and Koch MP5 machine guns in the ready position, shouting orders, looking for more threats, making sure Andy was dead.
They got Morris and Simcocks to their feet and bundled them away to the stairs, down to safety, to medical help. One snatched up Andy’s gun, made it safe, and bagged it. Another checked Andy and shouted that the target was dead.
Then an ARO was saying something to Wise, but Wise couldn’t understand him, couldn’t reply, couldn’t move. All he could see was the jerk in Andy’s head as the bullet struck him, the shape of his mouth as his last breath left his body, and the look in his eyes as he fell, accusing Wise.
More people rushed out onto the roof. More police. An ambulance crew.
Someone put a tinfoil blanket over Wise’s shoulders. Said more words he couldn’t understand. Some of Wise’s team were on the roof, too. Madge appeared, hand over her mouth, staring at her dead colleague, her dead friend, then at Wise.
Wise felt the judgement in her eyes. Their condemnation. He was their leader. He should’ve stopped this from happening.
Wise couldn’t comfort her, couldn’t say anything that would make this horror any better. He couldn’t even blink.
All he could see was Andy dying.
Andy dead.
Dear God.