Sergeant Rick Diablo is one of the Met’s top coppers. Assigned to the force’s elite CO19 Firearms Squad, he’s a man on a mission: to clean up London – whatever it takes. But Diablo is no angel. He’s a bad cop… a very bad cop. In two years he’s shot and beheaded - in cold blood - over three hundred ‘toerags, slags and muppets’ – for offences ranging from dog fouling to illegal parking – and non-payment of a Television License.
The Metropolitan Police hierarchy are baffled and running scared. The public want to know who’s committing these appalling murders and why nothing is being done. The killer always seems to be one step ahead and knows all the angles. Surely it couldn’t be one of their own?
The knife blade severed the head in one swift movement of Diablo’s black-gloved hand. It was his trademark – and it also deprived Ballistics of a vital clue. It was always a head shot and the head always ended up in his lock-up in Bermondsey. He had quite a collection. The latest miscreant fell foul of Diablo for discarding a cigarette dimp in an inappropriate manner. ‘Keep London tidy motherfucker!’ laughed Diablo as the limp, headless corpse slumped in to the rain-soaked alleyway. It was his second victim that week.
Earlier on Tuesday morning, he’d noticed an innocuous-looking little old lady walking her small terrier to the Post Office – one of the few remaining in Streatham, as the Chavs and Pikeys had robbed and burnt most of them down. Diablo was parked up in the Area Car. He worked alone. Nobody wanted to partner with him, he made sure of it. Watching the old woman in the rear view mirror, Diablo watched in glee as the woman’s dog squatted and dropped the contents of its bowels on the less than pristine pavement. The bitch would pay for that… in full.
Twenty minutes later, the old woman rounded the corner in to the stairwell of the tower block. She looked up bewildered and was momentarily dazzled by the bright red light shining in her eyes. A small red dot danced on her forehead briefly before the muffled crack of the silenced MP5 sent a single 9mm round boring through her skull. Her dog barked frantically, but not for long.
It yelped noisily as Diablo plunged the eight inch blade of his K-Bar through its head. He laughed. ‘You’re fuckin’ nicked lady. Section 1, paragraph 14a of the 1832 Dog Fouling Act. Naughty fucking naughty!’ He swiftly removed the victim’s head as always and wiped the blood off his knife on the still twitching dog before stowing it in the sheath on his belt kit
‘That’ll do for today’ thought Diablo has he swaggered back to his BMW. He threw the old woman’s head in to a carrier bag and stuffed it in to a daysack. Another one for the pile. Diablo fired up the turbo-powered interceptor and wheel-spun in to the traffic, laughing uncontrollably as he floored the accelerator. The radio crackled in to life.
A pleasing departure from the usual Special Forces-driven claptrap that this author seemingly churns out on a weekly basis. It’s an affront to the fine work that the police do and an insult to the reader’s intelligence. It also appears to be wholly inspired by the second-rate ‘comedy’ movie Hot Fuzz. Death Score is a dreadful book and not worth the paper it’s printed on. That said, it is an action rollercoaster ride that will have your turning the pages like a mong in a library. Great stuff!
Inspirational – Richard Brunstrom (North Wales Police)
Clunge triumphs – Empire
This is a pisstake, right? – Police Review
Thorough and impeccably researched – Inspector Gadget