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  Born in Essex in 1964, Ross Kemp is best known for his portrayal of Grant Mitchell in EastEnders. His father was a senior detective with the Metropolitan Police force and as a result crime has always fascinated Kemp. In 2007 Ross Kemp on Gangs won a BAFTA for Best Factual Series.

  PENGUIN BOOKS

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  First published 2009

  Text copyright © Ross Kemp, 2009

  Map copyright © Tom Sanderson, 2009

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author and illustrator has been asserted

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re‐sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  ISBN: 978-0-14-192434-2

  1. Dead Baby

  A storm was coming.

  Dark clouds rolled in towards Rio de Janeiro, looming above the luxury high‐rise apartments and the hillside shanty towns alike. The atmosphere was taut with the threat of rain. On top of Corcovado mountain, the giant statue of Jesus that looked over the city had its arms outstretched, as though helpless in the face of the oncoming storm. Down on the beaches of Copacabana and Ipanema, glamorous bathers glanced up at the darkening sky and began pulling on T‐shirts over their bikinis and swimming trunks. Raucous games of beach football came to a ragged end as players ran for shelter.

  As the first spots of rain began to fall, Vitor ‘Nene’ Barbosa boarded a bus down by the beachfront, a basketball nestling under his arm. He was dressed in a tracksuit and his cropped black hair was still damp from his posttraining shower. As he moved along the aisle towards the back of the bus, the driver called out a cheery greeting. Even though Nene had only just turned sixteen, everybody in Rio knew him – a basketball prodigy, he was destined for great things.

  His nickname meant Baby – a joke, seeing as how Nene had towered over his friends since he was a child. Now more than two metres tall, he was still growing. Nene played centre for Flamengo Petrobras, Rio’s basketball team. The pivotal position on court, centres operated in and around the basket, where the rough‐and‐tumble demanded a muscular, athletic presence. You didn’t normally play there at sixteen. But then normal rules didn’t apply to Nene.

  It wasn’t only his height that made him special. The first time Nene had walked out on to the basketball court, his trainers squeaking on the hardwood surface, it felt as though he had come home. Things just made sense to him there. While his opponents tried to barge and muscle their way to the basket, Nene glided, snatching rebounds and sinking fade‐aways as though the opposition wasn’t even there. From the tip‐off to the final buzzer, to him games felt like long, beautiful dreams.

  Thirty points against Flamengo’s rivals Brasilia in the last game – when Nene had been almost unplayable – had increased the hype surrounding him to fever pitch. Now there was talk of a call‐up to the national team, even rumours that American scouts from the NBA were going to travel all the way down to Brazil to watch him. Nene had spent years gazing at the basketball posters that plastered his bedroom walls, dreaming of becoming the next Kobe Bryant. The thought that he might one day play on the same court as him made Nene dizzy with excitement.

  It was about more than sporting glory, though. Everyone knew that there was serious money to be made in America, million‐dollar contracts up for grabs. To Nene, who lived with his mother and two brothers in a small house in Rocinha – the largest favela, or shanty town, in Rio – such riches seemed unimaginable. Money was tight at the best of times, but recently Nene’s mother had been laid up ill in bed, and the money Nene received for playing basketball and working in a supermarket was barely putting food on the table. If he could only impress an NBA scout, Nene told himself, then none of his family would have to worry about money ever again.

  The bus driver honked his horn angrily, interrupting Nene’s train of thought. There was a squeal of brakes and the bus came to an abrupt halt.

  It was raining heavily now, large drops drumming against the windows. Peering outside, Nene saw that they had stopped at a quiet intersection on the edge of the Zona Sul, Rio’s affluent tourist district. A group of teenagers had fanned out across the middle of the road, blocking the bus’s path. They were dressed identically, in all‐black T‐shirts and knee‐length shorts. His heart sinking, Nene saw that they were carrying guns: a deadly combination of pistols and semi‐automatic rifles. The bus was being hijacked.

  Perhaps he should have been more surprised – but then, gangs were a part of Rio’s life as much as the beaches and the Carnaval. Made up predominantly of teenage boys, they maintained their own distinct identities and colours, marking out their territories in the favelas with lurid graffiti. Most of the time the gangs stayed on their own turf, concentrating on drug dealing and warring with their rivals. On the rare occasions that they ventured out en masse into downtown Rio, chaos ensued: robberies, rioting, even shoot‐outs with the police.

  Growing up in Rocinha, Nene knew all about infamous Rio gangs such as the Compadres and Quarto Comando. But the Compadres’ colours were red and Quarto Comando’s green; they wouldn’t dress in all black like these guys. He forced himself to stay calm. Sports stars were cherished in Rio – even among the favela gangs. They weren’t about to shoot holes into a carioca, a local boy, who had made good. He just had to keep quiet and do as he was told.

  A dark-skinned boy in orange-tinted Ray-Bans stepped to the head of the gang and gestured at the bus driver to open the door. Then they strutted aboard the bus, their confidence bolstered by the firearms at their sides.

  ‘We’re the Comando Negro,’ the boy with the sunglasses called out confidently. ‘Get your money out now. Any trouble and we’ll start firing.’

  Immediately the passengers began rooting through their pockets and handbags, removing watches and jewellery in their eagerness to cooperate. Nene pulled out his wallet, careful not to make any sudden movements. He had never heard of the Comando Negro before and new gangs always spelled trouble – with everything to prove, and reputations to build, they tended to have twitchy trigger fingers.

  The gang moved down the aisle, shouting at the passengers to throw their valuables into sports bags. One boy remained at the door of the bus, scanning the road for signs of the police. Whoever these guys were, Nene thought to himself, they looked pretty professional for a new outfit.

  A black teenager with bleached-blond hair and a deep facial scar stopped by Nene’s seat, his wide pupils and trembling hands bearing the hallm
arks of heavy cocaine use. As the boy pointed at his open sports bag with a snubnosed pistol, Nene tossed in his wallet, aware that he was throwing his family’s dinner away with it.

  Once the passengers had been stripped of their money, the gang filed quickly back off the bus. It had been a lightning raid. The blond-haired boy made to follow them, then turned back to Nene.

  ‘I know you,’ he said. ‘Basketball player, aren’t you?’

  Nene nodded.

  ‘We played against your team a couple of years back.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah.’ The boy nodded. ‘You scored a lot of points that day. Didn’t make me look so good.’

  Nene shrugged. ‘Didn’t mean anything by it. All in the game, you know?’

  The blond boy replied by cocking the hammer of his pistol and pressing it into the side of Nene’s head. The metal barrel felt icy cold on his skin.

  ‘You don’t look so big now,’ said the boy.

  ‘I don’t want any trouble,’ Nene replied softly, his pulse racing. ‘You’ve had my wallet. I haven’t got anything else.’

  The boy dug the barrel deeper into Nene’s skin, forcing his head back against the window. He smiled coldly.

  A whistle came from the front of the bus.

  ‘Stripe!’ the boy with the orange Ray-Bans called out. ‘Angel said no pissing about, remember? If you’ve got his wallet, let’s get the hell out of here.’

  Stripe shot an angry glare at the other boy and then pulled the gun away from Nene’s head.

  ‘Next time,’ he said.

  As the boy walked away, Nene’s shoulders slumped with relief. Looking down at his hands, he saw that they were shaking uncontrollably.

  As the Comando Negro hurried off the bus and towards their 50cc motorbikes on the corner of the intersection, the sound of sirens struck up an insistent wail in the background. Joker – the boy with the orange Ray-Bans – smiled. It was going like clockwork, just as Angel had said it would. The passengers had handed over their valuables without a murmur. These beachfront people were all the same: soft.

  He was about to speed away on his motorbike when he saw that Stripe had stopped in his tracks, a thoughtful look on his face.

  ‘Come on, Stripe! We’re done!’

  The blond-haired boy ignored him. Turning abruptly on his heel, he walked back through the rain towards the bus.

  ‘Where the hell are you going now?’ Joker called out. ‘The police’ll be here soon!’

  Deep in his heart, however, he knew exactly where Stripe was going – Joker had known him long enough for that. Perhaps Angel could have stopped him, but then Angel wasn’t here. All Joker could do was watch, revving his bike engine in frustration. Through the bus windows he saw Stripe reboard the vehicle and stride back along the aisle towards the tall boy with the basketball. Stripe said something, raising his gun.

  There was a loud popping sound and then a spray of red liquid splattered against the window where the basket-baller’s head had been a moment beforehand.

  As a chorus of horrified screams went up from the bus’s passengers, Stripe walked nonchalantly back down the steps and towards Joker.

  ‘What?’ he said, catching Joker’s sideways glance. ‘He made me look bad.’

  Kicking his motorbike into life, Stripe drove quickly away down a side street. Joker swore loudly and gestured for the rest of the Comando Negro to follow suit. They sped off in an angry whine of engines, leaving the bus stationary in the middle of the road, the rain beginning to collect in puddles around it.

  2. Blood Relative

  The children filed out of Sacred Heart School amid riotous laughter, relieved to have escaped for another day. To Luiz Alves, who was walking quickly through the jostling crowds, the loud shouts and giggles sounded like a chorus of zoo animals. Fifteen years old, with light-brown skin, curly black hair and broad shoulders that filled out his white school shirt, Luiz moved with a quiet self-assurance that suggested he didn’t mind being on his own.

  Sacred Heart was a private school set in the heart of Botafogo, a bustling, middle-class neighbourhood of Rio, where the streets were dotted with cafes, museums and bookshops. With the school charging expensive fees, the pupils were a mixture of foreign students and children from well-to-do local families. English was the language heard in the corridors and the classrooms, not Brazilian Portuguese. While Sacred Heart could boast state-of-the-art computer rooms and sports facilities, the security cameras at the school exits and the high iron railings provided a constant reminder that not everywhere in Rio was as affluent, or as safe.

  As Luiz walked away down the street, a football flew past his ear and he heard a familiar voice cry out, ‘Hey, asshole!’

  He turned to see his friend Gui standing by the gates, his arm draped over the shoulder of a pretty blonde girl. ‘We’re going down to the beach,’ he called out. ‘You coming?’

  Luiz shook his head. ‘It’s Ana’s birthday,’ he shouted back. ‘I’ve got to go home.’

  Gui shrugged. ‘Your loss, asshole! See you tomorrow.’

  With a wave, Luiz turned away. As he walked off, he heard Gui’s girl scream with laughter. Ordinarily Luiz wouldn’t have thought twice about going with them, but today was different. His younger sister, Ana, was turning fourteen and he wanted to be home when she got back from school. Their foster parents, Francesco and Mariella, were in São Paulo for two weeks, researching an exclusive story for O Globo, the newspaper they both worked for. When they returned, the family was going out for a special meal in one of the posh restaurants in the Zona Sul, but for tonight it was going to be just Luiz and Ana.

  Life hadn’t always been so comfortable. Luiz and Ana had grown up in very different surroundings, in the sprawling favela of Santa Marta that clung to the hillside overlooking Botafogo. Abandoned by their dad after Ana’s birth, they were brought up by their mum on her own. When she succumbed to cancer, a local priest had come to the rescue, taking Luiz and Ana in and contacting an adoption agency. A week later, Francesco and Mariella had arrived to collect them from the mission, and had then introduced them to their new home in Botafogo.

  Settling in hadn’t been easy. On Luiz’s first day at Sacred Heart, one of the kids had made the mistake of laughing at his coarse favela accent. It had taken three teachers to prise Luiz off him and the other boy had had to go to hospital. Luiz had nearly been expelled on his very first day; after that, the other pupils gave him a wide, wary berth, as if he were a dangerous animal or a leper. In the end it had been Gui – irrepressible, fun-loving Gui – who had plonked himself down next to Luiz during a maths lesson and started cracking jokes. They had been best friends ever since.

  Gradually Luiz had begun to feel more at home. He managed to rein in his temper and stopped taking offence at every perceived slight. It had been two years since he had last been in a fight – Ana joked that he was turning into a pacifist. Luiz knew that his anger would never entirely disappear, though, that it bubbled somewhere deep within his soul. Nor had he forgotten about Santa Marta. For all the dangers of the favela, Luiz missed its vibrancy, the energy that crackled through the streets. He wasn’t stupid – he knew what his life would be like if he was still up there. He’d probably be in one of the gangs, selling drugs. There were only so many ways you could make money in the favelas, especially without parents, and you had to eat. Even so, walking underneath the shadow of Santa Marta every day, it was hard not to feel the occasional pang of regret.

  Shielding his eyes from the sun, Luiz looked up the hillside at the cramped dwellings piled on top of one another, at the makeshift buildings with their slanting roofs and the winding, treacherously narrow alleyways. A long time had passed since he had last been back to Santa Marta – four years, maybe. At first he had cut school to sneak up to the favela, meeting with his old friends and laughing about his new life. Eventually, tired of the arguments caused by Luiz slipping out, Ana had made him promise not to go back. She had a habit of making Luiz do thing
s he didn’t want to. Little sisters were like that, he grumbled to himself.

  If Luiz had taken time to come to terms with their new life, Ana had fitted in seamlessly. Bubbly and popular, she had quickly caught up with her schoolwork and was soon outstripping her classmates. Earlier that very year, she had won the lead in the school play. Watching Ana up on the stage, Luiz felt he would burst with pride.

  Now his sister had set her heart on becoming a journalist like their foster parents and was getting work experience at O Globo. In the last few weeks, Ana had been spending increasing amounts of time researching a piece she was hoping to show the editors at the newspaper. No matter how much Luiz teased her about her big ‘scoop’, she refused to talk about it. It was typical Ana – when she had her heart set on something, she went out and got it. Unlike her brother. God only knew what Luiz was going to do when he left school. He could just about keep up in class but was no rocket scientist – as Gui was quick to point out.

  Luiz shook his head. Missing the beach for his sister’s birthday was one thing, but his best friend would piss himself laughing if he could see Luiz pondering such deep thoughts.

  Home was a detached house down a quiet residential street. As he turned the key in the front door, Luiz wasn’t surprised to find that he had got back before Ana. He flicked on the television, then began rooting around in the fridge for something to eat. The news was still showing footage of the bus that had been held up two days ago, the camera focusing on the bloodstained window where Nene Barbosa had been killed. Something about this murder – the sheer senselessness of it – seemed to have shocked the city. Luiz could understand that. Only a month ago, he had watched Nene playing basketball for Flamengo, marvelling at the fact that the boy was only a year older than him. And now someone had shot him in the head.

  The camera cut to a press conference on the steps of a police station. A bulky man in an expensive suit was standing in front of a bank of microphones, sweat glistening on top of his bald head.