[DI Braddick 01.0] Brick

by Conrad Jones

  Big Paulie stared at the phone. He had punched in the number but couldn’t bring himself to press dial. He didn’t want to have the conversation, not now, not ever. The boss would go ballistic and that was never pretty. Paulie had wanted out for years but they wouldn’t let him go. He offered to sell them the house but they refused. They needed the house and they needed him in it. He glanced at the CCTV screens. The police were all over the park. That would ruin business for the rest of the day and night probably, but that was the least of his problems. He had to find some way of explaining what had just happened but words failed him. Lying had always come naturally to him but not today. He had eaten his way to thirty stones and no one could do that without lying, but his talent had deserted him momentarily. It dawned on him that the longer he waited, the more likely Farrell was to find out that his son was dead from another source. Plucking up the courage to call, he pressed dial.

  “Paulie,” Nicolai Karpov answered almost immediately in a bored tone. As Eddie Farrell’s sidekick and the linchpin between him and the Karpov syndicate, Paulie knew he was both powerful and dangerous. He was also an arsehole. “What can I do for you?”

  “Is Eddie there?”

  “He’s abroad, Paulie. What’s up?”

  “Anthony came over this morning,” Paulie swallowed hard.

  “I know I sent him, so what?”

  “Look, there’s been an accident, well more of an incident really.” He sat heavily onto a leather armchair and glanced at the screens as he spoke. Police officers were arriving every few minutes.

  It was the position of the house that had dragged him into this mess in the first place. Its cameras gave an almost panoramic view of the park to the rear of the house and the entrance to the estate at the front. At first, he had been reluctant to get involved but the money was too good to resist. Paulie was naturally lazy and he used his obesity as an excuse to claim benefits and avoid working for a living, but he had a taste for gadgets and fine food that was beyond what benefits could buy; his debts mounted quickly to a point where they were insurmountable. The opportunity to earn money by staying at home was too good to refuse. And then there were the freebies from the working girls that used his house to service their punters. They trawled the park at night under the watchful eye of the cameras, using the backdoor of his house to access the toilet and a hot drink when they needed them. Farrell had told him some of them would stay at his house from time to time. None of them wanted to but they were ordered to sort out Paulie whenever he had the urge. In return, Paulie took the Farrells’ share of the takings from the girls and the dealers who sold their drugs and stashed it until Farrell sent someone to collect it.

  He was a big man and if the young dealers got lippy, he brought them back into line. He managed the Farrells’ interests in the park area. He had been wary about getting involved but the Farrells coaxed him at first, never revealing their true personalities; once he was involved the mask slipped and it was too late. He was guilty by association and nobody walked away from that life.

  “You’re not making sense, Paulie,” Nicolai moaned. “What are you talking about?”

  “It was a freak accident; well it wasn’t really an accident. But it was a total freak, really it was, I’m not even sure how it happened to be honest...”

  “Paulie!” Nicolai snapped. “For fuck’s sake!”

  “What?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Okay, I’m rambling. I’m nervous.” He took a deep breath. “This morning Anthony came over to collect the laundry and drop off some powder.” Paulie put his podgy hand to his head and closed his eyes. “He got into a fight in the park... perhaps fight is too strong a word... well, it was a scuffle that went wrong,” Paulie stammered. Nicolai’s silence made him more nervous. “He was hit with a brick. Hard,” he paused, still unable to say the words.

  “Anthony was hit with a brick?”

  “Yes, across the head.”

  “Who hit him with a brick?”

  “A local kid from the estate.”

  “A dealer?”

  “I’m not sure,” Paulie stammered. “Well I think so. Probably,” he lied. It sounded better than the truth.

  “Is he okay?”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean, no, Paulie?” Nicolai snapped. “I’m beginning to lose my temper here!”

  “Sorry.”

  “Is he in hospital?”

  “No.”

  “No? What are you telling me, Paulie?”

  “He’s dead, Nicolai.”

  “Dead?” Nicolai went quiet while he absorbed the news. “Are you kidding me?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. There’s police all over the park.”

  “Who was this kid he was fighting?”

  “I’m not sure,” Paulie mumbled. “I have seen him walk from the estate before. That’s all I know.”

  “But he’s a dealer, right?”

  “I think so,” Paulie lied again.

  “Not one of ours?”

  “Oh no, definitely not.”

  “Who does he work for?”

  “I don’t know, Nicolai.”

  “Did he get away?”

  “No. The police took him away.”

  “You saw them arrest him?”

  “Yes,” Paulie answered, but he didn’t tell him that he’d watched it on the cameras from his armchair.

  “We need to know exactly who he is, understand?”

  “The kid, why?”

  “Why?” Nicolai asked incredulously. “Have you lost your fucking marbles?” Paulie didn’t think that he had but he kept quiet anyway. “He killed the boss’s son by hitting him over the head with a brick. How do you think he’s going to take that?”

  “When you say it like that...”

  “How else can you say it?”

  “I’ll ask around about him.”

  “You’ll do better than that. Find out who he works for.”

  “Okay, okay,” Paulie wished he hadn’t lied but he had to deflect the blame.

  “Have the police been to the house?”

  “No.”

  “Where’s his car?”

  “On the drive.”

  “So it’s only a matter of time before they knock on your door, Paulie,” Nicolai said flatly. “Where’s the powder?”

  “I’ll hide it.”

  “Okay, do whatever you need to do,” Nicolai paused. He was suspicious. “Did you actually see what happened to Anthony?”

  “Yes, of course. I was there.”

  “But you don’t know why they were fighting?”

  “No. I was too far away to hear what was said...” Paulie stuttered.

  “I’ll let Eddie know what you’ve told me.” There was menace in his voice. “You had better get your story straight, fat man because I don’t think you’re telling me the truth and if you’re lying to me your life won’t be worth living, understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes what?”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “You’d better.”

  “What shall I do if the police come?”

  “Sit tight and wait for us. We’ll be in touch,” the Russian said, “Oh and, Paulie...”

  “Yes.”

  “If the police do come before we get there, you say nothing. Act dumb, shouldn’t be too difficult for you.”

  “Got it,” Paulie said in a whisper. The call ended but he kept the phone to his ear as if waiting for inspiration to speak to him. He thought about leaving the house, getting on his scooter and driving away until the police had gone. He thought about going and never going back. It seemed like a solid plan until he heard a loud knock on the front door.

  4

  Joe Tucker washed the blood from his hands; red streaks clung to the porcelain. He looked in the mirror and bared his teeth. They were unnaturally white, a three-hundred-pound treatment worth every penny. His face was weathe
red and brown, his fifty years mapped into the skin around his eyes, his salt and pepper hair styled shoulder length and parted in the middle. He was more rough than handsome but he tried to make the most of what Mother Nature had given to him. Things could have been worse, a lot worse; he could have been Tommy. His brother was born with a misshaped jaw and a nose that belonged to someone of Aboriginal decent. He had lost his hair in his early twenties, needed glasses and had no social skills. All in all, Joe had the better deal. He splashed his face with warm water and ran his fingers through his hair, dabbing himself dry with a damp towel.

  It had been a long twenty-four hours, long and traumatic. When he’d realised that the container had been stolen from the docks, his heart had nearly punched through his chest. The container carried their future. Everything that they had been working towards was in that metal box. It was the deal that they’d been waiting for, the one big payoff that would set them apart from the other crews in the city. It would establish them as an outfit to contend with. This was also the biggest gamble of his life. All or nothing. Not only had he invested everything that they owned into it, he had also borrowed heavily from a well respected financier that was happy to take repayment in the form of product. Losing the container meant losing everything and that’s why he had been so brutal with the Johnsons. They had taken liberties and almost cost them everything, possibly even their lives. Not repaying their debt would turn everyone in the city against them. They would be forced to run abroad or be hunted down and killed along with their families, friends and associates. Running might save himself and Tommy in the short term but those that they left behind would be bullied, harassed, assaulted, raped and worse until payment was received or they were dead. It was not a debt one could default on and arrange a repayment plan.

  The noise from the workshop was irritating, the persistent grating sound of grinders on metal. Joe took two paracetamol and swallowed them dry. He opened the door into the workshop and the noise became deafening. His brother Tommy looked up and nodded. A welding mask covered his face. The grinder in his hand sent a shower of sparks skyward as it crept slowly through the metal sills of the container. The red shipping container had been jacked up, the doors removed and the roof and side panels cut away so that they could access the flatbed and the sills. Tommy and two other men worked relentlessly to cut the metal and expose the void spaces. Joe watched them for a while and then headed to the office which overlooked the workspace. Once a factory unit producing caravans and trailers it made an ideal hideaway to organise their operation from. The Tuckers had been importing amphetamine and crystal meth for fifteen years, some by air, some by sea but this was the biggest gamble, the biggest risk with the biggest rewards. Lately they had been using the migrant chaos at Calais to smuggle product from the continent but they had to vary their entry points. His mobile rang and he checked the screen before answering.

  “Hello,” Tucker answered.

  “How did your trip to Amsterdam go?”

  “Sweet, we picked up a lot of zombie and I mean a lot.”

  “That’s the new stuff that the kids are doing flips for?”

  “Ketamine based hallucinogenic,” Tucker explained. “It’s bringing top dollar in the clubs.”

  “I heard the Latvian crew are the only importers,” the voice said cautiously. “I hope you’re not crossing swords with them. Trouble like that, I don’t need.”

  “The Latvians are all behind bars,” Tucker scoffed, “they’re banged up. The opportunity came up to fill the gap and we obliged. Zombie is coming to the UK one way or the other, someone will bring it in and it might as well be us.”

  “As long as it’s trouble free and the price is right, I’ll take whatever you’ve got.”

  “There’s a long queue,” Tucker said flippantly. It felt good to be in control. “This is the big league. Over a mil... think you can raise that?” the caller remained quiet. “I want one buyer, two at the outside. If you’re still interested call me back tomorrow.”

  “Don’t get too carried away with yourself, Tucker,” the voice warned. Tucker felt a bolt of fear shoot through him. This was a man that he didn’t want to cross and his tone of voice told him that he had crossed the line. “I was putting million pound deals together when you were still shitting yellow.” He left the comment to hang. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Joe looked at the phone, sat on the edge of the desk, wiped a coffee mug with his sleeve and poured himself a whisky. He took a long slug, the liquid burning pleasantly. He felt it sliding down, an alcoholic warmth spreading through his body, the soothing effect almost instant. A second slug emptied the cup, he refilled it and watched the men working. Tommy stopped his grinder and lifted his mask. He wiped his brow and spoke to one of the other men. Joe couldn’t hear them but their demeanour wasn’t right. He felt the nerves on the back of his neck tingling, not in a good way. Sipping the whisky, he walked to the door. The sills were exposed from end to end and the flatbed was peeled back like the lid of a sardine tin. He looked Tommy in the eye and Tommy shook his head, almost imperceptibly.

  “There’s no drugs in this container, Joe,” he said apologetically.

  “We watched them putting them in, Tommy.” Tucker pushed his fingers through his hair, the strands sticking out in an unintentional Bob Geldof style. “We watched them sealing it up!”

  “I know all that, but they’re not here now. How can this happen then?”

  The Tuckers stared at the twisted chassis and searched for explanations. Joe paced up and down, trying to think clearly. It wasn’t easy, his mind close to absolute panic. There was too much at stake. “There’s only one way this could happen. This is not the crate we saw in Amsterdam,” Joe raised his hands, his fists clenched. “It’s been switched somewhere.”

  “How though?”

  “Think about it,” Joe said, trying to maintain his cool. “I posted that image of Johnson online. Mathew sees it, phones me, arranges to make an exchange but knows that he can’t deliver. Mathew Johnson brought us the wrong crate to get his brother back.” Joe scowled. “It looks exactly like our crate but it isn’t.”

  “It’s a shipping container, Joe, they all look the same. I don’t know how the fuck this has happened,” Tommy said kicking the container. A metallic clang echoed around the unit. “One thing I do know is we can’t ask the Johnsons can we?” he looked at his older brother. “We’re fucked, Joe!”

  Joe shook his head. “Calm down.” He pointed to the office. “Go and check the serial number on the chassis. I’ll get the shipping document. Let’s check if this is our crate for certain.”

  “We should have done that last night.”

  “We weren’t thinking straight last night.”

  “This is a major fuck up.”

  “Losing it now won’t help.”

  “The Johnsons double fucked us!” Tommy shouted as he walked towards the container.

  “And that’s why we set them on fire,” Joe shrugged. “They’re stinking in an alleyway for what they did. Get a grip, we’ll sort this out.”

  “What are we going to do if we lose those drugs, Joe?” Tommy knew how much they were in debt on the deal. Joe hadn’t told him everything but he knew enough to be concerned, very concerned. “They’ll crucify us if we don’t pay up.”

  “We’ll find them.” Joe rubbed his chin and pointed to the sills. “We saw those drugs being put into the crate, didn’t we?”

  “Yes.”

  “If the drugs had been removed in transit, the sills would be damaged, right?”

  “Yes, what’s your point?”

  “Johnson said he had already sold the container on to his buyer,” Joe said emptying the mug. “Let’s assume he did and he couldn’t get it back. We had his brother so he brings us a double.”

  “So our crate is still out there?”

  “Exactly. Whoever has our container has no idea that they’re sitting on a million quid’s worth of zombie. All we have to do is find out who Johnson s
old our container to and take it back.”

  “Where do we start?” Tommy asked, calming down slightly.

  “We start with their cousins, Ray and Liam,” Joe said knowingly. “That family are all joined at the hip. Ray and Liam will know who they were stealing containers for and I’ve got a pretty good idea that they will know where it is too.”

  Tommy picked up a sawn-off shotgun. “Let’s go and ask the Johnsons shall we.”

  5

  Braddick knocked on the door again, harder this time. He gave it ten seconds and increased the force. Ade inspected the red mobility scooter, took his hands from his dark overcoat pockets and touched the battery housing.

  “Battery’s still warm and there’s mud on the tyres.”

  “He’s in,” Braddick said banging with the heel of his fist. “I saw movement when we arrived.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t want to talk to us,” Ade said sarcastically.

  “Nobody wants to talk to us,” Braddick said, banging harder still.

  “Fair enough.” Ade wandered over to the Range Rover and peered inside. It was upholstered in leather and fully loaded with extras. “That is two years’ salary parked there. Drug dealing wanker,” he muttered as he turned away.

  “Dead drug dealing wanker,” Braddick corrected him. He banged harder still, the door rattled in its frame. He heard the lock being turned and the door opened a few inches. He shoved his ID through the gap and pushed the door open a few inches with his shoulder. “DI Braddick and this is DS Burns.” The fat man behind the door nodded silently. His face blushed red. “You are?”

  “Paul Williams. Everyone calls me Paulie,” he said, eyes moving nervously from one detective to the other. “What do you want?”

  “Are you deaf, Paulie?” Braddick noticed Paulie’s clothes. Baggy tracksuit pants and a hoodie, part of the ever growing army of fat sportswear wearing clones, most of whom had never seen the inside of a gym.

  Paulie looked nervous and confused. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s a simple question. Are you hard of hearing?”

  “No.” He shook his head, his fat jowls wobbled.