“Agreed Mr Dixon, but I am not going to use the phrase ‘those of Pakistani origin’ just so I can remain politically correct. It’s too much of a mouthful.”
Dixon chortled and said, “Would you supply me directly?”
Connor looked as if he was in thought.
“Maybe we could work something out.”
“You know, this international drug and gun running will be a dying industry in the future. Everyone has to diversify to survive, especially men like us.”
“Well, until they can grow quality cocaine in Wakefield or manufacture class MDMA in Pontefract then you’ll need men like me.”
“Well, there’s other products that men like us could let’s say, distribute. But that’s for another time,” said Tris.
Connor thought about pushing for clarification but then decided against it.
“What is it bruv?” Louis asked Jay Nelson—his number two man within the SUG.
In the past year or so, Louis’s operation had grown exponentially from a large crew selling weed around London to several crews amalgamated underneath him selling cocaine, weed and ecstasy not only around greater London but several small, rural and coastal towns where the police methods of combating drug dealing was not as sophisticated.
The merger of the south London gangs had came after many months of high level violence and the murder of a few leaders unwilling to accept they were no longer top dog. Louis had held a few advantages over his then rivals.
One had been access to drugs of a vastly higher quality through a Dutch manufacturer named Raymond Van Saar. He and Connor had facilitated a meeting with the tsar and came to an agreement—as long as the product was not overly cut then the continental crime lord would make them his UK distributors. This had allowed him to undercut the competition and attracted new members. Some would break away from their previous gangs for spurious reasons and set up on their own. After a short time, they would then barter an affiliation with Louis’s crew. He knew they did this to hide their disloyalty in defecting to him for the extra money, and although he allowed it, he made a point to remember.
Another advantage had been the intelligence that Connor could provide through the group he worked for—The Chameleon Project—meant that Louis had a handle on his enemies’ movements and locations. Indeed, Connor had murdered a particular elusive thorn in Louis’s side for him.
Eventually he named the conglomerate of crews the Southwark Union Gang—the SUG—and became one of the most powerful gang leaders in London.
Now, he and Nelson stood inside a vehicle spraying and wrapping shop that Louis was a silent partner in. Nelson had brought in his Range Rover. As they watched the two sprayers in their protective suits and masks set about the vehicle, they talked business.
Nelson was shorter and slimmer than Louis, but his reputation backed up his confident manner.
“We’ve had that Henley-On-Thames slot for a while in’nit. The day has come now—Reece said there’s been a drop off in the market recently ‘n he couldn’t understand why.”
“Go on.”
“Turns out that these two white lads were punting gear at one of those hippy festivals they have. Am talking large volume fam, not just local wideboys making a bit extra. Turns out they are from north of the smoke.”
“What’s happened then?”
“Reece says he had a word but they bare blanked him. I’ve done some digging, there are rumours they have heavy connections. Thought you should know. Might not want to start a war. I know you say war costs money.”
Louis looked at him. “Letting people encroach on ya territory costs money too. Get Reece an’ the lads to grab the pair of ‘em. Get them to spoof off for who gets cuts.”
“What’s spoof off?” asked Jay bemused.
“Nuttin’, get ‘em to flip a coin or do rock, paper scissors.”
“Am surprised. I thought you’d let ‘em twos up on the OT areas to save agg?”
Louis shrugged. “Things like this needs to be nipped in the bud, or it’ll come on top. Besides, if we allow them to be an alternative, then these upper-class white kids are gonna get their ice cream from a white person instead of us.”
“We got the best product though?”
“Won’t matter to some of them. Believe me.”
They didn’t speak for a few moments. Louis let himself become momentarily transfixed by the spraying technique of the guy on his side.
Jay spoke, “What was the crack in Birmingham. Smooth?”
Louis replied, “Kinda. But one of the main man’s tonks got hurt didn’t he.”
“What the fuck man? What happened.”
“They didn’t realise that my rudeboy can speak Punjabi. Said something out of bounds and my man understood it and switched. Offered him a straighter and the geez had to take it. My man ended up smashing him up and chunking out a piece of his cheek.”
Jay shook his head. “Man, I know you’re tight with him like, but that attitude is gonna bring it all on top.”
“We wouldn’t be where we are now if he hadn’t put us in touch with our connex over the drink.”
“I know fam. But what good is it giving with one hand just to take with the other? I think you ought to distance yourself, man.”
“That’s never going to happen. Let me worry about him. There’s baggamanz of fair-weather friends. Loyalty in this game is precious. We don’t just ditch our friends because they are a touch militant, ya get me?”
His Second-In-Command nodded. “I get ya.”
12
Well, it was inevitable it was going to happen. Unavoidable that certain people would suspect eventually. Who exactly is this Scotsman? You’ll find out soon enough. Luckily you have influential friends. Friends who understand. Understand that you are providing a service. A service that takes from the people who do not contribute to society and gives to the ones who do—or at least can. What were the homeless, and drug addicts going to contribute? Nothing. Worse than nothing, they were a drain— government funded rehabilitation schemes and programmes costing millions. The people whose lives you help save run the world. Yes, you enjoy the money—why shouldn’t you? You have worked hard. Who’s going to touch you really? You are too protected by the right people.
Connor sat in the car listening to Keith Richards’s Autobiography through the system. He lamented that if he could be a member of any band, it would be the Rolling Stones—great music, great fun, and great longevity.
He was parked outside a gym waiting for Ciara. She had left the flat before he got back and had walked the mile to the fitness centre.
Earlier, he had been in touch with McQuillan. One of the ways they would sometimes communicate was to set up a random e-mail address which they would both have access to. They would type out e-mails, kept vague as possible and in code, but never send them. The unsent e-mails were read as drafts before the reader deleted them. Jamie, The Chameleon Project’s wizard in all things technological, had approved of it as a means of communication as long as the e-mail address was deactivated after each conversation.
Connor would never know the extent to which all these countermeasures had protected him, the person he was communicating with or The Project as a whole. Like he would never know how much the ECM—Electronic Counter Measures—he carried in Afghanistan when back in the Marines had protected him and his patrol—it better of had, it had weighed enough.
Bruce had read him the riot act as much as he could through that form of communication and Connor had been glad it had not been a face to face meeting. When the old man chastised him in person, Connor had to resist the feeling of being like a child scolded. Even with the old man being around fifty with an artificial knee, Connor wasn’t sure a fight with the tall, broad rangy Scotsman would be a pleasant experience at all. Not that he envisioned that a fight between them being at all likely—McQuillan being too professional, and Connor being too respectful of him—but high pressure, high stakes situations combined with the fact that they bo
th came from backgrounds where physical violence was always a possible recourse, then anything could happen.
However, McQuillan had calmed down when Connor had informed him of his meeting with Tris Dixon. This Londoner had been, and perhaps still was, a big fish that had evaded the law with his activities that had been surrounded in secrecy, and it had been he who had come to Connor.
The Yorkshireman spotted Ciara exit and walk towards the car. Her silvery-blonde, layered hair was still damp from the shower she must have had. The logoed grey sweater and black pants outlined her athletic figure. He was debating whether or not he could see the green of her eyes when she flashed him a smile—fuck me she’s essence,.
That said, with the width of her shoulders, the muscularity that riveted her entire physique and her hairstyle, she could have easily been mistaken as a man from behind— a closet gay’s dream, he mused before dismissing the idea.
She threw her gym bag in the back, got in and gave him a peck on the cheek that he hadn’t been expecting.
“Keeping up appearances,” she said simply.
Connor said “Are you hungry? There are things to discuss.”
“I could eat.”
“Good, we’ll talk as we drive. There’s a decent pub out of town. I swept the car this morning,” said Connor, meaning that he had used a scanner to check for electronic bugs.
He started the car and pulled away.
“What did you do? At the gym I mean,” he asked, attempting small talk.
“Some front squats then Olympic lifting. I’ve only just started though, so its mainly technique work.”
“I could work on your sna—technique. Been doing it for a few years now,” he said.
Fucksake—he’d almost said ‘snatch’ and didn’t want her misconstruing his intentions.
“Really? You going to make me sweat?”
Connor blinked a few times, not knowing what to say. Not trusting himself not to splutter, he gave her a restrained smile. “Anyway. I have some big news.”
“Do tell,” Ciara said smiling again.
“A gentleman came to see me today. A gentleman by the name of Tris Dixon.”
“Should I be embarrassed that I do not know who you’re talking about?”
“Not really. He’s one of those Godfathers of crime that has ‘made it’, in that his criminal proceeds are so high within the stratosphere of the white collar business that it’s too difficult to prove he’s a dye-in-the-wool gangster. Some even say it was all his brother, the now-imprisoned Adam Lloyd. Back in the early 2000s Dixon won claims off a number of newspapers—this was before Facebook—and had some editors sacked. I think the likes of Rupert Murdoch decided he wasn’t worth the drama. Nothing has been said about him since. He’s taken two major search engines to court before, and they had settled with him.”
“What was that for?”
“Not taking off certain articles about him fast enough. That’s why you haven’t heard of him.”
“OK. Who is he?”
“His birth name is Terry Lloyd. He and his two brothers formed a criminal enterprise that began in the mid-80s out of Finsbury. Usual criminal enterprise—drugs, extortion, armed robbery, protection rackets and murder. Except, Terry’s money laundering is on point, he realises that a continuing criminal enterprise like that has a shelf life. So he does the usual and begins to form profitable companies. The difference is that these companies genuinely become profitable, and not just fronts.”
“How does he manage that?”
Connor manoeuvred the Audi onto the dual carriageway, before answering, “The businesses are more unique than the usual ‘restaurant, bar, nightclub’ route. He formed a Legal services company in Marbella that looked after ex-pats in the country. This turned into a winner, so he built another, a few years later in Tenerife. Then, just as the time was right to do so, he forms a sports agency. His brothers go to prison. He changes his name and now he looks after several Premier League players. Owns a professional hockey team out of Newcastle.”
“Can’t imagine he’ll be short of money then?”
“He’s a millionaire many times over.”
“Then why on earth is he still involved in the drugs trade?”
Connor palm opened. “Because he can. Because it’s exciting. Because he’s a criminal. “
He thought of himself in that moment.
“Seems extremely reckless.”
“I agree, but he wants me to supply him directly now.”
“Really? Why?”
“Because he knows he’ll struggle to get product of that quality through. Even if he could, people prefer to deal with people they can relate to. He doesn’t want to be relying on some Eastern European whose name he can’t pronounce and whose background is unknown to him. With me, he knows of me, and my family.”
Ciara nodded. “What was the outcome?”
“I told him I didn’t want to deal with Waseem’s outfit, and it was Dixon himself suggested supplying to him directly.”
The Audi turned off the dual carriageway onto a side road.
Ciara asked, “What does that mean for us?”
“It means we’re going to Amsterdam.”
“Why?”
“To meet with the guy who supplies me. That’s why we need to get our cover straight. What relationship we have, how we met, your background story will need more development than mine.”
“As close to the truth as we can get.”
“Yeah, kind of.”
“Bruce told me that we were to discover if there was a person or organisation that was kidnapping vulnerable, homeless people and if so, neutralising them. Why are we pretending to facilitate drug importation?”
Connor decided to leave out that they wouldn’t be ‘pretending’, and said, “If that is what’s happening, then it’s a form of organised crime, and organised crime is always linked. The further you go in, the more you’re trusted, the more contacts you make, and the more information comes to you.”
The car slowed and snaked into a pub carpark.
13
Sitting beside the Basingstoke canal at this time relaxed him. The clean night air had cut through the smogginess of the day. Distant bars and restaurants emitted a pleasant hum.
Ryan Matthews hadn’t frequented bars like that for over a year. Today he sipped from a flask of vodka. His plan was to drink leisurely from now midday, through to deep evening. He used his left hand which had gained considerable dexterity ever since he lost his right. He raised the stump, imagining how the artificial one would look and feel.
In the past, he had drunk to maintain that steady level just above the depression line of sobriety, without plunging himself into the vulnerability of a stupor.
It took a discipline that most who walked past him would never understand or have themselves. To them, he was a homeless drunk. Little did they know that he was one of the best free solo climbers in the world.
Or at least he had been.
People who walked by him, either pretended he didn’t exist or did so with veiled contempt. The same people who would never achieve a feat as remotely challenging, dangerous or exhilarating as scaling the Yosemite Valley’s 7,573 Ft. El Capitan with no assistance or safety equipment.
He smiled, recalling an article written about him by an English publication after a European football tournament,
‘…the players who step up in these moments have the admiration of many. Understandably, a saved or missed penalty can result in the crushing of the hopes of millions of their countrymen. However, a skewered attempt will not result in death. That is not the case for Ryan Matthews during the numerous terrifying free solo ascents he has made throughout his storied career…’
His days of climbing ended three years ago. Not through climbing—he would have found that easier to accept.
Ryan had been funded by the National Geographic for an extreme climbing documentary in Oman. The money they paid him had been ten times what he would have accepted. H
e had a passion for free soloing. Nothing in his mind could replicate the combined physical, mental and emotional challenge of it.
One of the stipulations was that he capture the majority of the footage himself. As a result, they sent him on a short but intensive course in filming and provided him with heavy television equipment.
After scaling the harrowing limestone cliffs of Oman the previous day, he was struggling to pack the cart waiting to take him to the airport, and one of the heavy suitcases fell onto his right arm. The impact left a bruise, and he chose not to seek medical attention in Oman, believing the injury would clear up of its own accord.
After two days back in the UK, he had sought medical attention as the nagging pain had refused to dissipate. The doctor admitted him to the local hospital for acute compartment syndrome. The surgeon had explained that they needed to relieve the pressure and that amputation could be a possibility while he was under anaesthesia. Ryan had signed the consent forms reckoning it to be highly unlikely.
His hand had moved under his command upon awakening, and he felt relief flood his veins. When he had looked at it, the paradox of horror and disbelief had punched him in the chest.
The arm was missing from the elbow down.
In the whirl that followed, he remembered the Head of the Care Team explaining to him the five stages of grief, he’d more than likely go through: denial and isolation, anger, bargaining, depression and finally acceptance. He had gone through it all. He had at first felt like a freak—awkward and lopsided. Yet that was nothing to the realisation that he wouldn’t climb again. It had been his lifelong passion and his profession.
Anger arrived. Anger that a freak accident had led to this; not all the death-defying climbs he had done. Anger that he had no one else to blame but himself. Anger that people did not understand just what he had lost.
Thus began a gradual and pitiful slide into alcoholism and then homelessness. He had been single and childless after a lifetime of immersion in climbing. Without a steadying force, he found that gambling provided a hint of the excitement that climbing had once done. The same basic narrative developed as with all gambling addicts—chasing losses, using up savings, borrowing from friends, not paying them back in a timely fashion, lying to and losing them.
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