“I was in Las Vargas one evening five, six weeks back. I heard a bloke say he knew someone looking for a place to store something. The bloke wanting it was some top dog, someone near the top of the family. I thought it’d do me some good to do a bloke like that a favour, so I told him about the lock-up my dad has.”
The time frame seemed about right; rent some storage space, hide what you have there and begin planning out your terror campaign. “And he took it.”
“Eventually, yeah, he did. Me and Gary met ’im there. Matey turns up with this bloke.” He nodded at the picture again. “He looks at the garage, likes what he sees, says he’ll take it. That’s the only time I’ve ever seen this bloke.”
“Except when he buys tea here.”
“I meant since then.”
“So, how does he pay the rent?”
“Gives it to someone who leaves it at Las Vargas. I collect it from there.”
“Who’s the someone he gives it to?”
“I don’t know his full name. Everyone just knows him as Sugar.”
“Sugar?”
“Yeah, I think he’s Algerian or Moroccan or something. He’s Matey’s right-hand man. His real name’s Sougarilli, or something like that, but everyone calls him Sugar.”
I thought about this for a moment. I wanted this guy to come to the garage, and I knew how to get him there. I got up.
“Tyler,” I called out. “Chappy and I are going off for a while.”
“Okay. Don’t be too long, Chappy, I’ll get in a right two and eight if you’re too long.”
He had a very concerned expression on his face as Chappy and I left.
We walked back to my car, painfully and slowly in Chappy’s case. Before setting off, I called in where I was going and asked for at least one uniform to meet me at the address Chappy had just given me.
“Right, show me where this lock-up is.”
*
I drove fast, aided by the siren, and Chappy directed me to the lock-up, which was on a narrow side road just off the west end of Bethnal Green Road, with one side of the road just a line of several lock-up garages. Along the way he rubbed his eyes a few times, evidently thinking about his friend who’d died a violent death last night. I wasn’t sure I felt too sorry for either man, though, of course, White hadn’t deserved to die the way he did.
I parked back along the road and we approached the lockup by foot. We stopped by a nondescript set of doors with faded metallic blue peeling paint and some Arabic-looking graffiti, plus some incurable optimism about Leyton Orient FC. There was a uniform waiting. He looked familiar; something about him struck a chord, though I was sure I’d never seen him before. He also looked impossibly young, no older than fifteen, though he was probably about twenty. Even I was noticing the coppers were looking younger. I was sure I hadn’t looked that fresh-faced when I’d been in uniform.
I identified myself and asked him if he’d left school yet.
“Yes, sir, I have.” He grinned. “Two years ago. I joined the force rather than go to university.”
I told him that was a commendable decision, and then why I wanted a uniform there and what I wanted him to do. He nodded.
“Open it,” I told Chappy.
He unlocked the garage and pulled the doors open. I saw him grimace. The effort of opening the doors was hurting him, but I didn’t offer to help.
The inside was dark and had a stale, musty smell, as well as the lingering tang of grease and oil. A rat ran past us across the street. There was a Peugeot in the middle on a jack as its rear right-hand tyre was missing. There were no number plates.
“Don’t know whose car this is,” Chappy immediately said. “It’s not my dad’s.”
I turned on the lights. It didn’t look much better, grimy and filthy around the inside with a layer of dust on all the flat surfaces. There were a few oil barrels in the corner, several parts for cars lying around and a couple of used paint tins on the workbench, alongside a metallic toolbox. But I was more interested in the clean brown blanket under the worktop in the corner, which looked out of place in such a dirty environment. I could see there was something bulging underneath it, so I gingerly removed it and found a large battered Samsonite suitcase and a pair of dark canvas holdalls. Amidst all the grime, they were about as out of place as a cat would be at Crufts. I looked at Chappy.
“They ain’t mine or Gary’s.” He sounded nervous.
“Your dad’s?”
“No. He ain’t got any bags like that.”
I ordered everyone out and told Chappy to leave the doors open. The uniform waited outside whilst Chappy and I got back into my car. I wasn’t touching those bags until I was sure they were safe.
I got on to the Branch office and requested someone from bomb disposal to come to the address I gave them, stressing the extreme importance of the situation, and emphasising the need to keep this low-key. No announcing where they were going and why.
Fifteen minutes later, a car pulled up and two officers dressed head to toe in camouflage uniforms emerged. One was Major Allsopp. He remembered me from Smitherman’s office and I explained the situation to them, pointing out where the bags were.
“I wanna know if they’re booby-trapped or not,” I finished by saying.
“Okay. Anyone touched them?” Allsopp asked, looking at all three of us.
“No, not since we’ve been here. I did take that blanket off them, though.” I nodded at it.
“Should have waited for us. Something there that’s touch-sensitive, moving it could have triggered an explosion.” He looked at me sternly. I swallowed hard.
He nodded at the younger officer, who opened the boot of their car. They took out two huge army camouflage bags. Carrying one each, they entered the lock-up. They then carefully lowered their bags and took out various pieces of equipment, which they laid out across the floor. We retreated to the other side of the road.
Allsopp kitted himself out in some kind of protective padding covering his entire body. He approached the corner carefully and shone a light around to check if any wires could be seen, or if the bags were resting on top of anything which was touch-sensitive. As he was doing this I was struck by his comment about how, in removing the blanket, I could have triggered an explosion had the bags been booby-trapped. I took several deep breaths and shivered slightly.
Satisfied so far, he took something from his army kit bag and carefully approached the bags in the corner, wearing what looked like a stethoscope. He very lightly touched one of the bags at several points, looking at a dial in his hand, and then repeated the process with the other two bags.
This was the first time I’d ever seen bomb disposal operatives in action close up, and I was impressed by the calm, methodical manner with which they approached their work. I was aware, as no doubt were they, that one small miscalculation, one tiny slip, and they’d both be looking like Seamus Drew.
He did something else to the bags with what looked like an extension lead. He moved lightly around each bag one at a time, looking like he was taking soundings.
I don’t know about Allsopp, or the other operative, but I was breathing heavily and my heart was pounding. I wasn’t sure if I was nervous, apprehensive or just plain fucking scared. After forty-one nerve-tingling minutes, he stood up, took off the padding around his head and gave the thumbs-up.
“No bombs in there, nothing primed to explode if tampered with,” Allsopp said calmly. “There’re no sensors or anything like that. There’s something in those bags, alright, but nothing ticking or touch-sensitive. You’re okay to open them.”
He then looked me directly in the eye with a very serious expression. “I won’t report the fact you pulled the cover off them, but next time, don’t touch anything.” He said this quietly and emphatically. “Leave it to us.”
“Thanks.” I sighed. My breathing returned to normal.
They gathered their equipment, packed it up and drove away. I shook hands with each man before they left.
I watched them turn right and disappear into the Bethnal Green Road. I’ve met very few heroes in my time on the force, but these two guys qualified, putting their lives on the line like they’d just done. Today’s callout had just been a false alarm, but what if it hadn’t been? These two guys had my absolute respect and admiration.
I told the uniform to open one of the bags, breaking the lock if necessary, but not to touch anything unless wearing gloves. I put on my plastic surgeon’s gloves and unzipped one of the holdalls. I found two handguns, both Sig Sauers, several boxes of ammunition, army clothing and two jackets. Glett said Matey had been shot with a Sig Sauer. The same one?
“Sir,” the uniform called out. Inside his bag were several large tins of industrial chemicals and a packet the size of a gold ingot of what looked like gelignite. I opened the third bag, which was similar to what the uniform had just found. I gently picked up a pale brick-orange block of something in tight wrapping. It looked like Semtex.
I ensured everything was put back in the correct place. I replaced the blanket and then ordered everyone outside. I told Chappy to lock the doors.
“You got your phone?” I asked Chappy.
“Yeah.”
“Right, call Sugar. Tell him to tell the guy who took your lock-up the place’s been burgled, everything’s been taken, place is completely empty. Be sure to stress everything’s gone, you got that? Make sure you sound worried when you talk to him.”
He’d got it. He phoned Las Vargas and got through to Sugar, then gave an almost Academy Award winning performance when he reported the burglary.
“They’ve taken all my stuff as well as his stuff,” he blurted out. “My old man’s car’s been nicked. There’s nothing in there now, place’s empty. They’ve cleaned me out. What am I gonna do?” He sounded panicked.
He listened to the reply, then hung up.
“Told me to wait here, said someone’ll be along.” He sounded nervous.
I told the uniform to patrol up and down this section of Bethnal Green Road but be ready for my call. I also told him to get another uniform to help him. He agreed and walked away. Chappy and I got into my car and waited.
Sitting around waiting is one of the worse things about the detective’s job. I knew someone was coming to the lockup, but I didn’t know who or when, so, as they say in the army, I had to hurry up and wait. I remembered one time, when I’d still been in uniform, I was on stake-out duty with a more experienced detective. I’d responded to one of his comments about stake-outs with, “Everything comes to those who wait,” to which he’d replied, “You know what comes to those who wait?” I’d said no. “More fucking waiting.”
I was sitting in the back seat, Chappy in the front passenger seat. Whilst waiting, I took great delight in making him feel a whole lot worse than I hoped he already did.
“You know what’ll happen to your dad when the counterterrorism people find out about this, don’t you? He’ll go down for several years, allowing his premises to be used for purposes relating to terrorism. You see what I found in that bag?”
“He didn’t allow it, he didn’t know anything about it,” Chappy protested.
“Doesn’t matter.”
I then told him about Roberto Delucca, currently in prison for allowing his restaurant to be used as a base for financial transactions which ultimately benefited Red Heaven. This made him swallow hard.
“Oh, come on, Chappy, think about it, huh? You really think a jury’s gonna believe your dad knew nothing about bomb-making equipment found in his lock-up? Not in the current climate, they won’t. It’s an absolute offence, pal, which means if they find something, anything, they don’t have to prove intent. They don’t have to prove you knew about it. They don’t give the benefit of the doubt to anyone involved in terrorism, Chappy. If it’s there, you’re guilty,” I stated very firmly.
I’d scared Chappy, really scared him. He lowered his head and started to sob quietly. I was indifferent to his tears, absolutely bloody waterproof where he was concerned. Whereas last night I’d felt warmly moved by Taylor shedding a small tear because she was so happy, I didn’t give a shit about Chappy’s. I wanted him to feel really bad about the position he’d put his father in. I remembered that, but for my intervention, Jimmy McGlinchey could also have been landed in the midst of a Red Heaven plot to plant an IED near the Albert Hall and quite likely imprisoned for years.
“Oh, stop with the tears, for God’s sake,” I eventually said, unsympathetically. I was sick of listening to him grizzling like a schoolgirl who’d just been dumped by her first proper boyfriend. “I know your old man. He wouldn’t get involved with anything like this, so I’m gonna do everything I can to keep his name out of this.”
This seemed to calm him down a little. He breathed out.
“I’ve known your old man years,” I said. “He’s a bit shady round the edges, but he isn’t a bomber. Nothing’ll happen to Tyler if I can help it.” I liked Tyler, even if I didn’t care what happened to Chappy. He stopped his annoying grizzling at last.
After we’d waited thirty-three minutes, a new VW Jetta drove slowly down the road. There was only a driver in the car. It crawled along with the driver glancing cautiously both ways, presumably looking for Chappy, then disappeared from view for a few seconds at the corner by the top of the road whilst the driver turned the vehicle around. I told Chappy to go wait by the lock-up doors whilst the car was turning round. He did. He stood nervously, hands in his pockets, waiting for the car to drive back.
The car, still being driven slowly, came down the narrow road again, and this time the driver saw Chappy. The driver nodded at him and veered into a parking space reserved for disabled drivers. I’m gonna have him for that as well, I thought.
The driver exited the car. He was about five-ten, fair-haired, dressed in a casual jacket and trousers, and he walked across the road with a confident swagger. From the side he looked like the younger of the two men in Chandler’s drawing. I was struck by how lifelike her drawing had been, given she’d been working from a picture almost fifteen years old. I noted the car’s registration and, whilst he stood by his car and crossed the road, I took several pictures of him on my iPhone.
He approached Chappy. They spoke briefly, the driver appearing to be quite agitated, and then, after the driver had pointed to the doors, Chappy began to look for his keys in his pocket. That was my signal. I radioed the young police officer to return pronto.
I withdrew my weapon, checked it over and then got out the car quietly, moved silently to crouch behind a parked van and waited for the right moment.
Chappy unlocked the doors and pulled them open, wincing as he did so. The other man was in the process of walking inside the lock-up, and I heard him saying, “What the fuck?” because he could see the lock-up wasn’t empty, as he’d been expecting, when I moved up quickly and silently behind him, grabbed his collar and, in the same flowing movement, put the muzzle of my gun against the back of his neck.
“Don’t move, pal, don’t fucking move,” I hissed, quietly and forcefully.
He stopped dead in his tracks, expelling air as he did so. He’d not been expecting this. I waited a few moments.
“Up against that wall. Do it now.” I steered him to his left, keeping my gun pressed firmly against his neck. I pushed him up against the wall with my left hand. “Arms straight out, ninety degrees. C’mon, pal, pretend you’re about to be crucified.”
He did. With my gun still against his neck, I patted him down, left side first, then, switching gun hand to my left, patted him down right side, gun pressed into his neck the whole time. He wasn’t armed, keys and a wallet only, which I took from his pockets. I stepped back away, my gun still trained on him.
“Okay, turn around, put your hands behind your neck, lace your fingers together,” I ordered him.
He did. He had what appeared to be an amused smirk on his face, as though the situation were somehow funny, and was nodding almost imperceptibly to himself.
“So what’s the story about these, then?” I nodded to the suitcase and holdalls. “Come to collect your bags?”
“What, those bags there? I don’t know anything about them, they’re not mine,” he said with confident assurance.
“Well, we’ll see about that.”
Still holding a gun on him, I produced my ID. At that moment, a police car raced up the road and screeched to a halt. The young copper I’d seen earlier was accompanied by two early-twenties female police officers, one almost as tall as me. They all exited the car and surrounded the man.
“DS McGraw, Special Branch. You’re under arrest, pal.”
“For what? I’m just checking on the availability of a lockup. How does that justify arresting me?” he casually asked.
“This guy’s under arrest.” I ignored him and looked at the two women. “Take him in.”
The taller woman grabbed his hands and, in one fluid movement, expertly cuffed him and put him into the back of the police car. As he was being led away, he gave Chappy an evil look, accompanied by a sinister smile, which I interpreted to mean he was a dead man. Chappy, who was standing motionless by the far wall, noticed the look but was attempting not to make eye contact with the man as he was led away. He was probably now only just realising what I’d already known when he’d made the phone call. Sugar would know who’d phoned him about the lock-up and, once he realised the man who’d gone there to investigate the situation had been arrested, the clear assumption would be that Chappy had set the man up to be taken by police. Chappy’s future options were narrowing by the hour.
Marius Page 19
