by Adam Carter
That was the strange nature of WetFish. A legitimate but unorthodox branch of the London Police, the officers working for Operation WetFish, under Detective Chief Inspector Edward Sanders, did not have a remit of catching criminals. In fact they only went after the legally innocent. When the courts found a suspect not guilty, but there was sufficient grounds to believe their guilt, Sanders and his officers would move in. Cases could be thrown out of court for a variety of reasons; lack of evidence, witness intimidation, police inefficiency. Usually it was because the suspect had a lot of money or belonged to a family which did. The courts could be bought, the law could be bought.
But justice was priceless.
The previous year, Johnny Sheldon had been involved in an armed robbery. He and two other youths had held up a local off-licence with sawn-off shotguns. They had robbed the place without resorting to firing their weapons, which was handy for them since they were only replicas. The only member of the gang to be caught was Sheldon, and when his trial had come up it had been dismissed through lack of evidence. It was a story Baronaire had seen more often than he would have liked. Now it was the job of Baronaire and Jeremiah to track down Sheldon and make him pay.
Sometimes WetFish would execute their suspect, making sure the blame lay with rival gangs, distraught family members or even suicide. WetFish only ever employed the best officers, and they made sure their actions were covert enough not to make it to the newspapers, or that the papers would never know the actual truth. More often than not, however, WetFish would simply give the courts a helping hand. In this instance DCI Sanders had decided Sheldon’s guilt, and it was up to Baronaire and Jeremiah to make sure Sheldon got sent down. It did not have to be for the same crime for which he had been found innocent, although planting the replica shotgun on him would have been a good start. To reopen a court case too often would raise eyebrows in the press, however, so it was much safer to just frame Sheldon for a similar crime. That way he would get sent down for the same number of years as he should have been the first time around and everyone was happy.
Except Sheldon probably, but he should have been grateful he was still alive.
Baronaire had killed men for less.
The only problem with this particular case was that it was so standard. It wasn’t something WetFish usually even got involved in. If Sheldon had killed someone during the robbery, then Baronaire would understand. If Sheldon had even been carrying a real gun, that would have perhaps been different as well. As it stood, he was just a stupid kid who had almost got caught. Perhaps Sanders knew the kid’s background, knew there was a good chance he would become a repeat offender, this time with disastrous results. The whole thing did not sit well with Baronaire, and it was this which was making him nervous.
He did not explain any of this to his partner, however. Jeremiah had his own reasons to dislike the DCI and Baronaire did not want to add anything to his list.
“Let’s go to that club.”
Jeremiah was taken aback, which was amusing in itself. Baronaire didn’t recall the last time he had seen Jeremiah lost for words.
The evening was deepening by the time the two men entered the club. First they stalked the area, checked the numbers going in and coming out, made note of every exit. Only then were they ready to go in, which Baronaire was surprised to find actually cost money. As they entered the crowded, poorly lit establishment, flashing lights providing the only real illumination, Baronaire glanced about while absently scratching the back of his hand. There was a bar across from them, against the far wall, some tables scattered about, but the majority of space was taken up by the dance floor. It was crammed with youths, and being summer outside it was sweltering inside. The heady aroma of sweat, adrenalin and testosterone, mixed with a cocktail of perfumes, aftershave and various make-up products, was overpowering to Baronaire. The darkness didn’t affect him at all, since he had excellent vision in dark places, but the flashing lights were already annoying him.
“If you’re not careful,” Jeremiah shouted over the incessant pounding of what Baronaire supposed was modern youths’ music, “you’ll scratch your skin off.”
Baronaire stopped worrying his wrist. He had no idea why they had to have their hands stamped when they had come in, but he was liking this place less and less by the minute.
“You’ve never been in a club have you?” Jeremiah asked, a smile of amusement not even attempting to hide within his face. “I mean, other than for work purposes.”
“Not my scene,” Baronaire said, his skin crawling at the close proximity of so many young people. A man pushed past him and Baronaire barely managed to resist the temptation to slug him.
“Charles, you’re in your early thirties, you should be at these places every rest day.”
“I rest on rest days.”
“Yeah, I can believe that.”
It raised an interesting question, one which Baronaire had never really considered before. “So what do you do in your spare time then? Do you actually come to places like this?”
“Sure. Sometimes. I also like art galleries. And I have an English Heritage card which lets me into castles and stuff for free.”
“You do?”
“Mmm. I love this country, Charles. It’s why I chose to settle here. I never got to see many of the castles and abbeys first time around, so it’s kind of nice to look at them now. See them as wrecks and know I’m still standing.”
Baronaire stared at him hard. This was not the first time Jeremiah had made sly reference to the fact he believed he was far older than any man could be. It was all a game to Jeremiah, making people think he was an enigma. Baronaire had no time for riddles, though. He was a plain man without any secrets. Because even he wasn’t aware of most of the enigmas concerning him.
Jeremiah laughed at his expression. “We can’t all sit in our flat reading pulp novels, Charles.”
“I think we should get a table.”
Finding a table wasn’t difficult. They were all taken of course, but Jeremiah met the eyes of two men and sweet-talked his way into their departure. Or at least that was what it would have looked like to anyone watching. Baronaire did not hear the words Jeremiah had used, but it was less about the words and more about the stare. Baronaire and Jeremiah both had strange abilities ordinary humans lacked, and one of them was an unconscious hypnosis. Baronaire had once seen a magician on stage make members of the audience think they were ballerinas and soldiers. It was possible to do, although most people assumed there was a trick to it. So far as Baronaire could see, it was simply a talent some people had.
Baronaire sat and Jeremiah leaned back in his chair. “Don’t want to take that trench coat off? Mighty hot in here.”
“No.” The trench coat had become something of a joke back at the bunker. It was Baronaire’s attempt to show everyone he was a detective, they said. All he needed was the fedora and he could be living a fantasy of one of those pulp novels he always read. The truth was much simpler than that: Baronaire liked pockets.
Jeremiah tried to make small talk, but Baronaire wasn’t in the mood. They were there on business, they weren’t having a summer holiday. The two men may have been similar in nature, but they were not friends, not really. They had known one another for many years now, but the more time that passed the more Baronaire was beginning to suspect there were things about Jeremiah he didn’t know, and wouldn’t like. It had been at Jeremiah’s insistence that they had joined WetFish to begin with, for they had a mission to perform. Over ten years later they were still working for Sanders, and Baronaire was doubtful he would even fulfil the mission Jeremiah had in mind.
The truth was that Baronaire had found his niche in life, and he could see himself staying there until he died. Sometimes he could not look Jeremiah in the eye for the very reason he knew that Jeremiah had no such intention.
Presently, Baronaire caught sight of someone in the crowd and realised it had been a good move coming here after all. “Sheldon’s here,” he s
aid casually to Jeremiah. “We should make our move.”
“In time. Don’t turn around, we’ve pulled.”
Two girls appeared at their table then, seating themselves without being invited. They were both around twenty, both wearing tight corset-style attire, one in red, the other green. They both reeked of mascara and cheap perfume, and their clothes were stained with the odour of cigarette smoke. One of the girls had a Japanese look to her, the other was a blonde with a Welsh accent. It was she who started talking, introducing themselves as Sophie and Selda.
Selda? That wasn’t even Japanese, Baronaire thought; it sounded more like it was made up.
Jeremiah wasted no time in introducing the two of them, although Baronaire’s attention was still focused upon the target, gyrating amongst the crowd. Jeremiah chatted away to the two girls, and Baronaire caught snippets of their conversation. Sophie kept trying to catch his eye, although truth be told she was beginning to annoy him.
“Charles?” Jeremiah asked. “Oh, Charles?”
Baronaire looked to the two girls in agitation. “Look, at any other time my friend and I would gladly take the two of you out of here and commit unspeakable horrors upon your persons, but right now we’re a little busy, so push off.”
Jeremiah watched the two girls depart post-haste and said, “Well that was a little rude.”
“They were getting on my nerves.”
“Still, we’re gentlemen, Charles.”
“We’re not gentlemen, Jeremiah, we’re monsters. Now come on. Let’s get this over with.”
“Wait,” Jeremiah said as Baronaire rose and left the table, “where are you going?”
But Baronaire did not answer him. Instead he marched boldly across to Sheldon and grabbed him by the shoulder. Sheldon was a typical male youth, a visual ego trip, and Baronaire had no time for this.
Sheldon’s protests were drowned out by the heavy thump of the music, and Baronaire was able to drag him towards a door marked ‘private’. Snapping the handle, he threw the youth through the door and followed, closing it behind him. There was terror in Sheldon’s eyes, which was just what Baronaire wanted.
“You’re going to do something for me,” Baronaire told him. “And you’re not going to like it.”
Just then Jeremiah came through the door also, although Baronaire ignored his raised eyebrow. “Not exactly low-key,” Jeremiah told him. “By the way, I dealt with the crowd. You know, the two friends he was with? I suggested Sheldon had just popped to the toilet, so they’ll be expecting him back any minute.”
“I don’t need long,” Baronaire told him, his eyes still on the cowering youth.
“Uh, Charles? I think we’re supposed to be fabricating evidence?”
“We don’t need to fabricate anything.” He crouched before the trembling youth and smiled slightly. It was without a doubt the most unnerving sight the young man had ever seen. “Sheldon, you’re going to find a police station and you’re going to confess to your part in the armed robbery. You feel bad about what happened and want to make amends.”
Sheldon tried to speak, looked from one man to the other, tried to speak again, and failed. Baronaire waited patiently and eventually Sheldon found his voice. “What? Who are you people?”
“You don’t need to know who we are, Sheldon.” Baronaire looked about him for the first time since passing through the door. They were in a storage room by the looks of things. He reached over and hefted a stout iron pole which was probably left over from the scaffolding when they last repaired the place. “Jeremiah, be a dear and watch the door for me.”
“Watching it already, Charles.”
“I meant from the outside?”
Jeremiah paused, glanced to Sheldon, then shrugged. “Sure.” And he departed.
Baronaire smiled at Sheldon again, slapping the iron pole soundly into his palm. Once. Twice. He formed a steady rhythm.
Sheldon licked his parched lips. “I … I’m not afraid of you.”
“Yes you are.” Baronaire gripped the pole with both hands and effortlessly bent the metal. Sheldon’s eyes widened, but he said nothing. Probably he couldn’t. “You go to that police station,” Baronaire told him softly, “or I will find you. One night you’ll be sleeping or clubbing, or just out strolling in the night air; and then I’ll be there. The night is good to me; it’s when I’m alive.”
Sheldon’s eyes were locked on the bent pole. “How … How can you …?”
Baronaire only wished he could provide an answer to that question. For Sheldon, or himself.
“I’ll be reading about you in the papers, son,” Baronaire told him as he rose, “or you’ll see me in your nightmares.” And then Baronaire simply evaporated before the youth’s eyes. His body collapsed and became a peculiar white mist, which floated under the door and back into the club, where he re-formed.
He found Jeremiah leaning against the wall with his arms folded. “Kid dead?”
“No. Let’s get out of here.”
“You do realise,” Jeremiah called after him, “this isn’t what Sanders wanted? Frame the kid for another crime, get him sufficiently gaoled. The press are going to love this one.”
“One case which makes the papers isn’t going to blow the whole organisation wide open, Jeremiah.”
“No. But put enough bricks together and eventually you have a house.”
Baronaire turned to him then, wondered just how much he should reveal to Jeremiah about his qualms. But Jeremiah was Jeremiah; he had every bit as much to lose as did Baronaire himself. “This assignment wasn’t for WetFish, it’s stupid Sanders even took it. And when was the last time the two of us were paired together?”
Jeremiah shrugged. “About a year ago. The Doldress case, I think.”
“Right. Now suddenly Sanders sends the both of us on a case which we shouldn’t even be dealing with? And it just so happens to take us this far from London?”
Baronaire could see in the other man’s eyes he finally understood what Baronaire was saying.
“We have to get back to London,” Baronaire said. “Whatever’s going on, you can bet Sanders isn’t planning a surprise birthday party.”
CHAPTER TWO
‘Tony Blair is new leader of Labour party. Talks of modernising and change. One to watch. Will become problem if Labour elected.’
The office of Detective Chief Inspector Edward Sanders was surrounded on two sides by glass, so he could see everything his operatives were doing outside of his little world. There was a rack of various firearms stored on the wall directly behind him, held within a glass case which was undoubtedly unbreakable. Most of the office was filled by his workstation. He had a desk tidy for his pencils, paperwork neatly stacked on one side, and pots containing various pieces of stationery, from bulldog clips to treasury tags. There was a white mug upon the desk, holding a faded image of the West Ham logo. The mug was the only thing which told a visitor to his office anything about the man who worked there, and even that mug may well have just been left in the kitchen one day and commandeered by the boss. There were no photographs, no bad paintings by children, no keepsakes. There was nothing within the office to tell anyone anything about the man who was Edward Sanders.
Detective Sue Lin thought it strange then that there was a Post-it note stuck to the desk making such an odd proclamation about someone named Tony Blair. So far as Lin was aware, Sanders was about as interested in politics as he was in the sparrow population.
However, she had more important things to be thinking about than politicians she had never even heard of. She was currently on a case. It was far from complicated, a standard drugs-related case, so she was working alone. A dealer had been let off by the courts with a slap on the wrist. There wasn’t even really any money involved in this one: it wasn’t as though an amazing lawyer had kept the guy from prison. It was just shoddy work from the judge, or an increasingly relaxed attitude from the law. Lin often wondered when WetFish would begin policing the police. If sentences were
just becoming less severe, they had no right to interfere. Justice had been served, even if they didn’t agree with it.
Still, it was her job to deal with this, to make sure the perp reoffended and ended up in court again. Maybe then the judge would actually do something. So far as action, there was very little choice Lin had in this situation. No one would question why a known drug dealer had reoffended, however, so it was a pretty easy case, all things considered.
She had been summoned to Sanders’s office to be told she would need a partner after all.
“But I’m just about done,” Lin protested. She was a fairly short woman of Chinese origin, garbed in smart attire as all officers of WetFish were expected to be. Across from where she stood sat DCI Sanders, a man of around fifty years, whose ever-haggard expression bespoke the long hours he put into his work.
“It’s not you,” Sanders told her. “Sergeant Flynn’s new around here and I need someone to show him the ropes.”
“Why me?”
“Because your case is an easy one. And, as you say, you’re just about finished with it. Perfect opportunity to show someone new around.”
Lin sighed. It was useless arguing anyway: she knew that much from experience.
“Ah,” Sanders said, “here he is now.”
There was a quick rap on the door and it opened to reveal a man of around thirty years or so. He smiled briefly at Lin and she could not blame him for the situation, so didn’t scowl back. The man closed the door and saluted the DCI. Which Lin found somewhat odd.
“No need to stand on protocol, Sergeant,” Sanders told him. “This is Detective Lin. She’ll be showing you the ropes. Lin, Sergeant Flynn’s just transferred from SO14, but I doubt you’ll need his particular skills on this assignment.”
