by James Nally
‘I told you real-life situations. You can’t learn from anything else. You don’t need to know any more than that.’
‘What did the one in five do, you know, who didn’t get Darylised?’
‘I’m not going to insult your intelligence, because you know you should never have handed over the cash like that. He’s got to deliver the goods to the table, otherwise no deal. You’re the one with the money. That’s what he wants; the money has got to be the commodity that gets handed over last.’
I redden and shrink, like a boiled prawn.
‘There’s a broader picture here too, Donal. Daryl didn’t need to rip you off. He would’ve made a nice packet out of this deal. He could’ve made thousands out of you long-term. Instead, he chose to rip you off.
‘That’s one of the key things I’ll keep drumming into you about this world. Drug dealers tend to think only about the here and now. And they love ripping off the other parties in any deal. That’s what they’re always looking to do. That’s their drug, their high.’
‘I feel like a right eejit,’ I say.
‘You shouldn’t see this as a fail. You should see it as your first lesson. You told me the truth. Most rookies try to edit or spin what happened, to save face. This means you’ve grasped the importance of trusting us completely. That’s another key point I’ll be constantly driving home. You’ve got to learn to trust your handlers with your life and tell them everything.’
His eyebrows shoot up as if to say: Anything else? I read his signal.
‘I broke your first two golden rules of undercover.’
His shakes his head resignedly. What’s left of my inner steel adopts the foetal position.
‘I signed up for this hoping my ex-girlfriend would beg me not to do it, at which point I’d planned to pull out. Both her and my brother know about it. I should’ve told you first thing yesterday morning when you asked. I’m sorry I didn’t, Gary. But that’s the situation as it stands.’
He gives me a kilowatt stare.
‘Anything else?’
I shake my head.
‘Your brother’s a problem we need to address anyway. Of course, we knew you’d told some people close to you. It’s human nature. We were waiting to see if you’d level with us.’
I’m beginning to wonder what else these people know about me.
‘Today was your last chance to tell me or I’d be failing you. Again, it shows you’re learning to trust us. And I’ve always found the Irish to be the least trusting of authority. It’s stamped in your DNA. I’m glad you did. Another one of my mantras is “never get caught in a lie”.’
Good, because I’m on a confessional slide and I’ve let go of the sides. He’ll soon see I’m simply not cut out for this role and release me back into my comfort zone of perennial under-achievement.
‘The thing is, Gary, I can’t lie. I never could. I probably should’ve flagged that up too.’
‘You won’t have to lie in this role, Donal. Not if your handlers do their job properly. Like I say: never get caught in a lie. Whoever you buy gear off doesn’t need to know anything except how much you want to buy. So that’s all you need to say and that’s all you need to do. No lie necessary. In fact, it’s better that you feel you can’t tell a lie. That way, you won’t even try to and get yourself tied up in knots. Read my lips; never get caught in a lie.’
I nod and feel my confidence clamber gingerly off its stretcher.
Gary’s eyes glint. ‘Just to satisfy the romantic in me, did your ex beg you not to do it?’
I laugh, a little bitterly. ‘Like Daryl, she read me like a book.’
‘Why are you still going through with it then?’
‘Because I’ve never achieved anything before. I’ve got to show her I can do it. And my brother and father. Most importantly of all, I’ve got to prove it to myself.’
Gary pops a travel bag on the desk, unzips it, pulls out clothes still wrapped in polythene.
‘Designer clobber,’ he announces. ‘You need to look the part. And this is a real Rolex, worth forty grand, so for the love of God don’t break it or lose it or leave it on a sink in a public loo, as I once did.’
‘I think I’d feel more comfortable with a fake, Gary.’
‘These guys know their bling. You need to treat all this as your uniform. When you put it on, you get into character. More importantly, when you get home, you shed your outfit and your character for the sake of your loved one.’
He hands me a file.
‘Destroy this as soon as you’ve digested the contents. The man in the photo is Ray Briggs, ex-armed robber, current fixer for some West Indian dope importers. He knows what you look like and is expecting to see you at the entrance to HMS Belfast today at 3pm. He’s got a job for you. When it’s safe, call me with the details.’
Chapter 42
Whitechapel, East London
Wednesday, June 29, 1994; 11.00
Julie Draper’s abductor made a single proof-of-life phone call to her office’s main number. The audio recording of that call has just been delivered to me at Spooky school.
The kidnapper speaks first. Using some sort of electronic voice changer, he sounds like a cross between a Northern bingo caller and the singer on The Bugles’ ‘Video Killed the Radio Star’.
‘This is a recording of Julie reading three random headlines from today’s Daily Mirror newspaper.’
After seconds of rustling, Julie’s tape-recorded voice sounds feeble and frayed. “Playwright Potter dies”; “Chinook Tragedy: 29 confirmed dead”; “Blair and Brown in secret leadership pact”. Tell Rex, Dino, I miss them and the fish, Mutt and Jeff.’
The tape snaps off. The phone goes dead.
‘Mutt and Jeff’ is a famous old US comic strip, and cockney rhyming slang for ‘deaf’. What else could it mean?
I call Fintan. ‘She very deliberately refers to her fish as Mutt and Jeff. We should at least explore the idea it’s a message of some sort, maybe an abstract clue?’
‘Okay, I’ll check with the boys down in the cuttings library. Between them, they literally know everything and would make a decent living just doing pub quizzes. You know who you should ask … Queen Cryptic herself.’
‘I’ve managed not to call her for three whole days.’
‘This is business, right? I promise, if you act cool and a bit detached, you’ll seriously boost your chances. Especially now she thinks you’ve already found her replacement.’
Gary’s mantra still chimes fresh in my mind; never get caught in a lie.
‘I can’t tell her I’ve met someone else, Fintan.’
‘You won’t have to. I’ve already done that. Like I said, just be cool. It’s your best chance of winning her back.’
I’d already thought of Zoe. She tackles the Guardian’s cryptic crossword every single day, almost always finishing just two or three clues short. I dial her number in a state of excited dread, as if I’m about to ask her out for the first time.
‘Hi,’ I say brightly. ‘I need your brilliant mind for just a couple of moments, if that’s okay.’
‘Umm, okay,’ she says uncertainly.
‘In her proof-of-life call, Julie Draper deliberately called her fish Mutt and Jeff, when their names are Ben and Jerry. If you were presented the clue “Mutt and Jeff’” in your bewilderingly abstract crossword of choice, what would your answer be?’
‘I need to give that some thought. Can I call you back with the most likely candidates?’
‘I’d really appreciate that. Thanks Zoe.’
Cue a cringing silence.
‘How’s Matt?’ I blurt, finally. Infuriatingly, she says something at the same moment so neither of us hears the other. More cringe, then overlapping apologies. When did we forget how to converse?
‘Call me when you can so,’ I say awkwardly and hang up.
Fintan gets back seconds later.
‘Mutt and Jeff were the codenames of two British double agents during the Second World
War. They were Norwegian engineers sent to the UK to spy for the Nazis, but were turned and secretly worked for the Allies under the so-called Double Cross system. They basically fed the Germans false information, such as the Allies were making plans to invade Norway.’
‘So Julie could be trying to tell us that whoever kidnapped her is secretly working for someone else, or has deliberately misled the investigation with misinformation.’
‘I think she’s letting us know that her kidnapper is not Kipper. How’s Zoe? You called her right?’
‘I called her but I don’t know how she is. I never asked.’
‘Good, man. Treat them mean, as they say. I didn’t think you had it in you.’
‘I don’t,’ I mumble, remembering that only our inability to speak in turn prevented me cracking.
I’m heading for the tube when Zoe calls.
‘Okay, this is the best I can come up with,’ she says, sounding disappointed. ‘Mutt can mean dog, black, blackguard, smelly or stinky, junkyard or junkie. Jeff has got to be Bridges.
‘The only words that make any sort of sense together are “junkyard bridges” or “black bridges”. I’ve had a quick look at scrapyards from Croydon down to the south coast. There’s one near Pease Pottage called MJ Bridges. Might be worth a visit.’
‘My God that’s amazing work, Zoe,’ I gush, unable to contain my excitement. ‘You’ve given me a firm lead.’
‘You should take that breeze block you found at the ransom drop. That might confirm a connection. I’ll drop it off at your place now, leave it in the front garden.’
I check the time: ‘Damn, I can’t go now. I’m on my way to see some dodgy armed robber.’
‘You could let the kidnap squad know.’
‘And let them take all the credit? No way.’
‘Glad to hear it, Donal,’ she says. ‘You’ve let that happen way too often.’
‘I know. Not anymore. No more Mister Nice Guy. How’s Matt?’
She smirks.
‘What?’ I protest.
‘He’s fine thanks, Dirty Harry. Still asking about you a lot, which really winds Chris up.’
My chest goes all warm and fuzzy, like a freshly toasted marshmallow.
‘See, he understands loyalty,’ I declare, and immediately regret it.
‘I deserve that,’ she says quietly.
‘I didn’t mean … I’m not deranged about it anymore, Zoe, honestly. I get it now. You do what you have to do.’
My God, undercover school is working. I didn’t mean a word of that! I just hope I’m not making it too easy for her to get me out of her life.
‘Thanks,’ she says quietly.
‘I’ve got to go,’ I gasp, managing to hang up before my voice cracks, just.
Chapter 43
M6 Motorway, Staffordshire
Wednesday, June 29, 1994; 17.30
I’m driving a white Ford Transit van up the motorway with both windows wound down, but that doesn’t stop the sickly-sweet stench of cannabis cloying at my sinuses. Well there is half a tonne packed into the back …
As the memory of today’s encounter with Ray Briggs creases me up again, I worry that the fumes are making me high.
I turned up near HMS Belfast bang on time when two men jumped out of the bushes. The smaller of the two – Ray, as I’d soon discover, and a ringer for Lovejoy – launched a faux boxing attack on me, complete with sharp nasal exhalations and sound effects. I recoiled more in shock than fear when he uttered the immortal words: ‘Do you know who I am?’
‘Ray Briggs?’ I offered.
‘You know how much my house in Chigwell is worth?’ Before I could open my mouth, he added: ‘300 grand.’ He nodded in satisfaction, then repeated the figure to himself in mild awe: ‘300 grand.’
I realised this was some sort of a challenge, so hit back, at least verbally.
‘I’ve got a quarter of that on my arm,’ I said, flashing the Rolex and forcing him to take a standing count. He stared at the flashy timepiece for several seconds in stunned silence. ‘75 grand to you, Raymondo. Now the time at the third stroke is 3.03pm. Unless you’ve got a serious business proposition, I’ll be on my way.’
Chastened, Ray cut to the chase; he needed an experienced driver to take half a tonne of ‘Bob Hope’ from South London to Keele services off the M6. I’d get a grand in cash on arrival and a lift to the train station in Stoke-on-Trent. I made him go through the trip’s logistics repeatedly, exhaustively, including where I’d park at the services and how I’d make myself known to the client.
Later, I passed all this information onto Gary, who assured me a surveillance team would be in place to witness the deal.
‘Don’t get in touch again until the job’s complete,’ were his parting words.
I’m now one junction away from the Happy Eater rendezvous point, unhappy and sick to my stomach with nerves. I keep telling myself: Just do the deal in Keele and skedaddle.
I come off the motorway and ease down into the services car park. As agreed with Ray Briggs, I drive to the rear of the restaurant, park up and get out. I stretch in the late evening sunshine, then give my replacement driver a twirl so he knows it’s me.
Suddenly, a police patrol car appears. Slowly, menacingly, it crawls past me. As it disappears around the front of the Happy Eater, my mind goes into spasm. Do I run away? Hide? Drive off in the van? Go inside and scoff happily?
The patrol car reappears around the other side of the building and, to my horror, turns and starts creeping my way again. When it stops right beside me, I almost barf up my heart.
‘Is that your vehicle, sir?’ asks the uniformed male passenger, nodding towards the van.
‘Yes,’ I smile, cockily.
‘What’ve you got in there?’
I hesitate. The officers get out. I imagine both the drugs gang and my surveillance team watching on in horrified fascination. Surely this can’t be part of the script.
Bad cop asks again: ‘What’s in the van?’
I shrug: ‘I don’t know.’
‘You’d best show us then,’ says the other.
I’ve no choice but to lead them round the back and open the double doors.
‘What’s in the boxes?’ says bad cop.
‘I dunno,’ I repeat brightly and feel a sharp blow to the head.
Fucking hell, I’m one of you, I almost blurt.
‘I said what’s in the boxes?’
‘Erm, I really don’t know,’ I repeat, politely this time.
Good cop produces a Swiss army knife, punctures some of the plastic and all of my spunk. The unmistakeable waft of cannabis snakes around us like a genie with bad intentions.
‘Well?’ he says.
For some reason, I decide to run. They read it and grab me, wrestling me to the ground. I endure another few clatters to the head, see black stars and feel my hands yanked around my back and cuffed.
Nearby, a car guns it out of the car park; I guess belonging to my client/substitute driver. Seconds later, a second car follows; my back-up.
Fuck, I think. What happens now? Surely they’ll come back and vouch for me?
I’m bundled into the back of the police car. Good cop radios the police station, requesting drugs squad and forensics. Bad cop reads me my rights and predicts my future.
‘I don’t know why you’re acting so cocky, lad. You’ve got half a tonne in there, street value two and a half million quid. You’re looking at between five and seven years.’
My insides shrivel. Surely, they’ll come back to get me, explain I’m one of the good guys. They can’t just cut me loose. Can they?
Within seconds, the crime scene circus descends, clearly pumped by the scale of the seizure and the glory it promises to refract. Our car takes off, sirens blaring.
I’m not sure which is more shocking, the fact I’m about to be taken into custody, or the state of Stoke-on-Trent.
As I’m ‘processed’ at the front desk, I ask if I can make a phone call. I�
��m desperate to get in touch with Gary so he can spring me. But his final instruction had been clear; no call until it’s all over. Part of me worries what qualifies as ‘all over’. After I’m charged? Jailed?
After I finish my sentence?
I decide to call Fintan. He’ll know what to do.
‘You won’t be calling anyone. This investigation is still live.’
‘What about a solicitor?’
‘This isn’t Hill Street Blues, son.’
I suddenly remember my mobile phone and panic. I’ve left it in the van. Anyone who gets hold of it and dials a few of the numbers will realise I’m a cop. Is that good or bad?
‘What about my stuff?’
‘You’ll get it all back when you’re dealt with.’
I’m led past cells packed with wide-eyed ravers who all start cheering and banging the bars. Somehow, they know I’ve been nicked with half a tonne. I reward their cheers with a regal wave, only to feel another crack across the back of the head as I’m slung into a lone cell.
The scallies tell me they were busted this morning after an illegal rave. Police seized their speakers and equipment but not all of their drugs, which they’d secreted into the cells orally, anally and in piercings.
What follows is the longest night of my life.
Next morning, I’m unlocked and led along a corridor towards the interview suites. As we halt outside room three, I feel certain that Gary or some sort of emissary is on the other side of that door, ready to take me home.
Wrong.
I decide, perhaps optimistically, that this is an elaborate test of my mettle. I remember Gary’s words: You’ll be tested in real-world environments, in real-life situations. We need to see how you cope with the stress of uncertainty and the unexpected.
The one thing I mustn’t do is reveal who I’m really working for. Then I’ll pass with flying colours. I just need to hang in there, stay cool.
I refuse a duty solicitor or to answer any questions. They charge me with possession with intent to supply, whisk me to Stoke Crown Court where I’m remanded in custody. Surely the test is now over …
As they lead me to what looks like a bombproof prison van, I ask one of the security guards where we’re headed.
