39.
7.30am. We were watching 21 Harpley Square, Globe Town, from a location by the kids’ swings. I passed Fuzz the mini-binoculars. She looked through them and then passed them to Bang-Bang, who also looked through them for about ten seconds and then handed them back. ‘Our Trevor is going nowhere and I’m in his email anyway.’ She handed me a PSP handset. I looked. Indeed she was. Right in his Gmail.
And at that point the bush in front of us shuddered, shook, and stood up. Our mobile covert OP. It was Mishy in a sniper’s camouflaged ghillie suit. She looked like a walking shrub. She brushed at herself. ‘What? I’m knocking off. He’s been indoors the whole time I’ve been here. He’s not done anything and I’m gasping for a fag. Here’s the scope.’
She handed a night-vision scope to me and stomped off across the grass towards the shops on Globe Road. I looked at the scope, which wasn’t good for much in daylight, and laughed. ‘I might join her.’
Bang-Bang glanced in Mishy’s direction. Mishy was marching through a gang of kids and had angrily kicked their football into the road. Fuzz said ‘I’m going to keep an eye on her. Dunno what kids are doing up at this time in the morning anyway. Bound to be up to no good.’ She stalked off after Mishy. We watched them go.
‘How is Mishy, babe? Really?’ said Bang-Bang.
‘Not good, I’m afraid.’ She was quiet for a bit. Then a bit more.
I nudged her. ‘Penny for your thoughts?’
She looked up at me. ‘I was just thinking back to the mosque. Lana died on me in that firefight. I should have been quicker.’
‘Quite a few people died on us, hun. Don’t beat yourself up about it.’
‘Maybe. I need to be a better medic.’
‘Leave that to Roadrunner and co. You were put on earth to break stuff.’
‘S’pose.’
Out on the grass, the kids had retrieved their ball. Shouts echoed across the wet grass. Probably a local gang and they’d probably been out here all night. Bang-Bang went back to pulling bits out of the PSP console she’d been using. She had a few of them, mostly older models, as they were apparently easier to modify for “wardriving” and other hacker activities. Way back in 2005, the PSP’s code had been cracked and put online so that any script-kid could have a go at tweaking it.
Bang-Bang looked up at me and her happy face had returned. She tapped the PSP. ‘Road Dog, a cantenna, homebrew browser and we’re good to go!’
‘I have no idea what you’re on about love, so I’ll leave the Martian to you. So long as it gets results.’
‘Oh, it does that.’
To our left, a local newspaper billboard screamed “BANGLA KILLER TAUNTS COUNCIL. EDL SNIPER THREAT.”
Fuck. Who didn’t know?
I worried my tongue round an ulcer that had developed in my mouth over the last few days. It was no wonder, given the amount of Red Bulls I’d been necking. We were all running on caffeine, nicotine and adrenalin now; as the deadlines loomed and the operational tempo was at redline revs. Any minute now, something was going to snap. I could feel it.
40.
We had an hour or so to kill so we went to my flat and cleaned our weapons and I made some food on the go. I had a feeling that we were all about to go off the edge, so we’d better make the most of the lull. ‘Your mum’s recipe.’ I said as I placed the bowls on the table. She leant her head on my arm and smiled. She was cleaning her CZ85. She assembled it, put it to one side and cleared a space. ‘Big day today.’
‘Yeah.’ I went to water the balcony plants and breathed in the morning air. My chillies were looking good. Behind me on the wall TV was a repeat of the London programme about an East End gripped with fear. The schools were still shut. I looked over the neighbourhood. It did look strangely quiet for a weekday. Eerie.
I made my way back to the kitchen, trying to tidy as I went. By now Bang-Bang had holstered the CZ85 and had her issued Taser, its components, and the manual, spread among the cutlery. She was stabbing at the controls on it with her tongue sticking out in furious concentration. ‘OK. Insert Digital Power Magazine…’ she slapped a cartridge into the Taser’s pistol grip. Numbers started scrolling on a display on the weapon’s rear. ‘Cool! We have boot-up.’
I nodded at all the paraphernalia. ‘You obviously know that it spits little tags everywhere when you fire it?’
‘Yeh. They’re called AFIDs. Anti-felon summinks.’
‘Right.’ She aimed the weapon, pushed the safety up and both the light and the red laser came on. ‘Topmost barb goes where the laser dot goes and, zzzaaap. 50,000 volts. Although it’s the amperage that does the business’, she murmured, mostly to herself.
‘Ok babe, I’m starting to get nervous.’
‘Sorry’, she giggled. ‘Nice to have though.’
I sat at the table. My phone rang. Lennie. ‘We’ve got… secretions… from the pool crime scene. Gonna run it ASAP.’
‘Secretions? Level with me Lennie.’
‘OK. Semen, on the victim’s clothing. Our fella must have got carried away. We’ve also tentatively identified the victim as a prostitute, her name was Yelena or Elena going by what local shopowners are saying. And the best news is – we’ve got a potential witness. Security guard in a portakabin over the back way saw a tall, loping, hooded man at around the right time. The guard doesn’t speak much English, but it’s a start.’
‘That’s great.’
‘We’ve also grabbed the centre’s CCTV drives, running them now. I’m not holding out much hope on that one as they were also affected by the hack.’
‘Still, Lennie, it’s mostly good news. Keep me posted.’
I sat back and stared out of the window. This wouldn’t be perfect like CSI. But it could be a start. All this hinged on one thing though. Hopefully they still had Trevor’s DNA from his last major brush with the law… hopefully.
Another clock had started and was ticking.
41.
9am. We practised in the station yard. We parked two cars outside the forensic lab’s windows. Lennie’s BMW stood in for Trevor’s car, with a custody wagon van behind it. Lennie played Trevor. Lynne played the search officer. Bang-Bang and I stood at the rear of the van, doors open, and got ready to be timed being handed various keys. Lennie got right into the act and gave Lynne the full “Iz it cos I iz black” as she attempted to explain a Section 44 Stop and Search to him.
Bang-Bang was giggling. ‘Check this out love’ I said. ‘When I was in al-Muj with him, we all insisted on calling him Trevor to wind him up. He was always going ‘NO! I am SALAHUDDIN!’ and we’d reply ‘Yes Trevor mate.’
Lynne came to the rear doors and gave me Lennie’s own car keys. Bang-Bang started a stopwatch. I took the keys and went through the motions with the specialised kit I’d brought with me. I finished up and presented the keys to Lynne with a flourish. She jogged back to Lennie. The exercise was over. Bang-Bang clicked off her stopwatch. ‘38 seconds.’
I grinned. ‘I can do better.’
Lennie nodded. ‘Good enough. Let’s trigger him away then, he leaves his flat at 10am normally, and usually heads out to Hackney or Leytonstone.’
I spoke. ‘Our Mishy will trigger him away and has the follow. What time does his wife take the kids to school?’
‘8.30am. Then she goes to the drop-in centre, stays till 2pm.’
‘Who’s triggered her?’
‘Greg has. He’ll be fine.’ Bang-Bang and I exchanged glances. The moment passed.
Lennie looked around. ‘Alright then. Who’s sorting the warrants – we need VCP and intrusive.’ I nodded and brandished my phone. ‘The Colonel’s getting a verbal set of warrants from the Home Secretary, he’ll bell me when they’re effective.’
‘We just carry on in the meantime? What if a Surveillance Commissioner nixes it?’
‘Then we’re burglars.’
Everyone looked crestfallen. ‘Or’, I carried on, ‘the Colonel just applies verbally to the Defence Secretary.’ I quo
ted verbatim from the act. ‘“Any members or officials of the intelligence services, the Ministry of Defence and HM Forces can apply to the Secretary of State for an intrusive surveillance warrant.”’
Lennie chuckled. ‘That makes it so much better.’
Bang-Bang popped some gum and started snapping at it. ‘So, what, are you lot playing Warrant Trumps with each other or something?’
I nudged her. ‘Trust me love, it’s all bollocks. The amount of times our lot have lent the Met our White Fleet for “training purposes” to drive down the overtime budget… they owe us. They’ll work around it.’
10.15am. The corner of Tredegar Road, right where it dropped into the sweeping A12 out of town and up to Hackney. A black cat slunk by me and away into the estate. I watched it go then went back to checking the junction.
Our vehicle stop was set up and ready to go, ready to channel Trevor’s car as he drove it up his habitual route. Mishy had texted ten minutes ago saying Trevor had left his flat and was on his way. I stood in the rear of the van and got my kit ready. I could hear the radios chattering. Bang-Bang chewed gum and leant on an opened door, grinning artlessly at the shoppers. My hire car was parked fifty metres away down Douro Street, pointed north for a sharp exit.
I took a quick look forward past the van to the junction. Uniformed cops from the Territorial Support Group, traffic cones. Lennie and co waiting. Routine check sir, nothing to worry about, if you wouldn’t mind turning off here…
Radios squalling. ‘OK we got him. Four up in his car, turning right right right off Roman Road. Two minutes. Stand by.’
I held four fingers up then pointed skywards to Bang-Bang and she nodded. Four-Up. Trevor was obviously giving a lift to three of his Wahaabi brothers, probably out to Walthamstow. Which happened to be where Anjem Choudary lived. Had he been lying to me about his group’s involvement in all this? It was a worrying thought, but I put it to one side for now. I held two fingers up in a V-for-victory sign. Two minutes. She nodded again. I listened to the traffic. A bus griped past. A car hooted.
‘Sixty seconds. Stand by.’
We got out of sight. I could now hear a car engine revving. They had him. The engine noise grew closer. Channelling. I poked Lennie on the arm. ‘Mate. Have a look in the back of the car if you can. See if you can spot anything like clothing bundles. Or blood.’
‘Yeah.’ He jogged forward as the trap was sprung.
Doors being opened. Arguing. I could hear Lennie and the TSG starting to pull the car occupants about and asking for documents. True to form, we could hear Trevor and his mates loudly complaining about racism, Islamophobia and much more besides. Perfect.
I nodded at the gear I was setting out. ‘OK Holly, keep an eye out. We won’t have long.’
She peeked round the other side of the van. Slowly, she raised a hand then gave me a thumbs-up. On the van’s metal decking was a Peli case, opened and ready. Before it were several little clamshells, also opened and ready. Lennie came jogging to the back of the van and handed me a bunch of keys. He did a small wave of his hand indicating no incriminating materials. Oh well. I looked at the key bunch quickly. OK, car key, and… one Yale and one Chubb, and one very small indeterminate key. Yale and Chubb, then. The arguing continued out of sight as Lynne and the TSG tried and failed to explain stop-and-search.
One after the other, I pressed the Yale and Chubb keys into the talced clay in the clamshells. Then I made a small impression of each’s keyway in the end of the clay.
Done. The whole process had taken no more than thirty seconds. I’d beaten my record. I handed the keys back to Lennie, who returned to the fray. I packed the clamshells into the Peli case, grabbed it, and we hustled away down the road towards my car, keeping the police van between us and the vehicle stop the whole time. Behind us, Trevor and his compadres angrily got into his car, slamming doors and squealing away down onto the A12 and out of sight.
‘Now what?’ asked Bang-Bang.
I grinned. ‘Now the other stopwatch starts, hun. First, we go to my lockup and make some good key moulds. We haven’t got long.’
We looked back towards the vehicle stop. From the direction of Tredegar Road, a nondescript blue Nissan Micra tore into the junction and screeched left down the ramp, onto the A12. That would be Mishy, sticking to Trevor’s car like glue all day and calling his every move in. Well, that was one thing in our favour. I looked at Bang-Bang. ‘If Mishy finds that he’s gone round Anjem Choudary’s house, I’ll kill Anjem myself.’
My garage lockup was just off Broadway Market in Hackney, round the back of the line of shops. It was a spy’s secret; my secret. I’d been encouraged to set it up by the Colonel shortly after he’d sprung me from prison. I paid for it out of my own salary, in cash, quarterly. It contained all the stuff I’d accrued in five years of operations. Money, American Express traveller’s cheques, some gold Krugerrands, a few cards, IDs, an old trailbike which I came down to check over once a month, some darkroom gear… and all my work go-bags, chemical precursors, NBC gear and breaking and entering-related equipment. If Emlyn had wandered in here he’d have a heart attack.
I switched the lights on and got busy. Bang-Bang placed her chin on her hands and fluttered her lashes. ‘I could watch you work all day love.’
I laughed. ‘Try not to make me giggle. This needs a steady hand. Watch.’
‘What’s that stuff?’
I was pouring boiling water from a kettle into a tupperware jug. ‘Wood’s metal. It’s an alloy with a low melting point. Great for making key blanks.’
‘Achaaa…’ she breathed, watching as I donned a welder’s glove and poured the molten metal into the two clam moulds, both of which were held vertical in test tube clamps.
‘OK now we let it set. Come stand outside, it gets a bit fumey.’
We stood in the alleyway and waited. Bang-Bang lit a cigarette. After a while I went back in and retrieved the two clamshell moulds. I brought them outside, placed them on the tarmac and opened them, revealing two key copies with some flashing from the air vents. ‘Ta daaa!’ I unstuck them from the moulds and worked at the flashing with a file.
She took one from me and turned it in her hand. ‘Good enough then?’
I looked up. ‘Maybe not quite good enough to turn in his lock without breaking, if the lock tumblers are stiff. But perfectly good for keycutting.’
‘Ah.’
One more thing. I rummaged through the lockup shelves and found two boxes, one full of blue disposable gloves, the other full of disposable overshoes of the sort worn in electronics manufacturers. I grabbed bunches of each and stuffed them in Bang-Bang’s claymore bag. She watched, mildly curious. ‘We gonna need gloves babe?’
I turned and shook my head. ‘Nah. But old habits die hard.’ I swung the garage door down and locked it.
‘Now what?’
‘Now, a friendly, slightly moody keycutting shop. Welcome to my world, Mrs Sabir. Let’s go.’
She grinned and skipped happily along beside me as we went back to the car. ‘Okies!’
MSK Locksmiths Limited clung to the far western end of Bethnal Green Road, in imminent daily danger of slipping off into the sheer hipness of Shoreditch. So far it had resisted the pull. We left the car outside in the loading bay and sauntered in. Nasheeds were buzzing from a wall-mounted TV as we entered, and I was suddenly transported back to my days as a local car thief, when I’d passed all kinds of wrongness these guys’ way.
The shop smelt faintly of ganja smoke. Again, just like the good old days. A thickset, bearded man was grinning at me from behind the counter. ‘Riz! You old haramjada! How ya been?’
I grinned. Then I nudged Bang-Bang and pointed at him. ‘Babe, this is Shima. Me and him go back, way back. We were running around in al-Muj years ago, and car-thieving before that. He’s a bloodclaart.’
He laughed uproariously, and she dipped her head in acknowledgement. ‘Enchante, Shima-ji.’
He melted slightly. ‘Salaams, pretty
lady.’
I looked around. ‘OK. Shima. Also just like the good old days, I need some keys cut from these moulds –’ I handed him the copies I’d made in the lockup and Shima turned them in the light, ‘– and we need them pronto. Doable?’
Shima turned away from us and hit a big button. A cutting machine throbbed into life. OK, he was still with me. That was a relief. I checked my phone for any texts or emails. Nothing. As agreed, we were clear to go.
‘So who’s the lucky customer?’ asked Shima, seemingly apropos of nothing as he readied the tools of his trade and the big machine ran up to speed.
‘Shima mate, you’d laugh. An old acquaintance of ours.’
He looked at the keys again. ‘I’ve suddenly decided I don’t wanna know.’ He placed the first key into the grip and the machine began its work.
42.
Harpley Square. We parked my rental car just out of sight of the block, walked straight through the kids swings we’d been surveilling the flat from, and through the ground floor door that had been propped open by council workers. We made our way to the second floor. I checked up and down the stairwell. Nothing. Good to go.
Bang-Bang drew her pistol and faced the stairwell and I crouched and took a look at the door locks. One Chubb, one Yale. Bog-standard. I placed my eye to the Chubb lock and took a quick look. I could see the flat, meaning, obviously, that there was no Chubb key inside the lock. I placed my ear to the lock next and had a listen. Nothing. No TV, no voices.
OK. I breathed out. Bang-Bang was talking on her phone quietly. She glanced back at me. ‘That was Mishy, triggering Trevor into some place in Walthamstow. Not Anjem’s house though. We’re cool.’ I nodded. She went back to covering the stairwell and glancing over the balcony. I rang the Colonel. ‘All good?’
A tinny laugh. ‘I’m in a conference call with the Home Secretary, the Chief Surveillance Commissioner, the Defence Secretary and some Assistance Surveillance Commissioners, and we’re batting the 2000 Act back and forth like you wouldn’t believe. Where are you, son?’
Locked and Loaded: A Riz Sabir Thriller Omnibus Page 51
