by Joe Carter
The formalities were completed by him telling me that he was sending me on a firearms course, followed by a tactical advisers’ course, so that I could supervise armed operations. The man made my skin crawl, and I couldn’t find a single thing that I liked about him. He held his hand out and I looked at it, paused slightly before shaking it, and left his office. I rubbed the sweat from his palm off on my trousers as I walked down the corridor. I knew that I needed to stay one step ahead of this man, but I didn’t think that would be too difficult.
I have to say that shooting was not my forte, and the thought of carrying a gun didn’t excite me in any shape or form. It was a necessity on the Flying Squad, but some of the guys absolutely loved carrying one. To me it was a pain; the weight of the gun in its holster would damage any good-quality belt, and if you wore it in a shoulder holster it would crease the shape of your jacket. My gun was always in my car, in the pocket behind the driver’s seat, where I sat, and I hoped that it would stay there throughout any operation. The fact of the matter was, I was a very poor shot. I don’t think I could’ve hit a barn door, let alone one of South East London’s top robbers as he was fleeing from a van or a bank he’d just robbed.
One of the funniest moments on the Squad, and what made me realise that the office wasn’t equipped to deal with steamers, took place in the Home Counties. It was a Monday morning in the pedestrian-controlled area of a delightful garden city. The team was sitting in wait for a group of criminals that we’d had intelligence on for some time. We were holed up in offices opposite and adjacent to a well-known high street building society. Minutes after opening, between eight and ten fit black men in their early twenties ran into the building society. Within seconds they were over the counter one by one, pushing staff onto the floor and grabbing money.
Like coiled springs, we exited the comfort of our hideout to confront these robbers, all of whom were unarmed. The ensuing mayhem was like a darts team chasing a group of young sprinters. It’s fair to say that most of our team were overweight; they loved a pint every night and chasing young robbers wasn’t on their wish list. A few of the guys ran maybe fifty yards before throwing their metal asps in the direction of the fleeing criminals in desperation. We did manage to arrest one or two of the robbers, as some of us could run, and luckily none of the building society staff was injured.
It was just another typical day on the Flying Squad when I received a phone call from Don, my best pal who worked as a sergeant in the SO10 undercover office. He told me that a request had come in from overseas for assistance with an operation. It would require maybe a week in Europe every two months assisting one of their UCs.
It was a long-term, deep infiltration into a gang of serious criminals and businessmen in Holland and Belgium who were responsible for the production and supply of a large percentage of the Ecstasy tablets that had flooded the European cities. These men were a close-knit group, some of whom funded their criminal friends to run the illicit labs where the high-grade pills were made. They had proved almost impossible to investigate by conventional policing methods. The only way to find out exactly how these people conducted their business was to get amongst them. To become part of their network; to befriend them and encourage them to believe that we could enhance their criminal activity. It was a very important international operation – a fantastic new challenge.
He said he and the boss thought that it was perfect for me, and that he’d look after me on the job. Don was one of the handful of people that I trusted. We worked well together, and seemed to know what each other was thinking or what the other would do before he did it.
Don was a meticulous man, and his life was a complete contrast to mine. He was a year older than me, but he wasn’t married and didn’t have kids. He lived in a pristine show home in South London and he suffered severely from OCD. His house was immaculate, and you would never believe that anyone actually lived there, let alone him and his girlfriend. There was literally no sign of life in his house, and until I met his girlfriend – now his wife – I didn’t believe she existed. Don was good Old Bill, and had trodden a very similar path to me in proving himself as a detective in London. It was a dog-eat-dog world and he was street savvy like myself. He had put a lot of villains behind bars the hard way.
He knew the issues that I had with my supervisor on the Flying Squad, but the timing couldn’t have been better as my boss was off for at least four weeks following a minor operation. Both Don and I knew the detective inspector who was in temporary charge whilst he was away, and we got on well with him. Don also said that he would ‘mark the card’ of the Flying Squad superintendent (who just happened to be an ex-UC) so a request would be made for me. All in all, the job had my name written on it. In the 1990s the only time a UC was directly supervised was when they travelled overseas for an operation, otherwise your ‘handler’ was on the other end of a phone.
I wasn’t really enjoying my time on the Flying Squad and it’s fair to say that it hadn’t lived up to its reputation. There were some very good, keen detectives on the Squad, but they were outbalanced by a number of people who had returned for a second posting but were still stuck in the ways of the 1980s. I found it frustrating, and I was obstructed in a number of operations that I wanted to conduct.
The DI agreed to release me, and he said that he had received a call from the superintendent at the Yard, who was aware of the operation and supported my release. I knew I was now bombproof, and had ‘top cover’ for the inevitable aggravation that I would get when the boss returned.
The following week, Don and I met with the two handlers who had flown over from Holland to talk to my boss about the operation. The undercover officer was not allowed into Scotland Yard, and he and I would meet once the formalities of this meeting was over. The two handlers were gentlemen and they both had the same name, but one was 6’4” tall and the other 5’6” small, so they were known as Big Luuk and Small Luuk. I liked them from the moment I met them. They were warm and friendly, laid-back and constantly smiling. They had been in their jobs a number of years and it showed. It was like having your two favourite uncles around who you hadn’t seen for years.
Don and I and the two Luuks went and met the UC in a bar not a million miles from the Yard. He was a big guy; he made Big Luuk look not so big. He wore leather trousers that didn’t leave a lot to the imagination, and he had a head like a pit bull. He and I got on from the moment he squeezed my hand and introduced himself as Hans. We spent until the early hours talking, drinking and joking, and also coming up with a plan for the operation. By the end of the night, it felt like we were the best of friends. Don spent most of his time talking to the Luuks, and they agreed when we would travel over on the first deployment.
It was far too late for me to get home, and there was no way I could drive, so they paid for a hotel room for me for the night. I said my goodbyes, as I had to be up and away early the next morning to return to the reality of my day job on the Flying Squad. We agreed that we would see each other again in two weeks’ time in Holland. The next fortnight seemed to take an age to pass.
Nine
I woke up ten minutes before my alarm was due to go off at 5 a.m., doing my best not to wake up my wife as she slept next to me. I jumped in the shower, brushed my teeth and then went into the utility room to put on the clothes I had laid out the evening before. I crept out of the house and was sat in the car as the alarm on my phone went off indicating it was now five. My packed case had sat in the boot since nine o’clock the previous night. I liked the smell of the leather in the Mercedes that I’d been given to use on this trip. This car had proved lucky for me in the past, and I hoped it would continue.
I drove the forty-five minutes to Don’s house without encountering any traffic. He was looking out the front window of his Brookside Close–style house as I pulled up. He went straight to the boot, and when he then opened the passenger door we realised that we both had the identical red Ralph Lauren jacket on. ‘We must co-ordinate o
ur wardrobes before the next trip,’ I said, laughing at him. Before I could drive off, he had to go through his OCD routine of checking for his passport, three denominations of money, and the reference number for the tunnel. Just as I was about to drive off, he leapt out of the car and quickly tried the door of the highly polished car that sat on his drive, to confirm it was indeed locked.
The Channel Tunnel had only opened a couple of years earlier, in May 1994, and I had never had the occasion to use it. I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. We were in plenty of time when we pulled off the M20 at junction 11a and handed our passports to the lady in the cubicle. She handed me a letter to place on the interior mirror of the car I was driving, and we were told our train was in fifty minutes and it would be announced in the service area. We grabbed a coffee and agreed that it was far too early to eat.
Don had got us each a thousand pounds’ worth of French francs, Belgian francs and Dutch guilders for the trip. Like a dad handing his son weekly pocket money, he gave me an envelope of crisp notes in the three separate currencies. The remainder of the time was taken up with him arguing with me about the fact that I had not purchased the kit that was required by French law to apply to the headlights of the car, or the spare bulbs and emergency triangle. I was not in the slightest bit concerned by this, but for Don it was another thing he was stressed about.
Our number was called and I followed a line of traffic onto a train platform and into the shuttle. I was told to park, apply my handbrake and keep the windows open. It was a strange experience sat on a train inside one’s own car. In thirty-five minutes the shuttle quietly arrived in Calais, and the doors opened and all the cars made their way tentatively off the train.
Don and I had agreed that we would stop at Cité Europe and fill up the car with booze, as we both knew that we would not be in the mood on the return journey. We looked like a couple of luvvies from the King’s Road; neither of us wanted to push the trolley. We argued amongst ourselves as to whether Tesco was cheaper than Carrefour. We opted for Carrefour and stocked up on Cellier des Dauphins and J. P. Chenet, along with a number of cases of Export 33. I also grabbed a Reblochon cheese, but I knew I’d have to wrap it over and over again and hide it from Don, as it would truly stink the car out.
We filled the vast boot with our booze, and as expected Don stacked them in a neat and organised manner. He wanted to ensure the boxes were positioned so that in six days’ time, on our return, he could take his from the right and mine would sit on the left. But I knew that as soon as we started driving, his excellent organisational skills would be made irrelevant, as the cases would move around, and it would be a free-for-all on Sunday.
It’s hard to believe now that for a journey to Holland, three different currencies were required. We made sure that we stopped in Belgium for breakfast so we could spend their francs. The breakfast consisted of lovely hunks of bread, a pot of butter, some Gouda cheese and two bowls of jam. We both fancied sausage, egg and bubble, but as a substitute this was very tasty. We washed it down with fresh coffee and cigarette smoke. Neither Don nor I smoked but it appeared that everyone else in France and Belgium did, wherever they were.
We continued our journey to the south of Holland, and carefully made our way to the address of the house where Don was going to stay with our handlers. In preparation, Don had purchased a detailed map of the area the week before, from the National Map Centre on Caxton Street, opposite the Yard. Don was probably – no, definitely – the most organised and professional person I knew; everything he did was meticulously thought through. In fact, he and I were complete opposites, except that he had similar sartorial style to me.
We were greeted like long-lost relatives, and the smell of fresh coffee filled the kitchen/dining room. Hans and both Luuks were there, and we discussed the plan for the next six days. The rules when working overseas are that if it is an operation on behalf of that country, you abide by their laws and their protocols. The briefing was very laid-back; Hans wanted to get my face known in the area and there were many bars that he wanted to visit. I must admit it didn’t sound too stressful. The conversation between Don and the two handlers involved which restaurants the three of them would eat at over the next few days. Tall Luuk said, ‘Remember, Don, if you don’t eat or drink you die. This is very important.’
I grabbed my case from the boot of my car and put it into Hans’s vehicle. We drove the half an hour or so to his apartment. It was a large, loft-style, open-plan affair with exposed brickwork; apparently it had formerly been a bakery, and there was a stream running down the side that used to turn the large wheel for grinding the flour. The main thing was there were two bedrooms, both with en-suite, so our modesty would remain intact.
Hans and I spoke as if we had known each other for years, but it was incredible that not once did we speak about our own families. This ensured that we didn’t blur the lines. All Hans knew was who I was as an undercover officer, and nothing about the real me.
We went out that evening much later than we would have in London. It appeared that most local people would eat a meal with their family or friends at home, before heading out to enjoy many drinks later on. The Dutch people put us to shame: they were polite, educated, and knew how to get the work–life balance right. Everyone spoke English – most of them very well. They also knew how to have a good time and could drink. Unbeknown to me, it was the lead-up to Carnaval in this part of the Netherlands. This tradition was associated with the Catholic faith and took place over three days prior to Ash Wednesday. In modern-day Holland, the carnival has continued without any association with religion, and is a time for people to enjoy themselves. Roads close, businesses shut, and many people take a week’s holiday to celebrate in the bars and restaurants. There is a certain style of music that is played in the bars, and lots of dancing. The Dutch don’t need a reason to party, but for the next few days they had the perfect excuse.
I was introduced to many people whose names I would never remember, but they were all so friendly it seemed the perfect place to work. We partied into the night, and their appetite and endurance were far greater than mine. I told Hans I was spent and needed to sleep – after all, it was 3 a.m. He agreed, and we both hit our beds feeling a little worse for wear.
Amazingly, I managed to sleep until 9 a.m., which was surely a record for me. Hans was still asleep, and I made an abortive attempt at filling the coffee percolator, then instead settled for a glug of orange juice to wash down two paracetamol. I rang Don, but he didn’t pick up. I was later to find out that he and the Luuks hadn’t gone to bed until 4.30 a.m. The fridge looked a tad devoid of food, so I slipped on a pair of joggers and took a stroll into the town, which was only five minutes away. It certainly cleared my head, and I bought some fresh bread, butter and a selection of cut meats and cheese, along with some fresh milk.
By the time I got back, Hans was up and the strong smell of coffee filled the apartment. He was in his training gear and he looked huge; he wouldn’t have been amiss on Muscle Beach in LA. He invited me to come to the gym, and against my better judgement I accepted. It is no exaggeration to say he ruined me in the gym; he made me lift weights and do repetitions that I’d never done before. I was fit – football fit – and I wasn’t carrying any weight, but I couldn’t and didn’t lift weights. There were women in the gym with bigger muscles than I could dream of having. He certainly was a strong boy, and I was glad I had him in my gang.
We spent the remainder of my stay visiting as many places as we could. We drank a lot, ate plenty and met many, many people, but slept very little. We worked well as a team and the handlers were very grateful for the hours that we put in.
The journey home seemed a lot longer than the way there. We were both weary, and Don said the two Luuks could party for weeks and his body could not cope with another six days like that. He said that he’d insisted that they went and saw their families, just so that he could stay out of the pub.
I wore my sunglasses all the way back
, not because it was a sunny March morning, but because my eyes were so tired and sore. We were both glad when we arrived at Calais. Although we were early, we were sure that if it wasn’t busy we would be allowed on an earlier train. We showed our passports and were directed into a small garage area that was controlled by British customs officers. All Don would say is: ‘I fucking knew it – it’s because you’ve got those glasses on.’ We were subjected to a full and thorough turnout. They had everything out of the boot; they opened the cases of beer and put the car up on the ramp. It was as if they genuinely expected to find something.
Don was being pleasant and answering all their questions, but I had taken a different approach, and apart from showing them my passport didn’t give them the time of day. It was a good forty-five minutes that they kept us in the garage, and they ran sniffer dogs over all our luggage and purchases. I’m surprised the dogs could smell anything, as the Reblochon cheese truly stunk after six days in the boot. The whole garage smelt of it. They told us that they were finished with us and the car, but no one apologised for delaying us. I could see that one of their Geltex high-visibility jackets was hanging over a chair near the boot of our car. I saw the look on Don’s face as he knew exactly what I was going to do.
I unwrapped a few of the plastic bags and removed the circular cheese, then dropped it into the right jacket pocket and quickly secured the Velcro fastener. We drove out of the garage and were waved through the secondary checkpoint and onto the shuttle. Don did not say a single word until the train started moving towards England. He looked at me and shook his head: ‘I cannot believe you did that. You are such a cunt.’ We burst out laughing, and the laughter continued for most of the journey. We both knew this had been our first visit of many to Holland, and we were more than pleased with the way the operation had started.
