Undercover

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by Joe Carter


  Ten

  On returning from a spell away you are filled with guilt. Guilt that you have put your family, and everything that was planned for the past six days at home, in second place. Guilt that you abandoned your office, colleagues and investigations, and have had no contact with your team for that time. All these things prey on your mind.

  You know that you are part of an international investigation targeting a team of criminals responsible for the production and distribution of the bulk of Ecstasy tablets in Europe. It’s an operation that poses significant danger and challenges. But you know that no one will care about that, and you won’t be able to discuss the case or fight your corner when you’re told that you’re not pulling your weight or that you’ve let the team down.

  I knew that I would be returning regularly to Holland, and I realised that my position in my day job would become more difficult. I also understood that I had the small issue of my supervisor to deal with on his return to work.

  I arrived home and all was fine; my wife didn’t have time to worry about me – her life was chaotic and much busier than mine. She had a home to keep, the kids to deal with, and all the clubs and teams and football matches to ensure they got to. Her job was far more difficult than mine, and she did it very well. No matter how busy she was, she always read to the kids at bedtime, a talent that she had mastered to perfection. If in exceptional circumstances I was around to read at bedtime, I would always be told, ‘You don’t do the voices like Mum does.’ I know she enjoyed reading to them as much as they loved the way she told each story. I was very lucky to have such a good wife; she was a lovely person, and an even better mum. I have always thought how lucky the kids were to have her.

  I arrived back in the Flying Squad office on the Monday morning. I had dumped my washing at home and had an evening with the kids, and I was on the road at 7 a.m. I wanted to make sure that I was on top of everything before the bosses landed at nine. I kept my head down over the next three weeks, and worked longer hours and harder than anyone else in the office. I wasn’t going to give them a single reason to criticise me. The only thing that suffered was my family and the amount of time I spent with them. I would literally go home, climb into bed when everyone was asleep, and then get up the following morning and leave before anyone was awake.

  One particular evening, I was in the office alone at about 8.30 when I heard the combination door to the office open. It was Justin and the main Flying Squad driver returning from a late meeting at the Yard. The driver, Steve, was a lovely man and a very talented driver; he popped into the office and we chatted for ten minutes. He invited me down the pub for a few pints, but I told him that I had work to finish. He pointed down the corridor to Justin’s office and whispered that he’d been sat outside a pub in Victoria waiting for him to finish a few pints following his meeting. He said that on the way back he’d had a moan-up about me, amongst others, and had described me as a prima donna. Steve laughed, but told me to watch my back and disappeared to enjoy a few pints.

  About fifteen minutes later, I heard a door close and footsteps down the corridor. Justin came into the office, stood behind me and held on to the back of my chair. I could smell alcohol on his breath and cigarette smoke on his cheap raincoat. He leant forwards and spoke quietly but through gritted teeth: ‘You think you’re a clever fucker, getting that job through while I was away. Well, your days are numbered and I’m on your case. You better watch your back. I don’t know who you think you are, but you’re a nobody in this office.’

  I was so angry, and I wanted to grab his scrawny face with my hand and smash it into the wall, but there was no way I would give him the pleasure. In any case, I knew the office was covered by cameras. So I didn’t say a single word, I just turned around and stared deep into his eyes. He found the silence awkward and muttered under his breath – ‘fucking prima donna’ – as he left the office for the night.

  I shook my head in disbelief. This was the hypocritical man who had had two undercover officers working for him for three months, helping him infiltrate a team of robbers. The man was an idiot, and I knew I couldn’t work for him for much longer. I had always been taught that revenge is a dish best served cold, and these were the thoughts that I held in my head for my journey home late that night.

  I made half a dozen more trips to Holland in the company of Don, and on both occasions we were subjected to an extensive and prolonged turnout on our return journey. It appeared that the customs officers were having the last laugh over the Reblochon incident and not us. It added an extra hour and a half to our estimated journey time, and Don would say, ‘Who’s the funny one now, you div?’ I knew he was right, but it still made me chuckle, sitting in that garage in Calais.

  The operation was progressing very well and we had been invited by the targets to go to Spain on a trip to celebrate the sale of a number of restaurants by one of the individuals. The trip had been approved, and of course Don was coming along to ensure that I didn’t get into any trouble. We flew to Barcelona, and Don met up with the two handlers while Hans and I hired a car and drove an hour up the coast to meet the seven targets. These guys were all – bar one – older than us, and they ran successful businesses as well as their criminal enterprises. The majority of their daily life was made up of drinking and womanising.

  We booked into our hotel, which was chic and classy. It didn’t feel like a holiday hotel – more of a boutique place. The high season had come to a close, and the normal hustle and bustle of a Spanish seaside town had disappeared weeks before. The temperature was warm without being sunbathing weather, but you could still feel the lovely, therapeutic heat on your skin. It was a welcome change.

  Hans made contact with the guys and told me that we were meeting at 8 p.m. for a celebration dinner at the only fish restaurant that was still open. We spent the next few hours wandering around the cobbled streets of this once-busy fishing port. I admired the wooden window shutters and the pastel colours of the painted terraced houses that overlooked the narrow streets. I found myself staring at the elderly ladies who sat on wooden stools outside their houses making detailed and intricate linen handkerchiefs and napkins with their weathered hands. I loved the gold hoops that hung from their ears, and the shimmer of gold that adorned their teeth when they smiled at me. I knew that these women were the backbone of the families that lived inside these beautiful houses.

  We had a really pleasant afternoon, and then we had an hour or so to get ready before we wandered down to the fish restaurant. The evening was really warm – in fact, it felt like the temperature had gone up. The seven of them were sat outside underneath an awning, at a large table overlooking the harbour. The white linen tablecloths were covered in bottles of wine and ashtrays, but no food had been eaten yet. There was no doubt that these men had started the celebration early. We were greeted with cheers and shouts of ‘God Save the Queen.’ They were in high spirits, and enjoying the Spanish wine and beer.

  The table was like a scene from the film Goodfellas. Sat at the head of the table was Arthur – it was his celebration, and he was the reason that we had all travelled to this beautiful spot in Spain. He was a hard man, a man that had clearly fought many physical battles in his time, and his face bore the evidence of that. He was now a successful businessman, and he owned a number of restaurants and a bar. He was the number two in the organisation, and the main financial backer. The number one target hadn’t been able to travel to Spain, as a rival drug distributor had recently shot him in an attempt on his life.

  The most difficult member of the group to judge was Ludo. He rarely said a word and I always felt uncomfortable in his company. I avoided him as much as I possibly could. He watched everyone and listened far more than he ever talked. Arthur’s best friend, Pieter, was an over-tanned skinny man in his mid fifties, who wore open-necked shirts and Italian hand-stitched loafers without any socks. He had a huge horizontal scar that ran down his chest and was always on view behind the huge, gold letter ‘P’ t
hat hung from a ridiculously heavy belcher chain. This man was the mouthpiece of the group, and he came from a large Gypsy family. He was volatile and uncouth and racist. I really didn’t like him.

  We spent the night drinking plenty and picking at gambas, paella, stuffed peppers, cheese croquetas and calamari. For these men the food was a side dish to the main course, which was the alcohol. The evening got louder and the wine flowed freely. The meal finished when three cars pulled up on the harbourside. We were all given a balloon of Lepanto Gran Reserva, which I was assured was a top Spanish brandy. We didn’t sit and gently sip and appreciate such a wonderfully delicate and expensive drink, but knocked it back in two glugs.

  The bill was paid in cash by Arthur, from a vast amount of money he kept in the black leather manbag that he had on the table in front of him. We drove in convoy out of the town and into the Spanish night, disappearing into the countryside. There were three of us in each executive taxi. After about thirty minutes, we turned off the road onto a long, windy dirt track that dropped down into a valley. We drove through a large set of gates to an illuminated ranch-style building. I could see a very slim South American–looking male stood outside, as if he was awaiting our arrival. He was dressed in a tight-fitting black suit, and he had a mop of black hair that was combed back; it glistened under the lights.

  I wound down the windows to hear the chorus of crickets making quite a noise under the pitch black of the sky, which was illuminated by the thousands of stars that were clearly on display. Arthur was in the lead car, and he got out and engaged in a heated discussion with the South American for a few moments. He then removed a wad of money from the leather bag, and handed it to the slick-looking male before shaking his hand. He gestured for us all to get out of the cars and join him. We stood on the wooden veranda and Arthur explained that everything was paid for, that we had the place to ourselves and to have fun. I was listening to him as I saw the brake lights of the three cars disappear into the darkness.

  I was near the back of the nine of us as we wandered into the building. It was wooden from top to bottom, but there was a Hawaiian theme to the bar area. The room opened up to reveal about twelve girls dressed only in their bikinis – some wearing high heels and a few barefooted. They were sat on a long, high-backed pine bench, and all of them were smiling. I was stuck in that moment as I surveyed the different nationalities, hair colours and shapes of the ladies. I found myself focusing on a red fluffy bow that a tall blonde girl had on the front of her stiletto-heeled shoes.

  Arthur put his arm around me and said, ‘Have as many as you want – it’s my gift to you.’ I leant on the bar as I tried to work out the enormity of my problem. I was stuck in the middle of nowhere in a brothel surrounded by beautiful prostitutes and seven criminals, with the go-ahead to do whatever I wanted with whomever I chose, and it was all paid for. As I was going through my thought process, I ordered a San Miguel and watched Arthur grab the two youngest girls by the hand. They climbed up a short flight of stairs and disappeared behind a heavy velvet curtain.

  A very petite oriental girl came and stood next to me, and asked me to come and sit down with her. She was tiny, and had flawless skin and silky black hair that went down to the middle of her back. She grabbed my hand and made to lead me away. I handed her my glass of beer and told her to take it and I would join her after I’d used the bathroom. I watched her walk slowly and seductively over to a booth, and she blew me a kiss as I stood watching her. I walked towards the entrance and saw an illuminated top hat, which I presumed indicated the Gents.

  As I walked in, Ludo was in there looking at himself in the mirror. He was sweating profusely and was wiping the condensation off his silver-rimmed round spectacles. He put his glasses on the ceramic sink and splashed cold water on his face. He was about fifty-eight years old and had a hairstyle like a monk, with nothing on top but short cropped at the sides. He had a very large, solid, protruding tummy that had been earned over many years in bars and restaurants. He wore a short-sleeved, light-blue shirt with a breast pocket that contained his cigarettes. There were sweat marks visible and expanding under his armpits. I looked at him and said, ‘Ludo, are you OK?’ He dried the water from his face with two or three paper towels, and discarded them in the bin on the floor.

  He looked at me in the mirror as he held on to the ceramic sides of the sink, and replied, ‘No, I’m not. I don’t want to be here. I am on my third marriage to a beautiful thirty-five-year-old girl who I love very much. She will find out about this from one of them. I can’t let that happen.’

  I looked at him as he straightened his body and let go of the sink. I could see that he meant every word. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  He turned around to face me, took a step closer and held both my shoulders. ‘Please, just get me out of here. I can’t stay here.’

  I took Ludo outside. I knew there was no phone signal and I couldn’t go in and order a cab as the other men would not allow that to happen. We walked the short distance to the boundary of the brothel, where there was a small pergola with a wooden seat, where I presumed the security guard would sit during the summer season. I told Ludo to wait there and I’d be as quick as I could.

  I was in the dark apart from a flicker of light that I could see just over the hill of the unmade road. The closer I got to this light, the louder the noise of dogs became. I got to a set of large metal gates, which led up to a huge house that was in darkness, but the flicker of light came from a smaller building slightly to the left. There was an intercom system that obviously controlled the electronic gates. I buzzed it repeatedly but there was no answer, although I heard the sound of a door open and shut and the noise of dogs barking frantically. I then saw the silhouette of a very small man leading two dogs down the long driveway.

  ‘Ayudame, por favor,’ I said to the man, who was barely managing to hold the dogs with his right hand as he shone the torchlight into my face. He didn’t say a word to me, but turned on his heels and headed back up the hill with the dogs as I repeated myself: ‘Por favor.’ I heard the door open again, and then a few minutes later it shut and the tiny silhouette reappeared down the driveway. The man opened the gates with a key fob when he was about twenty-five feet away. In a German accent he said, ‘You want some help, my English friend?’

  I explained the predicament I was in and asked him if I could use his phone to call a cab. He said that he could do with a break from the house and agreed to drive me back.

  I’d been gone about fifteen minutes by the time I climbed into a large red Mercedes that looked like it was very seldom driven. The man knew the short drive to ‘the house of the ladies’, as he described it. We pulled up alongside Ludo, who was exactly where I’d left him. A huge smile erupted across his sad face and he climbed into the back of the car. He was patting me on the shoulder over and over and thanking me. I told him that it was Dieter he needed to thank and not me. We drove back into Blanes and we both invited Dieter into a tiny tapas bar for a few drinks.

  The bar was full of local people, and surprisingly busy for the early hours of the morning. There were two huge hams on stands on the counter, and the air was full of thick cigar smoke. Ludo bought the largest Cohiba cigar for himself and handed another to our new friend Dieter, who rolled it in his hands and then held it to his nose and savoured the smell. We drank beer and brandy, and after about an hour Dieter said he must get back to the ‘big house’. Ludo gave him a handful of pesetas and placed another Cohiba in his pocket. We both thanked him for his help. He left the bar with half the lit cigar hanging out of the side of his mouth.

  Ludo was so genuinely grateful for me getting him away from the brothel. He told me that I had saved his marriage. We drank and enjoyed each other’s company, and he told me many stories and opened up to me about his wasted days spent in a Belgian prison. We were definitely getting close and a trust was forming, a bond that I hadn’t previously had with him. Ludo was the quietest of the seven, and I was always worried about the
quiet ones, as they listened far more than they spoke.

  I had got up to order us two more brandies when the door crashed open, and the bar fell silent for a moment as Hans filled up the doorway. I walked towards him, realising that I had completely forgotten about him. It hadn’t even entered my head that I had left my colleague, my teammate, my partner behind. He grabbed me around the throat with his right hand and pushed me against the wall. He was a strong man, much stronger than I was or ever would be. He said through gritted teeth, ‘Don’t you ever do that again. I would not have left you there.’ He released his grip and lowered me slightly so my feet were now in full contact with the floor of the bar.

  I knew he was absolutely right. I had made a selfish decision earlier that night. Not only had I done Ludo a massive favour, but I’d also got myself out of a very difficult situation. I hadn’t given any thought to anyone but myself. Ludo had been my ticket to get us both out of the brothel. In fact, it should have been the three of us driving away together in Dieter’s car. I apologised to Hans, and like a true professional he assessed the atmosphere of the bar. He could see Ludo sat in the corner and knew that I must have done it for a reason. He went and sat with Ludo, and shouted over to me to order a large brandy.

  I wanted to give the two of them enough time to talk to one another before I returned with the drinks. By the time I sat back down, Hans had accepted a Cohiba and was chatting freely with Ludo. The three of us talked and talked for the next two hours, and there was no doubt we had made huge inroads into Ludo and he had opened up to the two of us. I asked the bar owner to order a taxi for Ludo, as his hotel was a little further away than ours and he was not in a fit state to walk. He insisted on paying the bar bill, and hugged me as I put him in the back of the car.

 

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