To Hell in a Handcart

by Richard Littlejohn

  ‘What’s he in for?’

  ‘Malicious wounding.’

  ‘OK. I’m on my way.’

  Justin Fromby called a cab and arrived at Tyburn Row three-quarters of an hour later.

  The desk sergeant needed no introduction. ‘Evening, Trotksy,’ he said dismissively. Justin didn’t rise to the bait.

  Roberta appeared from the corridor.

  ‘This is Mr Fromby,’ the sergeant told her.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Fromby,’ she said, without the slightest hint of recognition. ‘I’m WPC Peel, from the juvenile section. If you would be kind enough to follow me, I’ll take you to your client.’

  Roberta showed Justin into the cell.

  ‘Hello, Trevor,’ said Justin, immediately.

  ‘Hello, Mr Fromby.’

  ‘You two obviously know each other.’

  ‘Yes, WPC Peel, we do. This is Trevor Gibbs. He lives on the Parkgate Estate. I know his father.’

  ‘Don’t tell my dad, please Mr Fromby.’

  ‘OK, but they’ll need your name and address. I’ll handle it.’ He turned to Roberta. ‘The law allows my client to be interviewed in the presence of a parent or responsible adult. I shall sit in for his father.’

  They walked out of the cell and back to the custody area.

  ‘The boy’s name is Trevor Gibbs,’ she told the sergeant. ‘He is ready to be interviewed. Can you call PC Marsden?’

  ‘I’ll fetch him from the canteen. I fancy a cup of tea. The walk will do me good,’ the sergeant said.

  Once the sergeant had left the custody area, Roberta ushered Justin into an ante-room.

  ‘Well? Who are we dealing with?’

  ‘His dad is Everton Gibbs. He’s the community leader on the Parkgate. A good man, standing for the council. What about the boy? What have you got on him?’

  ‘He’s alleged to have cut another boy, a white youth, in a fight outside the chip shop. Marsden found a blade and he’s bagged it for prints.’

  ‘That’s unfortunate.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Three weeks ago, in this station, I represented him. He was cautioned for possession of a knife. On the day-shift. I forget the name of the arresting officer off the top of my head. Young chap, maybe twenty-three or -four. Trevor’s father doesn’t know. If any of this came out it could seriously undermine his position. He might even lose the election. We need men like him on the council. We’ve got to prevent Trevor being charged.’

  ‘How the hell are you going to do that? Marsden brought him in, he’ll be the interviewing officer. I’ll only be sitting there.’

  ‘I can handle Marsden. But you’ll have to lose the knife and his form.’

  ‘I can’t do that, for God’s sake. What if someone found out?’

  ‘They had better not. Look, it’s late, there’s hardly anyone around, no one will know.’

  ‘Marsden will.’

  ‘He’s a lazy bastard. I’ve come across him before. A bit too handy with his fists. I’ll deal with him.’

  When Marsden appeared five minutes later, Roberta retrieved Trevor Gibbs from his cell and led him into the interview room.

  Justin spoke first. ‘I would like to place on record that this is an unlawful arrest. My client has been subjected to a racially motivated assault. He is the victim here. Furthermore he alleges that you, PC Marsden, beat him up. I am preparing a formal complaint.’

  ‘Oh, do fuck off, Fromby. I’ve heard it all before. All the spades pull that stroke.’

  ‘I won’t listen to racist language,’ Roberta interrupted.

  ‘You’ll shut up and do as you’re told, petal. Or have you been promoted while I’ve been in the canteen?’ Marsden barked back.

  ‘This young man’s father is a respected figure in the community, a personal friend of your commanding officer. You, on the other hand, have a reputation for, shall we say, heavy-handedness. Given the choice between a frightened, fifteen-year-old boy from an oppressed minority and a fat thug like you, I think I know who people will believe.’

  ‘This interview is suspended right now,’ Marsden said. ‘Take him back to his cell,’ he told Roberta. ‘We’ll resume later.’ Marsden returned to the canteen to consider his options. Justin went outside for a long smoke.

  As Roberta led Trevor Gibbs through the custody area, another young officer was bringing in a prisoner, a drunk and disorderly.

  PC Mickey French smiled at Roberta, then looked at her prisoner. As they passed, Mickey grabbed hold of Trevor’s arm, spun him round and took another good look.

  ‘OK,’ he said.

  ‘Mickey?’ said the desk sergeant.

  ‘Nothing, sarge. Let’s get this geezer booked in, D&D. Complaint from the landlord of the Dun Cow.’

  Roberta put Trevor back in his cell and left the custody area. She walked along the corridor, past the canteen, up the stairs and into the juvenile bureau. She switched on an anglepoise lamp and walked over to a filing cabinet. It was unlocked. Under G, she found it. Gibbs, Trevor, possession of an offensive weapon, to wit, one knife. First offence. Caution administered and recorded. Arresting officer, PC107 French.

  Fuck it.

  ‘Found what you were looking for?’

  Mickey French startled her.

  ‘Er, yeah.’

  ‘And what are you going to do about it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve been talking to Eric Marsden.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Fromby’s trying to fit him up on an assault on the prisoner.’

  ‘I reckon he did beat him.’

  ‘Eric denies it. Says he got the injuries in the fight outside the chip shop. Sounds about right. I nicked Gibbs the last time. He’s a nasty little fucker. You going to charge him?’

  ‘Mr Formby says that if we charge Gibbs, he’ll make a formal complaint against Marsden.’

  ‘If this caution comes to light, you’ve got no option but to charge him.’

  ‘What should I do?’

  “That’s up to you, girl.’

  Roberta thought that this was no time to raise the issue of inappropriate sexist language. Actually, she rather liked Mickey. He wasn’t as much of a bastard as the older Plods.

  ‘Fromby knows about the previous. He wants me to lose it. And the knife,’ she blurted out in panic.

  ‘What, this one?’ said Mickey, waving a plastic bag above his head containing the knife Marsden had confiscated from Trevor Gibbs.

  ‘Where did you get that from?’

  ‘Never you mind. What are you going to do with the previous?’

  ‘The way I see it is that everybody wins here. Fromby gets what he wants, Marsden’s off the hook. Everybody’s happy,’ she replied, nervously.

  ‘And what if I don’t give a fuck and turn you in?’

  Roberta froze.

  Mickey raised his other hand. It contained a small cassette recorder. It was still running.

  Shit.

  ‘Give me that,’ he said, motioning his hand towards the folder Roberta held under her arm. ‘You’re a lucky girl.’

  ‘Lucky?’

  ‘There’s two copies still in here. Usually we keep one and send the other to central records at the Yard. This hasn’t gone off yet. I must have forgotten.’

  ‘So what happens now?’

  ‘You’re a silly fucking cow. Old Eric Marsden may be a cunt but he’s only got a year left to his pension.’

  Roberta was in no position to take exception to the use of the vaginal expletive or to protest about being called a silly fucking cow. She knew she was a silly fucking cow. At least on this occasion.

  ‘So?’

  ‘So why wreck anyone’s career here. Eric Marsden’s or yours?’

  ‘What about the sergeant?’

  ‘He is the original wise monkey. He sees nothing, hears nothing, says nothing. He doesn’t want to know. No charge, no paperwork. He’s sweet. Fromby’s hardly going to say anything. Th
e boy certainly won’t object to being released. Eric will stay shtoom and he’ll put the frighteners on the skinhead who picked him out. He’ll tell the sergeant that Gibbs is being released pending further inquiries. That’ll be the end of it.’

  ‘And you? What’s in it for you?’

  ‘I don’t want Eric going down the shitter and I reckon you’ve got a big future.’

  Nice tits, too, he thought.

  ‘What are you going to do with all this – the knife, the file, the tape recording?’ she asked.

  Mickey stroked the stubble on his chin and shrugged his shoulders. ‘I haven’t thought about it. Nothing, maybe. Who knows?’

  Eight

  Ilie Popescu knew the men from Moscow would come looking for him. His father, Marin, had set him up in the car-smuggling business and sent him to Hamburg, where he stole Mercedes, BMWs, Audis and Porsches to order and shipped them to the former Soviet Union. The hard cash he sent back to the Tigani helped finance his father’s other line of business, an organized begging racket across Western Europe.

  At twenty-one, Ilie was an accomplished car thief. It was easy money. In the first six months, Ilie successfully stole and despatched cars worth almost $3 million on the black market. The deal was always cash on delivery.

  On a roll, emboldened by an unblemished track record, Ilie met his Russian contact and explained that in future he would need half the money up front. He had overheads, he explained. There were police officers and port security guards to be paid off.

  The message was relayed to the men in Moscow, who were unhappy about the new terms and conditions. But they trusted Marin Popescu, with whom they had done business for several years since the fall of Communism. They would extend that trust to his son.

  A week later, Ilie received $500,000 in advance of his next consignment, in unmarked, used notes in a leather attaché case, passed to him by his contact in a bar off the Reeperbahn. In return he was handed a list containing the marque and specification of the vehicles he was to supply, some of them destined for clients in the Middle East.

  The deliveries were to be completed within one month. Ilie would receive the balance when the cars arrived in Moscow.

  That gave him plenty of time to party. He was a good-looking boy, lean, about 5ft 9ins, with short, jet-black hair, chocolate-brown eyes and a winning, slightly menacing, smile. In Hamburg, he had developed a taste for expensive clothes, nightclubbing, whores, cocaine and gambling.

  Cocaine and gambling don’t mix. There’s calculated risk and then there’s recklessness. Ilie came down on the recklessness side of the equation. In one week in the casinos, Ilie blew the thick end of $350,000 on the tables, $350,000 the Russians had given him as a down payment.

  So what? Ilie told himself. It doesn’t concern them. They’ll get their cars and I’ll get the balance.

  The cocaine convinced Ilie he was invincible. It also made him sloppy.

  His modus operandi had always been to target vehicles belonging to Hamburg’s high-rollers and wealthy industrialists, importers and exporters. He stole them individually from parking lots and garages, paying off chauffeurs and car park attendants for information and silence.

  Single car thefts attracted little attention from the authorities. The owners were irritated, but insured for full replacement value. Why should they worry?

  Within a fortnight, Ilie had frittered the whole $500,000. He hadn’t stolen a single car for over two weeks, his Russian contact was becoming concerned. Don’t panic, Ilie reassured him. Have I ever let you down?

  That night, his tame policeman, Jurgen Freund, called at his hotel for his regular $10,000 monthly retainer. He found Ilie in bed with two whores. The room was littered with empty bottles – champagne, Polish vodka, scotch. The whores were sharing a substantial joint. Ilie’s eyes were on stalks and his nose was streaming.

  ‘I’ve come for my wages,’ the cop said.

  ‘You’ll have to wait. I don’t have the money right now,’ Ilie replied.

  ‘Not good enough,’ Freund said.

  ‘Hey, relax, man. Have a drink. Have a smoke. Hey, baby,’ he said to one of the prostitutes. ‘Be nice to the man.’

  ‘I didn’t come here to get laid. I came to get paid,’ Freund said angrily. ‘Two weeks ago, you received $500,000 from the Russians. Do you think I’m stupid? All I want is $10,000. You owe me.’

  ‘I said you’ll get it.’

  ‘You’re running out of time. You’ll never make your delivery. You haven’t stolen one car in the last two weeks.’

  ‘I’ll be fine. I’ve got it covered.’

  ‘Don’t get careless,’ Freund warned.

  ‘I’ve got it all worked out. There’s a car transporter coming in from Wolfsburg on Friday. Problem solved.’

  ‘That’s not the way it works.’

  ‘It does now. Why steal cars one at a time when there’s a dozen for the taking? It makes no sense.’

  ‘Only if you’ve done the amount of coke you have, Popescu. You must be mad. You’ll attract attention to yourself. We might be able to overlook the odd Mercedes here, the occasional BMW going missing there. But a transporter-load? No fucking chance.’

  ‘Who’s running this operation?’ Ilie barked.

  ‘You’re on your own this time, my Roma friend.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ screamed Ilie, pulling a pistol and pointing it at Freund’s face. The cop backed away from the gun and opened the door to leave.

  ‘Fuck you, I don’t need you. You’re off the payroll. Now get out.’

  Two days later, a car transporter pulled off the autobahn near Hamburg and onto a slip road. It drew to a halt at a set of temporary traffic lights.

  Ilie Popescu and another Romanian, Gica Dinantu, also from the Tigani, scrambled up an embankment, scaled the side of the cab and ordered the driver at gunpoint to get out and surrender the keys.

  The driver offered no resistance. He climbed calmly from the transporter and walked away with a measured step. Ilie took over in the driver’s seat, Gica rode shotgun.

  As Ilie engaged the gears and eased the transporter forward, the driver started to run. He threw himself over the embankment and rolled downhill.

  Ilie laughed. This was a piece of piss. He pressed the accelerator and drove the giant transporter straight through the traffic lights, which he had put there fifteen minutes earlier.

  Ilie Popescu had just stepped up a division and out of his league.

  As the transporter rounded the first bend, Ilie was confronted with the flashing blue lights of a police roadblock. Cars and personnel carriers filled the road ahead. Armed officers crouched behind them.

  Freund, the double-crossing bastard.

  Fuelled by cocaine, Ilie hit the gas and charged the roadblock. A volley of shots pierced the windscreen. Ilie ducked instinctively as the first salvo somehow missed his head.

  Freund had no intention of taking them alive.

  ‘Gica, fire back man, FIRE BACK,’ he screamed. His words landed on dead ears.

  In the passenger seat to Ilie’s right, Gica Dinantu was slumped forward. The top of his head had been shot off. Blood and brains oozed out of his skull.

  Ilie ploughed through the roadblock, scattering police cars like Dinky toys. Bullets bounced off the side of the transporter and ricocheted around the cabin. Miraculously, Ilie was unscathed.

  The massive bulk of the transporter was being propelled with unstoppable momentum. Despite the power steering, Ilie struggled to maintain control. The tail of the heavily laden articulated vehicle swayed violently from side to side, like an agitated alligator.

  Ilie clung on as he kept his foot flat on the floor, trying to put as much distance as possible between himself and the Hamburg police department armed response unit.

  In the passenger side rear-view mirror, Ilie spotted a police motorcycle gaining on him. The pillion passenger had a high-velocity rifle trained on the transporter. The cop fired twice, puncturing the front nearside tyre, which
exploded and shed its rubber tread like orange peel.

  Ilie hit the brakes. As he did so, the police motorcycle skidded, hit a pothole and began to cartwheel. The two officers were killed on impact as the bike sliced through the back window of a brand-new Mercedes E320 estate car, upon which an antiques dealer from Hamburg had already paid a substantial deposit.

  They were ejected onto the tarmac when the transporter lurched to the right and turned turtle at 110 kmph. It skidded off the road and travelled a couple of hundred meters on its roof, crushing its top floor cargo like cigarette cartons, before spinning again and crunching to a halt, driver’s side up.

  Ilie had retained consciousness throughout, courtesy of the copious quantity of cocaine he had consumed before setting out on his first big-time lorry hijacking.

  He tried to push open the driver’s door, but the force of gravity conspired against him. He attempted to lower the window, but the electrics were dead. With his right foot, he kicked out what remained of the windscreen, unfastened his seat belt, swung from the door handle and jumped.

  He landed safely and rolled, parachute-style, away from the transporter. He looked up and saw in front of him an M320 sport utility vehicle which had slipped from its berth of the lower deck of the transporter, been thrown clear and landed on all four wheels, remarkably unscathed.

  Ilie yanked open the door, dived under the steering column and twisted the ignition wires together. The old hotwire routine. The engine sparked into life.

  The tank contained enough gas to put maybe ten kilometres between Ilie and his pursuers, if he was lucky. The motorcycle cops were the advance guard. The rest of the posse was still some way off.

  Ilie pushed the gear lever into Low and engaged the four-wheel drive. He guided the M320 about fifty metres away from the scene of the crash and turned towards the transporter, which lay motionless on its side, displaying its seventeen remaining tyres and soft underbelly.

  Ilie lowered the electric driver’s side window, pulled the pistol from his belt and pumped six shots into the fuel tank. As the first flames shot into the air, Ilie gunned the M320 in the opposite direction.

  He was about 250 metres away when he heard the explosion. The reflection in the rear-view mirror turned bright orange. The heat from the fireball engulfed the M320 but it outran the flames. Ilie didn’t look back. He knew the inferno would keep the chasing policemen at bay.