To Hell in a Handcart

by Richard Littlejohn

  There was another course of action available to Fromby and Peel. These were well-connected people. His file could accidentally fall into the hands of the Russian mafia in London. The head of the Russian mafia was rumoured to be living a few streets away from Fromby, in a large mansion on the eastern fringes of Hampstead Heath. The Russian trade mission was closer still, just up West Hill, in Highgate.

  Germany meant a life sentence. The Russians meant a death sentence.

  And if he tried to go missing, or reneged on the deal, his picture would be posted on every police noticeboard in London and on the front page of every newspaper. Deputy Assistant Commissioner Peel would lead the hunt.

  Ilie had to hope the police found him before the Russians, but Peel couldn’t guarantee it.

  Either way, he was fucked. He was a free man or a dead man. You choose, Ilie.

  You’ll do it? You will.

  Our survey said, top answer.

  ‘We’re here, guv.’ The cabbie’s voice jolted Ilie back to reality. ‘That’s fifteen quid exactly.’

  Ilie peeled three five-pound notes from a wad Fromby had given him for expenses. Walking-about money, he’d heard the Londoners call it.

  ‘Fifteen quid. Exactly,’ repeated the cabbie, expectantly.

  Ilie stared at him.

  ‘That’s what’s on the meter,’ the cabbie said.

  ‘I give you fifteen,’ said Ilie.

  ‘Fucking gyppoes,’ muttered the cabbie, deciding to call it a night. He wasn’t going to get a decent fare in Tottenham at this time of night, let alone a tip. More than likely he’d get rolled for his takings.

  Ilie ignored him and walked into the hostel. Maria was waiting for him in his room, sitting on the bed, red-eyed, worried, scared.

  She flung her arms around his neck.

  ‘Where have you been? Tell me.’

  Ilie fastened her jaw in his right hand and forced their mouths together. He felt her tears on his face. Hot, moist, passionate.

  ‘Not now,’ he said.

  He pushed her back onto the bed, lifted her skirt, seized her damp gusset in his fist and tore off her pants. He unzipped his jeans and drilled his cock inside her.

  Ilie came instantly, convulsively. As the tensions of the day surged from his body he emitted a visceral scream, like a wolf caught in a trap.

  It would have woken the dead, let alone the family of five Somalis in the next bedroom.

  Maria had become accustomed to brief, brutal love-making, ever since their first adrenalin-fuelled coupling up against a wall at the side of Euston railway station. Ilie was not big on foreplay. She didn’t complain. She loved him. When he was asleep she would finish herself off, drawing her knees together, gently squeezing her lips, massaging her clitoris with her index finger, lubricated by the warm semen Ilie had left behind.

  Tonight was unlike any other time they had made love, however. There had been no thrill, no excitement, no suggestion of love. This was raw sex in its literal sense. In other circumstances it would have constituted a violent rape.

  But she had consented. She wanted him.

  She needed to be close to him. He was all she had in London. She would hold him tight all night. Perhaps they would make love again. Maria stroked Ilie’s head.

  He got up from the bed, folded his sticky, detumescent dick into his Y-fronts and zipped up his jeans.

  He bent over and kissed Maria gently on her forehead.

  ‘I have to go out,’ he said.

  ‘No. Stay, please stay,’ she pleaded.

  ‘I have to go. There is something I must do.’

  ‘Can’t it wait? You have just come in.’

  ‘No, it has to be now.’

  ‘Tell me what it is you have to do.’

  ‘I can’t. Not tonight.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Sometime, maybe. I have to go.’

  Ilie had formulated his plan in the cab on the way back to Tottenham. Fromby and Peel had told him what he had to do but had not stipulated when he had to do it.

  The sooner it was done, the better. No time like the present, Ilie figured.

  Tomorrow he would get his life back.

  Ilie pulled the address and directions from the back pocket of his jeans.

  With luck, he could be back in bed with Maria in an hour and a half, maybe two hours, tops.

  Ilie left the hostel and walked a couple of blocks. He turned into a side street behind Tottenham Hotspur football ground.

  He needed a car which would not attract attention. He saw it immediately. A black London taxi. The police would not think of stopping a black cab.

  Using the skills he acquired in Hamburg, he was in the driving seat in seconds. The owner hadn’t even bothered fitting an alarm. Who was going to half-inch a black cab, for heaven’s sake?

  The diesel engine clattered into life. Ilie selected Drive and eased the car out of the side street and onto Tottenham High Road, heading east towards the North Circular.

  As he approached the junction with White Hart Lane, he noticed a drunk waving furiously at him, beckoning him to pull over. Ilie switched off the yellow For Hire sign.

  He would need petrol, not for the cab, but to start the fire. He pulled into an all-night filling station and checked the boot. There was a fuel can, full of diesel. No good. It had to be petrol. He emptied the diesel in the gutter and walked over to the pumps. He put a gallon of four-star in the can, approached the window and offered a ten-pound note in payment.

  ‘You do know you’ve put regular petrol in there?’ said the young West Indian cashier, helpfully.

  Ilie regarded him with contempt. Lippy schwartzer.

  ‘I mean, your cab runs on diesel, doesn’t it?’

  Ilie ignored him and walked away.

  ‘Just trying to help, mate.’

  Ilie turned and walked back to the cab.

  ‘Fucking gyppo,’ the cashier spat, thinking that he’d never seen a gyppo driving a black cab before and noticing that he hadn’t bothered to pick up his change. That would buy him a drink later.

  Nice motor, the cashier remarked to himself as Ilie turned back onto Tottenham High Road.

  He was admiring the car which pulled away from the kerb and glided into position roughly fifty yards behind the taxi driven by Ilie Popescu.

  The black S500 Mercedes.

  The big man in the front seat of the Merc studied a sheaf of Polaroids.

  ‘He went back to the house with the guy, after they left the police station. That’s them going inside,’ said the man in the back.

  ‘He can’t resist it, Popescu, can he? Small-time crook. Fucking bag-snatching. That’s a long way down from stealing half a million dollars,’ remarked the big man. ‘Who’s he, the other guy?’

  ‘Lawyer, I guess.’

  ‘And the woman?’

  ‘She turned up at the house later.’

  ‘Wife?’

  ‘Don’t think so. She didn’t seem to have a key. She rang the doorbell. Some kid let her in. That’s him there, going out about twenty minutes later.’

  The big man glanced at the photo of Wayne Sutton and discarded it. The last few shots were of Ilie Popescu leaving the house with the man and woman standing in the doorway.

  ‘He left alone?’

  ‘Alone.’

  ‘Stop anywhere?’

  ‘No. I never lost sight of him. He went straight into the building, hostel, I guess. That’s when I phoned you.’

  ‘Was he followed?’

  ‘No. Only by me.’

  ‘Were you followed?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  The big man dialled a Moscow number on his cellphone.

  Thirty-eight

  Curiosity got the better of Ricky Sparke. Back at his flat, he went to his desk drawer and retrieved the package Mickey French had handed to him in Spider’s.

  Guard it with your life, Mickey had implored him.

  A bit dramatic, Ricky thoug
ht. Could have been the booze.

  He’d meant to ask Mickey about its contents in Spider’s but, one way and another, events and several bottles of Chilean Chardonnay had overtaken them.

  Mickey hadn’t raised it, even though he had promised to tell him, he must have forgotten, too.

  Ricky poured himself a nightcap, drummed his fingers on the desk, picked up the package, shook it next to his ear, squeezed it, juggled it between his hands, weighing it up.

  Mickey hadn’t actually told him not to open it.

  And he had a perfect right to find out what it was he was meant to guard with his life.

  Ricky eased open the package and tipped the contents onto the desk. A cassette tape and some official-looking police documents concerning a juvenile called Trevor Gibbs. Didn’t ring any bells.

  Ricky took the cassette from its case and inserted it into his state-of-the-art Nakamichi tape deck.

  He hit PLAY. The tape crackled into life. It was pretty lo-fi, devoid of Dolby compression, flaws all amplified by his digital Meridian active loudspeaker system.

  Ricky sat back and listened.

  A man’s voice. It was Mickey.

  Younger, but still Mickey. And a woman.

  Ricky rewound the tape, listened to it a second time, then picked up the phone and punched in Mickey’s number.

  Engaged.

  Ricky tried several times over the next half-hour. Permanently engaged.

  Eventually the number rang out.

  Mickey answered.

  ‘I thought you’d taken the phone off the hook,’ said Ricky.

  ‘I’ve been talking to Andi, in Florida,’ said Mickey.

  ‘Shit, of course. Sorry, mate. I forgot. Everything OK?’

  ‘They’re all fine.’

  ‘Look, why don’t you just piss off and join them? It’ll do you good to get away.’

  ‘Next week, maybe. The week after,’ said Mickey, non-committal.

  ‘What’s keeping you?’

  ‘I’ve got a lot of thinking to do.’

  ‘Would it have anything to do with the package?’ Ricky asked.

  ‘Yeah. Sort of.’

  ‘Who’s the bird?’

  ‘What bird?’

  ‘The bird on the tape,’ Ricky said.

  ‘You’ve listened to it, then?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I thought you might. You’ve always been a nosy fucker. Never mind. I meant to tell you this afternoon, but, you know, one thing led to another.’

  ‘One bottle led to another, as I recall,’ Ricky elaborated.

  ‘Yeah, right. Sorry, mate, I’ve got a lot going on inside my head right now.’

  ‘So who’s the bird?’

  ‘She’s called Roberta Peel. She was a young plonk when I was at Tyburn Row.’

  ‘I know that name. Isn’t she the bird they’re saying is going to get the Met?’

  ‘The very same,’ Mickey confirmed.

  ‘I saw her on TV the other night. Nice tits.’

  ‘Always has had.’

  ‘You didn’t?’

  ‘Oh, do leave off.’

  ‘I heard Fromby’s name. Conceited wanker. If you don’t mind me saying, what I heard on that tape didn’t exactly strike me as kosher.’

  ‘It’s called perverting the course of justice, old son,’ said Mickey.

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear. That would be seriously embarrassing for a couple of people, for instance, a celebrity lawyer and a high-flying lady cop.’

  ‘Got it in one. How do you think I got out of that spot of bother at the holiday camp?’

  ‘Aha. It fits.’

  ‘I threatened to go public, with the tape. Fromby backed off.’

  ‘I don’t blame him.’

  ‘Trouble is he now knows I’ve still got the evidence.’

  ‘No, I’ve got it,’ Ricky reminded him.

  ‘You’ve got copies of the original documents and the tape,’ Mickey said. ‘I’ve still got the originals and the knife.’

  ‘Why don’t you let me look after them, too?’

  ‘I don’t want to involve you if I don’t have to.’

  ‘Mickey, I am involved,’ Ricky stressed.

  ‘They don’t know that. They needn’t ever find out.’

  ‘Who else is in this loop?’

  ‘There’s one other copy of the tape.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Florida.’

  ‘I should have guessed. Andi knows all about it, then?’

  ‘No secrets in this house, Ricky.’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘Dunno. Thought I’d clean my guns.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Helps me relax. I always try and clean the shooters when the kids are out of the house.’

  ‘I didn’t know you still had your guns.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m still a licensed marksman. If you’ve been in the Job, sensitive areas, diplomatic protection, Branch, that sort of thing, they let you keep them.’

  ‘I thought the government banned handguns, after Dunblane,’ said Ricky.

  ‘They did, except for terrorists, criminals and Old Bill.’

  ‘Yeah, I wondered why since they banned guns the number of armed robberies and drive-by shootings had gone through the roof.’

  ‘Another triumph for British justice,’ said Mickey.

  ‘By the way, who’s the other bloke I heard mentioned. Marsden, was it?’ Ricky enquired.

  ‘Yeah, Eric Marsden. Old-school copper. Bit of a heavy-handed cunt, but he got the job done. He’s dead now. His son’s a DI out this way, Angel Hill. Bright lad. I knew him as a boy and came across him a couple of times when I was still in the Job.’

  ‘And Gibbs, was it?’

  ‘Trevor Gibbs. Good family, lovely parents, but he was a complete tearaway. Got into drugs, bit of blagging. Runs with the Yardies these days. Nasty piece of work.’

  ‘And he was the real beneficiary of this little arrangement?’

  ‘I’ve often thought about that over the years. If we’d have put him away then, who knows? Fucking Fromby.’

  ‘Yeah, but you went along with it,’ Ricky reminded him.

  ‘For the sake of old Eric Marsden, really. And, well you heard it on the tape, I thought the girl, Peel, had a big future. Why fuck her career over some little toerag and a charge which might never stick?’ Mickey said.

  ‘You’re still implicated. You’re not thinking of going public?’

  ‘As I said, dunno.’

  ‘Think they might come after you or are they banking on you staying shtoom?’

  ‘They can’t be sure what I’ll do. Neither can I.’

  ‘If you do blow this, could you go down?’

  ‘Possible.’

  ‘Don’t do it, mate,’ Ricky implored him. ‘For Andi’s sake. And the kids.’

  ‘Look, I’m not going to do anything rash. You just look after that little package, OK?’

  ‘Trust me.’

  ‘I have thought about destroying them, but …’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I dunno if I can play that card again.’

  ‘You’ve threatened to do it, but you haven’t actually done it. They can’t be sure whether or not you’ll ever pull the trigger,’ Ricky reasoned.

  ‘We’ll all just have to wait and see, won’t we? I’ll pick you up tomorrow.’

  ‘The car’s at the radio station,’ Ricky reminded him.

  ‘I’ll get an early train, swing by and collect it. See you usual time.’

  ‘Brilliant. Oh, and Mickey.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Careful with those guns.’

  Thirty-nine

  Mickey French fondled the short barrel of the .38 Smith & Wesson model 36, Metropolitan Police standard issue during the 1980s. He knew the specs by heart.

  Barrel: 1.9 inches, snub nose. Weight: 21 oz unloaded. Stock: smooth combat wood. Ramp front, rear notch fixed. Five shot, single or double action
. Ammunition: .38 steel-jacket, 110 grain, hollow point.

  Easily concealed in either a shoulder holster or the hip holster which lay on the table in front of Mickey. Weapon of choice for personal protection officers.

  Mickey knew the weapon inside out. Light pressure on the trigger for single action, roughly 4.5 lb pressure for double action – double tap in police parlance.

  One shot normally was enough to stop the target, take him down, straight away. They called it the knock-down effect.

  The .38 Smith & Wesson packs a powerful punch for a small pistol. Mickey had a particular affection for this gun. It was the first he had ever been issued with.

  Together with its companion model, the .38 Number 10, a six-shot revolver with a 4.5-inch barrel, the Smith & Wesson Number 36 formed the core of the Met armoury up until 1987.

  It was a Number 10 which PC Trevor Locke managed to conceal under his raincoat after being taken hostage in the Iranian Embassy siege in 1981. Mickey was there for five straight days, providing armed back-up.

  Mickey put the Smith & Wesson back in its holster and fastened the safety clip.

  Although still in use around the world, the .38 was becoming something of a museum piece.

  The new generation of automatic and semi-automatic handguns had replaced the trusty old revolvers.

  Like the Glock 17 which Mickey now held in his right hand. Calibre: 9mm. Barrel: 4.5 inches. Weight: 24.8 oz unloaded. Stock: polymer. Sights: fixed and adjustable, optional night sights. Features: unique safe action system with three internal devices that disengage as the trigger is pulled and re-engage automatically. A tough, lightweight gun. The only metal parts other than the bullets are the barrel, trigger mechanism and slide.

  Now the most popular handgun in the Met, the Glock’s magazine holds seventeen 9mm parabellum hollow-point bullets for rapid fire at 1,350 feet per second. It’s said to be virtually idiot-proof. The safety catch is on the trigger and the weapon can be carried locked or unlocked.

  This was the gun with which Mickey had been issued for home protection and still held a licence to keep. Ex-cops, particularly those who had served in the anti-terrorism or weapons divisions, were vulnerable to revenge attacks even after retirement.