Hard Landing

by Stephen Leather

  After the first heroin shipment Carpenter hadn't looked back. He'd moved straight into the premier division of drug-importing and had stayed there. According to Drugs Squad intelligence he was responsible for as much as fifteen per cent of the heroin and cocaine coming into Britain. He had contacts across South America and the Far East, and a daisy-chain network of bank accounts that stretched round the world. He was as adept at money-laundering as he was at shipping drugs, and the National Criminal Intelligence Service could only estimate his wealth. They put a figure of two hundred and fifty million dollars on his net worth, but less than a fifth of that was in the banking system.

  According to the file Shepherd had read, Elliott and Roper had spent months getting close to Carpenter, working their way through his organisation, proving themselves, until they were finally admitted to the inner circle. Their evidence would be crucial in putting him away. The recordings Elliott had made, plus the statements he had given to the CPS, would still be admissible, but they were no substitute for a police officer standing in the witness box and swearing on the Bible that he'd tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

  According to the intelligence reports, the police and Customs should have expected Carpenter to move against the undercover officers. Over the previous decade three agents had disappeared while investigating his organisation. Two had been Drugs Squad officers; the third was a DEA agent investigating his links with a Colombian cocaine cartel. There was no evidence that Carpenter had had the men killed, but he was as careful to distance himself from violence as he was to keep away from drugs. Jonathon Elliott shouldn't have been out and about, not with the trial so close. Shepherd hoped that the Church was doing a better job of protecting its agent than the Drugs Squad had done with Elliott.

  Sandy Roper swung his feet on to the sofa as his wife ran the vacuum cleaner in front of the television. 'Haven't you got anything to do?' she shouted, above the noise.

  'I'm fine,' he said.

  'You can go down the pub if you want,' she said.

  'Alice, I'm fine,' Roper repeated.

  Alice switched off the Hoover and faced him. 'Sandy, we've got to talk,' she said.

  Roper grimaced and sat up straight. 'I know,' he said. 'This isn't easy for either of us.'

  'You're moping around like a wet weekend,' she said. 'If this is what retirement's going to be like then God help us.'

  'This isn't retirement,' he said. 'This is gardening leave. Until Carpenter's trial.'

  'So go and garden,' said Alice. She looked at the lawn outside the sitting-room window. 'Why don't you get the mower out or clip the hedges? Do something.'

  'I will,' said Roper.

  'You've been off work for two weeks and you've barely left the house.'

  'Orders,' said Roper.

  'If the office is so keen on running your life, they should find you something to do.'

  'It's not as easy as that,' said Roper. 'Carpenter's going to be hunting high and low for me. Until he's sent down I've got to keep a low profile.'

  'But you're a Customs officer. You work for the government. What can he do?'

  Roper knew exactly what Carpenter was capable of doing, but he didn't want to worry his wife. Carpenter only knew Roper's cover name and, provided he didn't go anywhere near Custom House, he should be as safe as houses. The head of Drugs Operations, Raymond Mackie, had gone to great pains to reassure Roper that HM Customs would do everything within its power to ensure that no outsiders, not even the CPS, would know his true identity.

  'He might try to intimidate me,' said Roper. He hadn't told his wife about Jonathon Elliott's murder, and he didn't intend to. Roper shared little about his work with his wife. She knew that he'd switched to undercover operations about five years earlier but he'd never gone into detail, letting her believe that most of the time he was working on VAT fraud. She regarded his job as worthy but mundane, and told acquaintances that he was a civil servant.

  Roper had barely known Elliott. He hadn't even been told the policeman's real name until after his death. They'd met on the Carpenter operation and had come at it from different angles so they'd only ever been in character. If Roper hadn't been tipped off that Elliott was a cop, he'd never have guessed he wasn't an out-and-out villain. He'd played the part to perfection. That made his murder all the more surprising. Elliott hadn't seemed the type to blow his cover, which meant that someone on the inside must have tipped off Carpenter's people. There was probably a bad apple within SO10, the Met's undercover unit, but as no one in the unit knew who Roper was, he should be safe. That was the gospel according to Mackie, anyway, and Roper saw no reason to doubt his logic. But Roper also knew that a man with Carpenter's resources could just as easily corrupt a Customs officer as he could a policeman. He wouldn't truly be safe until the trial was over.

  'If he did, he'd be in even more trouble than he is already,' said Alice.

  Roper smiled but didn't say anything. He'd been married to Alice for a little over sixteen years and was used to her naive view of the world. She'd had a sheltered middle-class upbringing and had been a primary-school teacher until she had given birth to their first boy. Then she'd become a full-time wife and mother, and her perception of the world was based on the evening news and the Daily Mail. Roper had done little to disillusion her. He had spent a good part of his working life hunting down men who thought nothing of destroying lives and livelihoods, who saw the law as something to be tested and broken, rather than respected and obeyed. Carpenter would see men like him and Elliott as nothing more than obstacles to be removed.

  'You're retiring next year anyway,' said Alice, sitting down on the sofa next to him. 'Why can't they let you go now?'

  'My pension doesn't kick in until I'm fifty-five,' said Roper.

  'They could make an exception for you, surely.'

  Roper smiled at the thought of the Church making exceptions for anyone.

  'You are going to retire, aren't you,' pressed Alice, 'when this is over?'

  'Of course I am. That's what we've planned, right?'

  Alice took his hand in hers. 'It's what I want,' she said. 'We've earned some time to ourselves, Sandy. You can spend more time with the boys, we can take holidays. Join the bridge club, like you promised.'

  Roper patted her hand. 'We will, love. Once the trial's over.'

  Alice leaned forward and gave him a peck on the cheek. 'Cup of tea?'

  'Lovely,' said Roper.

  Alice went off to the kitchen and Roper stared out of the window at the grass. He didn't want to get out the lawnmower. He didn't want to cut the hedges. He didn't want to join the bridge club. What he wanted more than anything was to continue working for HM Customs and Excise, keep on hunting down men like Gerald Carpenter and putting them away. Roper didn't do the job for money, or his pension: he did it for the thrill of the chase, the excitement of pitting his wits and skills against villains. Sometimes the Church won and sometimes they lost but, no matter what the result, there was always the adrenaline rush and Roper was scared to death of losing it for ever. He sat forward and put his head in his hands. There was no way he would ever be able to explain to Alice that he feared retirement more than he feared a hardened criminal like Carpenter.

  Gerald Carpenter leaned on the guard-rail and looked down through the suicide mesh at the ground floor where prisoners were milling around. Association, they called it, but there was no one on the spur with whom Carpenter wanted to associate. He could tolerate the bad food, the smell from his in-cell toilet, even the near constant rap music blaring from the cells on the ones, but having to socialise with men he despised was more than he could bear. Better to sit in his cell and watch television or listen to his stereo.

  There was a pool table on the ground floor and two dozen names chalked up. Less than half would probably get a game before it was time for the cells to be locked for the night. Three card tables had been set up. One was a regular bridge group, comprising two businessmen facing fraud charges
, a former MP accused of killing his gay lover, and a Pakistani doctor, held under the Prevention of Terrorism Act. Pontoon was being played at the other two tables. The stakes were bits of matchstick but Carpenter knew that debts were paid in tobacco. So did the prison officers, but they did nothing to stop the games. Anything for a quiet life.

  Ed Harris walked up the metal steps to the top floor and along the landing. He nodded at Carpenter and joined him at the railing.

  'Who are the new arrivals?' asked Carpenter.

  Harris nodded at Bill Barnes, who was making short work of clearing the pool table. 'Bill Barnes, second time in Shelton. Calls himself a cat burglar but he's more of a bull in a china shop. Got caught selling a couple of gold Rolexes to an undercover cop in Clapham. Standard con- the cops set up a pawnbroking operation and wait for the gear to surface.'

  'Hardly Cat A,' said Carpenter.

  'Tried to slash a guard last time he was inside. Did an extra year for that. Word is, he'll be in for a kicking at some point. The guard he tried to nail transferred here and is over on Block D.'

  A middle-aged man wearing a white shirt with blue pinstripes, and black wool trousers was standing with his back against the wall.

  'See the guy there?'

  Carpenter nodded.

  'Insurance fraud. Simon Hitchcock. Distant relative of the film director, he says. Sold policies but didn't pass the money on to his head office. Fraud Squad are looking for six million quid.'

  'Doesn't look like he'll last long.'

  Harris agreed. 'Took his wedding ring off him, and a St Christopher's medal and chain. So much for protecting travellers. Digger's already hit him for protection money.'

  Carpenter shook his head. The man was a lost cause. On the outside he was probably a big wheel at his local Rotary Club, played golf with other wheeler-dealers, got special service at the best restaurants and flew business class. On the inside he was easy meat for the sharks. 'Anyone else?'

  'Guy by the name of Bob Macdonald, not Scottish. Wouldn't give his name when they first brought him in, but he's seen sense. Armed robbery and they say his crew shot a cop. They've put him in with Jason Lee on the twos. First time inside.'

  'He's a pro, though?'

  'Handles himself like he's been around, but he can't have been in the system before or they'd have had his dabs.'

  'Hard, is he?'

  'I can't make him out,' said Harris. 'He gave Austin and his sidekick a thrashing first morning he was in, then bugger me if he doesn't go over to them in the yard and get it sorted.'

  'How?'

  'Dunno what he said but they're not gunning for him.'

  'Threaten them with harm, do you think?'

  'He doesn't come over as the threatening type.' Harris pointed down to the ground floor. 'There he is now. Prison sweats. Brown hair.'

  Harris was right, Carpenter thought. Macdonald didn't look the threatening type. He was of average height, wiry and seemed relaxed in the prison environment. There was none of the tension of a new arrival, but none of the forced bravado of an old hand. Macdonald walked over to the pool table and stood watching.

  'Tell me about the fight, Ed. Did you see it?'

  'Yeah, I was on the landing. They started it, but he finished it - bloody quickly, too.'

  'Hands, feet, head?'

  'Kicked and punched them. Not kung fu or anything flash. He was . . .' Harris scratched his nose as he searched for the right word. 'Efficient,' he said eventually.

  'Efficient?' repeated Carpenter.

  'Like he was matching their violence. Hurt them just enough to stop them.'

  'Reasonable force?'

  'Yeah, that's it exactly. He was using reasonable force.'

  Down below, the man they were talking about folded his arms and leaned against the wall. He looked up and, for a brief moment, had eye-contact with Carpenter. Carpenter was used to hard men trying to intimidate him with cold stares, but Macdonald's expression was more inquisitive, the look a tiger might give an antelope while he decided whether or not it was worth giving chase. Then, just as quickly, Macdonald broke eye-contact and waved at Harris, who waved back.

  'Nice enough bloke,' said Harris.

  'Well, anyone who shoots cops can't be all bad,' said Carpenter. 'Thanks, Ed. You need anything?'

  'Tunnel under the wall and a new identity,' said Harris. 'They're going to throw away the key this time.'

  Carpenter pulled a sympathetic face. He was prepared to throw a few home comforts at Harris in exchange for his information, but there was nothing he could do to help Harris out of his predicament. He'd been caught red-handed, literally: the bloody knife that had severed his wife's jugular vein had been in his hands when the police answered a neighbour's 999 call. And he'd confessed all to the sympathetic detectives who'd interviewed him, the tape-recorder running. More likely thannot, Harriswould die behind bars. Carpenter had no intention of suffering the same fate. He'd do whatever it took to regain his freedom.

  Gary Nelson flicked through the files in his in-tray, dropped half a dozen of the most urgent into his briefcase and snapped the lock. His wife had driven up to Newcastle to visit her mother and there was nothing on television that he wanted to watch so he planned on getting some work done. But first he was going to pick up a couple of curries. His wife hated the smell of Indian food, but if he opened the windows and sprayed air-freshener around she'd be none the wiser when she got back.

  The office was deserted so he switched off the lights as he left. He took the lift to the ground floor, acknowledged the uniformed security guard and pushed his way through the revolving door. His Toyota Corolla was in an underground car park a short walk from the office. It was starting to rain so he turned up the collar of his raincoat and jogged, clutching his briefcase to his chest.

  His car was on the second level below ground. There was a lift but it was claustrophobically small, hardly bigger than a coffin, so Nelson took the stairs.

  There were spaces for two dozen cars on the second level, but only three vehicles. Nelson's was at the far end, close to the emergency exit. His footsteps echoed off the bare walls as he walked across the concrete. Overhead there were bare pipes, stark fluorescent lights and the sprinkler system. Two CCTV cameras covered the area but he had never seen a security guard in the building. Nelson took his keys from his pocket. He looked up at the CCTV camera by the emergency exit, then frowned as he saw that the lens had been sprayed with black paint. He stopped walking and looked across at the second camera. That, too, had been spray-painted. It didn't look like the work of vandals, he realised. It was a deliberate attempt to blind the cameras. So that no one would see what was going on. The hairs on the back of Nelson's neck stood up and he shivered. He had a strong feeling that something bad was about to happen. 'For God's sake,' he muttered to himself. 'Get a grip.'

  He started walking again, swinging his briefcase and humming. He kept looking round as he approached his car, unable to shake off the dread, but he was alone. He'd been watching too many horror movies. The world was a safe place, he told himself, and he was a thirty-five-year-old male in good physical condition, not the average mugging victim. Not any sort of victim.

  Nelson jumped when he heard footsteps behind him. A man in a dark green anorak was running towards him, a black woollen hat pulled low over a pair of impenetrable sunglasses. The door to the emergency exit crashed open and Nelson whirled round. A second man stood there. Leather jacket. Blue balaclava. Sunglasses. Holding a Stanley knife.

  Nelson took a step backwards, his heart pounding. He held up his briefcase in front of him, facing the man with the leather jacket. The man was grinning. Totally confident, totally in control. 'I don't want any trouble,' said Nelson, and he could hear the fear in his voice. He took another step backwards.

  Anorak was still running towards him. Nelson didn't know what he could say to keep the two men at bay.

  'Please . . .' he said. He felt his bowels go liquid and knew he was about to piss himself.<
br />
  Leather Jacket swished the Stanley knife from side to side. Nelson stared at it in horror. Then Anorak hit him side on and Nelson crashed to the ground. His hand twisted under his chest and he felt his little finger snap. He tried to get to his feet but Anorak kicked him in the stomach and he curled up into a ball.

  Anorak kicked him again, his boot catching him under the chin and snapping his head back. Nelson started to black out. Then he was aware that his face was being slapped. He opened his eyes. Leather Jacket had a knee in the middle of his chest. Nelson blinked away tears. He could see his face, his tear, reflected in the black lenses of Leather Jacket's sunglasses.

  Leather Jacket leered at him and held the Stanley knife to his throat. 'If I cut you here, you'll bleed to death in less than a minute,' he hissed.

  'Please, don't!' Nelson gasped. 'My wallet - my wallet's in my jacket.'

  'We don't want your money.'

  'My car,' said Nelson. 'Take it. The keys are--'

  Leather Jacket pressed the knife to Nelson's cheek and sliced the flesh. Nelson felt a burning sensation, then warm blood spuring down his cheek. 'Shut up and listen,' hissed the man, his mouth just inches from Nelson's ear. 'You know the Carpenter case?'

  Nelson nodded. It was a Customs and Excise and Drugs Squad case, and he had been scheduled to give expert testimony in support of tapes recorded by two undercover officers. He had to show that the tapes hadn't been tampered with, and that the voices on them belonged to Gerald Carpenter and the agents.

  'You tell them you can't give evidence,' said Leather Jacket. 'Tell them you're sick, tell them you've had amnesia, tell them what you want, but if you turn up in the witness box we'll be back to finish the job. Understand?'

  'They'll know I've been warned off--' The man in the anorak kicked him hard in the ribs. Nelson felt a bone break and pain lanced through his side. He screamed, but the man with the knife clamped a hand across his mouth.