by Alfie Robins
The Georgian pub around the block from Hull’s Central Police Station was always busy no matter what the time of day. The place was packed with a mixed clientele, the high flyers having their late business lunches, the leave-work-early crowd having one for the road before heading off home to their families, and the usual out of work hardened drinkers who had been in there since opening time.
Warren and Suit number One headed for a booth at the far end of the lounge bar. Number Two went to the bar to order drinks. A few minutes of stilted small talk followed until number Two came across with a tray of drinks, and set them on the table.
‘How does this work with Cole?’ Warren asked, as he picked up his pint of lager off the beaten copper topped table.
‘Mr Cole was discreetly lifted four nights ago in Birmingham, along with two of his closest colleagues as they left an Indian restaurant.’
‘Where are they now?’
‘Out of sight and out of mind. Cole is enjoying the hospitality of HMP Belmarsh, while his colleagues are enjoying some good old Scottish hospitality – courtesy of HMP Peterhead.’
‘Have they been charged?’
‘Not yet – maybe sometime – maybe never.’
‘And you can do this?’
‘Sergeant, we can do what we like.’
He was impressed.
Warren sat quiet, his head full of questions waiting to be asked. ‘What happens now?’
‘You have your warrant card?’ Suit number One asked, holding out his hand. Warren removed his warrant card from his jacket pocket and passed it across.
‘Thank you.’
Warren kept his arm extended, holding out his hand. ‘A new one?’
‘You won’t be needing one for a while Sergeant.’ This wasn’t what Warren expected. He shook his head from side to side, wondering what the hell he’d signed up for. ‘And that was the last time anyone will call you Sergeant.’
‘For the immediate future anyway,’ number Two added
‘What happens next?’
Suit number Two took a business card out of his jacket pocket and handed it across. ‘Be at this address at nine o’clock in the morning.’
The address was a business park in the west of the city.
‘By the way,’ said Warren, ‘what should I call you, sir, guv or what?’
‘I’m Bob,’ said suit number one ‘and he’s John.’
‘That’s it, Bob and John?’
‘That’s all there is.’ They stood up to leave, their drinks hardly touched. ‘See you in the morning Greg, or perhaps I should say Mr Cole.’
The three men shook hands and they left. Warren was left nursing his pint wondering what the future was to bring.
‘Well that went better than I expected,’ Bob said as they made their way back to their vehicle.
‘You think he’s up to the job?’ John asked as he clicked the key fob.
‘He’s got a good record, a good thief taker.’
Bob climbed in to the front passenger seat of the BMW and strapped himself in.
‘Yes, but that’s not what I asked,’ John said as he settled into the driver’s seat.
Bob shrugged his shoulders. ‘Granted he’s lacking in undercover experience, but as things stand he’s the best chance we have. Everyone has to start somewhere, as long as he keeps that temper of his in check I can’t foresee any problems.’
‘We’ll see.’ John slipped the car into drive and drove the brand new BMW X6 M out of the station car park.
Philip Martin and Gordon Harrison, AKA John and Bob, had for the past six years headed up a covert intelligence department answerable only to the Home Secretary, it was a department with no name, consequently very few people outside of the Home Secretary’s Office knew their real names.
Since its conception the department had enlisted a team of highly experienced skilled individuals from all branches of the uniformed services, drawn from the SAS, SBS, the Parachute Regiment and the Police Force.
Operatives served all over the globe, often alongside their counterparts in other international law enforcement agencies, on occasions necessitating the need to venture deep undercover for prolonged periods in the fight to thwart terrorist organisations or to infiltrate global and home grown organised crime. On the whole, the majority of those enlisted served their time with the department on home ground, working within the borders of the United Kingdom or Europe.
Fighting crime in such shadowy circumstances, with a team of individuals, many of whom were of dubious character, had proved to be very lucrative all-round to those involved. Those who didn’t care where the cash came from and knew how to keep their mouths closed were well rewarded. Consequently, John and Bob were now very wealthy men – and they hadn’t finished.
Chapter 3
Warren never went back to the office, he collected his vehicle from the multi-storey and picked up a takeaway then spent a lone evening occupied with a multitude of thoughts, a doppelgänger… undercover… promotion, how the hell had all this happened out of the blue? Confused, but feeling pleased with the prospect of the ‘exciting’ opportunities ahead, Warren spent the rest of the evening listening to music – with a bottle of single malt for company, he was too wired for sleep and it was well past midnight before he settled down.
He was already awake when the alarm clock duly rang out at 7.30am. In anticipation of a big day he had taken it easy with the malt, and was in a much better frame of mind than he usually was first thing in the morning. He swung his legs to the floor, sat for a moment and then padded off to the bathroom. He let the beads of the power shower work their magic, towelled himself dry, shaved and went back to the bedroom. He took his best suit from the wardrobe and dressed, white shirt and navy blue tie. Dressed and breakfasted with the obligatory coffee he sat at the kitchen table, glancing at the wall clock every couple of minutes.
‘In for a penny in for a pound,’ he said out loud to the empty house. Dressed to kill, with his car keys in hand he left the house.
The start of the first day of the rest of his life.
He was puzzled when he arrived at his destination, a non-descript modern, two-storey office unit on the Priory Business Park on the western edge of the city. He knew the area well but was puzzled. ‘Can’t be right?’ he said out loud as he picked up the business card off the passenger seat and checked the address, no mistake. He threw the card back onto the seat. It was the right place. He drove through the security gates into the gravel car park and parked next to two expensive four-wheel drives. He climbed out, locked his car and crunched his way over the gravel. The brass nameplate, fixed on the wall adjacent to the entrance door stated the building was the head office of Gemmell Strategies.
Who the hell are Gemmell Strategies? He was sure it wouldn’t be long before he found out. Reaching out with his right hand, he was just about to press the intercom button.
‘Just push the door,’ a voice said through the speaker grill. ‘Straight up the stairs, first door on the right.’
Warren thought he recognised the voice as belonging to Bob. The foyer of Gemmell Strategies was stark, all very institutionalised with no reception desk; no furniture at all, the ambience was made complete with plain magnolia painted walls minus the obligatory Monet prints. As instructed, he climbed the stairs two at a time, his shoes echoing in the empty stairwell. Two doors at the top of the stairs, Warren knocked on the one to the right as instructed and walked in.
‘Greg, good to see you, on time as well,’ John said looking at his watch as Warren entered the austere office, which was also lacking in any frivolities or personal items.
‘Pour yourself a coffee and make yourself comfortable.’
‘Morning gents,’ Warren said as he looked around the office, scanning for the coffee machine.
Two battered metal frame desks, a bank of filing cabinets lined the length of one wall and a large free-standing whiteboard occupied most of the floor space. The whiteboard covered with eight inch by ten-inch photographs of Ray
mond Cole. Warren helped himself to coffee, pulled over a chair and sat looking around at the stark surrounding of the functional office. ‘Nice place,’ he remarked, flippantly.
John walked over to the window and turned around facing into the room. ‘Serves its purpose. So, Greg, any doubts?’
‘I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have any reservations about it, but I made my decision and stand by it. I’m not one to back down on my word,’ Warren said with trepidation.
‘Glad to hear it.’
Bob sat scanning through a manila folder.
‘Your service record, impressive,’ he said, closing the folder giving it a pat with the flat of his hand. ‘It does seem you let your temper get the better of you on occasions.’
‘That’s all in the past,’ Warren answered.
‘Also I noticed you’ve never had any firearms training? He looked to John, ‘nothing that can’t be put right?’ John nodded his acknowledgement. Firearms, Warren raised his eyebrows. It didn’t go unnoticed. ‘I can’t see the situation arising when you may have to use one, but still the training can only stand you in good stead, don’t you agree?’
John stood up and walked over to the whiteboard and pointed an outstretched arm at various photographs of who could only be described as Warren’s twin.
‘Raymond Cole, currently detained in segregation at HMP Belmarsh.’ Warren stood up, walked across and joined John by the whiteboard. ‘As far as his colleagues are concerned, they will be alerted to the fact that Cole escaped from custody on his way to appearing in court. It will be well publicised, the television news channels, the national papers etc.’
‘And me?’ asked Warren as he returned to his chair and sat down.
‘You my dear chap, you start studying,’ John picked up a thick file marked confidential and dropped it into Warren’s lap.
‘Cheers,’ he replied with a twisted smile on his face.
‘And may I suggest you lose the suit, Cole is not known for being a snazzy dresser, he’s more of a jeans and jacket type of a man.’
Since the day Warren had walked away from Hull Central Police Station he had never had any contact from his former colleagues, not even his former DI had made the effort to get in touch. Whether it was due to officialdom Warren didn’t know, but it was obvious they had been warned off. He was now well and truly off the radar. Over the following weeks Warren spent every waking hour learning the ways of another man, in all respects he became Raymond Cole. Gone were the sharp suits, replaced with casual gear bought from chain stores. He walked like Cole, he spoke like Cole, and everything about him oozed Cole. To all intents and purpose he was Cole, and he’d been answering to the name with no hesitation for days.
To help keep things under wraps, Warren underwent his firearms training in Rotherham, with South Yorkshire Police rather than at the local Police range. He had always been somewhat apprehensive about using firearms. Using a lethal weapon was something that had never appealed to him. The thought of taking someone’s life turned his stomach, ok, he’d had his fair share of physical altercations before and during his career life, but guns? Being the professional he was and as the new job necessitated the possible use of one, he was determined to do his best.
Warren reported to South Yorkshire Police Firing Range and was kitted out with the standard issue firearms unit uniform of black combat type overalls and ‘monkey boots’. Feeling self-conscious in the black uniform, he stood listening intently to ex-Special Forces, Firearms Instructor Sergeant David Dosdale. Warren thought Dosdale to be in his early forties, blond hair turning grey and with piercing blue eyes; he didn’t look the type of copper you messed with. Dosdale was to be his instructor for the two-day intensive crash course.
‘We’re lucky, we have the range to ourselves today,’ said Dosdale as he led Warren through a maze of corridors to the firing range. The range had soundproof walls and ceiling, a long counter type top was divided off with partitions making individual firing cubicles. Facing down the length of the range, in front of each cubicle was 100 metres of narrow free area, with a target at the far end worked by an electronic pulley system. Dosdale laid the aluminium case he’d been carrying on the counter top, flicked the catches and opened the case, inside was a firearm, two magazines and two boxes of nine millimetre shells. He picked up the weapon and held it carefully as if it were the crown jewels.
‘This is the Sig Sauer P226, a 9mm calibre automatic and it takes a 10-round magazine, it’s been around since 1976, tried and tested and it’s still a favourite with our Special Forces. The frame is a lightweight alloy and the slide is stainless steel.’ Dosdale picked up an empty magazine, clicked it into place, slid the mechanism and passed the weapon over to Warren. ‘Don’t worry it’s not loaded. It can be your friend or your worst enemy, respect is the name of the game, respect your weapon and it will be your friend, treat it badly and well...’ He shrugged.
Warren held out his hand and accepted the deadly cold metal firearm.
‘Heavy, I wasn’t expecting it,’ he said as he passed it from one hand to the other as if checking the balance.
‘Near enough thirty-four ounces when the magazine’s full, slightly heavier with the fifteen round mag.’ Warren passed back the Sig. ‘Right, grab a hold of these,’ he said passing Warren a pair of safety glasses and ear protectors.
Under the instruction of Dosdale, Warren was taught the finer points of the Sig 17. Starting with the firearms safety features, how to hold the weapon competently and how to stand correctly when using a weapon and how to load the magazine.
‘You’ll have seen the “gangsta” lads holding their weapons like this?’ He held the gun one handed at arm’s length, the weapon on its side. ‘Unpredictable, no strength in the wrist, with the kick-back the weapon produces the bullet would probably end up where it wasn’t intended. Not good if there are civilians in the vicinity.’
Warren nodded.
‘Whenever possible use two hands, like this, it’s not only safer but you maintain full control of the weapon.’ The instructor demonstrated the correct two handed firing position, holding the grip firmly in both hands, with the trigger finger outstretched in front. He passed the weapon back to Warren to get the feel for it. Once Dosdale was sure he had a full grasp of the safety requirements and felt confident that Warren had the ‘feel’ for the Sig, they progressed to arming the magazine with live ammunition. Then the live firing demonstration began.
Warren settled himself in the partitioned-off firing booth, and put on the safety glasses and ear protectors. The fully-armed Sig lay on the counter top in front of him. Warren looked down the range at the target 50 metres in front of him. He picked up the Sig and assumed the firing position.
‘Straight down the range and watch your target, aim for the body, the largest mass. Single shots in your own time,’ said Dosdale.
Warren nodded and aimed the Sig down the firing range towards the paper, taking his time he sighted down the weapon, released the safety catch, took a deep breath and slowly squeezed the trigger. ‘Bang’, it wasn’t like the sound of a television gun, it was a real BANG, loud and deafening even through his ear protectors. The kick-back travelled through Warren’s arms and body, he took a deep breath and then he gently squeezed the trigger again, continuing steadily until the magazine was emptied.
Warren cleared the weapon and placed it down on the counter top, while Dosdale pressed a button and an electric motor whirled, bringing the target towards them. Of the ten shots fired, seven had found their mark in the centre mass of the target.
‘Not bad,’ said Dosdale, ‘now reload the magazine and do it again.’
This was repeated again and again until all rounds were within the centre circle. Once he had proved his competence on the firing range, things moved up a level to tactical work. Indoors and outdoors, Warren was placed in combat situations. After two days of intensive training Warren felt comfortable, maybe not quite the expert as Dosdale, but he was pretty confident and to his
surprise he found he enjoyed the experience and the respite from the office.
Then it was back to the office of Gemmell Strategies and his studies.
While Warren, or Cole as he had become, was yet again sat watching another DVD of his alter ego, John and Bob sat in the main office discussing his progress.
‘What do you think of our lad then, Bob?’
‘To be honest John, when we started out I did have reservations about him, but, I have to admit they seem to have been totally unfounded.’ He stood up from his desk and walked across to the large window, his hands in his pockets he stood as if he was admiring the view across the River Humber, then turned back to face into the room. ‘He’s ready.’
‘My thoughts exactly, ask him to come through will you?’
John went through to the smaller office where Warren paced up and down, practising his swaggering walk.
‘Looking good, Greg,’ he said, ‘have a minute?’
Warren nodded and followed John back to the main office.
‘Sit down,’ said Bob, John remained standing.
‘Sounds ominous,’ said Warren.
‘Not at all.’ Bob opened the buff coloured folder that lay before him on the desk and started flicking through the pages. ‘I would say all the preparation has been taken care of.’
‘So, what happens next?’ asked Warren, apprehensively.
‘We move on to the next stage, or should I say the first stage of the operation, proper,’ said John as he walked over and perched on the edge of the desk. ‘In approximately one hour’s time, Cole will be seen leaving HMP Belmarsh to attend a court appearance in central London. There will be enough distractions made by “our” prison officers in the main building, making it pretty hard NOT to know what was happening.’
Bob took over the story.
‘Yes, Cole will be driven out of the prison for approximately two miles, under maximum security, but never leave the vehicle I might add, he will then be driven back to the prison, entering through a secure service entrance. None of the prison population will be any the wiser that he had returned. As far as the inmates on the segregation block are concerned, they will be on lock-down and as far as they will be aware he never left the building.
