by Alfie Robins
‘What’s happened?’ he asked as he tried to sit up.
‘We got turned over, that’s what happened.’
Jimbo ran his hand across the back of his head, his fingers came away bloody.
‘Fuck,’ he said as saw the blood. ‘The money – the diamonds?’
‘Gone mate, fucking gone!’ Warren offered a hand and pulled him to his feet.
‘What about the couriers?’ he asked as he rocked on his feet.
‘Not as lucky as us, had their brains blown out – with MY Sig!’
‘You didn’t did you?’ Panic set in Jimbo’s face.
Warren ignored the comment.
‘Looks like a professional hit, someone took me out as soon as I went below deck on the Seabird.’
‘You telling me the truth, Ray?’
‘Oh yeah, I topped them and left a live witness, you. ’Course I’m telling the truth. Whoever it was wasted them execution style, on their knees with a bullet through the back of the head, bullets from my gun and my prints all over them.’
‘Don’t wanna be in your shoes when you tell Mick. My bleedin’ head hurts.’
‘Yeah well, that is going to be a bit of a problem.’
‘A bit of a problem is an understatement, pal,’ Jimbo said. ‘I reckon you’re fucking dead mate, a dead man walking.’
‘Oh you’re such a cheerful bugger. One question Jimbo, did you know what was going down today?’
‘No idea until you told me an hour ago.’
‘This was all secret squirrel stuff, know what I mean? Nobody other than Big Jim, Mick and the fellas on the boat knew.’
‘What about the Dutch contact?’
‘Na, he stood to make a lot of cash. Why steal your own diamonds? Don’t make sense.’
‘None of it makes sense.’
‘Come on let’s get out of here. Bit of a trek back, you manage ok?’
‘Ray, can the bullets from the Sig be traced back to you?’
‘Now there’s a question.’ Jimbo turned around and started to make his way back to the Seabird. ‘Now where do you think you’re going?’
‘To torch the fucking thing, they won’t find any bullets at the bottom of the river – maybe a few burnt bones but no fucking bullets.’ Warren smiled as he followed the younger man, who was caked in mud from his trainers to his neck. He liked the notion that Jimbo did have his back after all. ‘But I can’t help you with the bigger problem.’
‘Bigger problem, is there one?’
‘Mick, you going to give him a call?’
‘Some things are better said face to face, Jimbo.’
‘You’re a brave man Ray, a fucking brave man.’
Back on the M62, heading into the city, black smoke from the Seabird’s exploded diesel tank could be seen for miles. Warren was glad to be back in the relative safety of the Fiesta as the first of the emergency vehicles passed them going in the opposite direction. Little conversation took place during the drive back to the city. Jimbo sat quiet, holding a dirty handkerchief to the cut on the back of his head.
‘You want dropping off at the Infirmary?’ asked Warren.
‘Nah, I’ll be ok, had worse.’
End of conversation.
The drive gave Warren time to think. Conway, Douglas and the contact in Holland were the only people who knew what was going down and when. It was a win-win situation for all involved, yet someone had had the bottle to sell them out and take the spoils for himself, again he asked himself the same question, who would have the balls?
Warren wasn’t looking forward to telling Conway there was no longer any drugs, money or diamonds. His mobile rang, he checked the number and it was Conway, Warren disconnected the call. Three miles down the road the mobile rang once more, it was Conway. This time Warren turned off the mobile. Conway could wait, more thinking time was needed.
Warren pulled the Fiesta up outside of Jimbo’s home. ‘Make sure you give that wound a good wash, and put some antiseptic on it,’ he said to Jimbo as he was easing himself out of the car.
‘Yes, Mother,’ Jimbo replied, sarcastically.
‘Give you a call later – see how you are?’
‘Whatever.’
Chapter 21
Warren dropped Jimbo off and then headed for the sanctuary of the ‘safe’ flat on Beverley Road. He was in need of some alone time, time to think without the fear of Conway bursting through the door at any time demanding to know what went wrong. He knew he would have to face him at some point soon, but not yet. He parked the Fiesta around the back of the hairdressers, climbed the metal staircase and punched in the combination lock number. Once in the flat he stripped off his muddy clothes, threw them into the washing machine and set it going. Wearing just his boxes and socks he went through to the kitchen and found the tequila bottle
The smell of chemicals from the hairdressers below invaded the place, Warren opened the window hoping the fresh air would take away the fumes. He sat in front of the gas fire. ‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ he said out loud as he poured himself a measure. Sitting on the sofa in his underwear with the tequila in hand, he tried to piece things together. He just couldn’t fathom it, why was he set up to take the fall?
In the meantime he had a call to make using speed dial one.
‘Unfortunately we are unable to take your call, please call back during office hours.’
‘You are joking me?’ He yelled down the phone. ‘You’re supposed to be available twenty-four seven!’
‘Thank you for your call.’ End of – no option for leaving a message.
Warren couldn’t comprehend what he’d just heard. Answer phone? He dialled again – the same message. He thought perhaps there was some legitimate reason no one answered and dropped the phone beside him on the settee, thinking he’d give it fifteen minutes and try again.
The mobile began to ring. ‘Thank you Lord,’ he said as he picked it up expecting the call would be from Bill or John. He glanced down at the screen it wasn’t who he was expecting, it was Conway again – he cancelled the call. Picked up the television remote and switched on the television just in time for the local news.
‘The emergency services were called out to a fire on a boat moored at a private wharf near Blacktoft, in East Yorkshire. The Fire and Rescue Service managed to put out the fire, it is believed there were two fatal casualties. It has not been determined if the fire started accidentally at this stage. Further enquiries into the incident are ongoing.’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake,’ said Warren, ‘the bloody thing was supposed to sink!’
There was no doubt in his mind that he was in serious trouble, in the shit right up to his neck. The Seabird was still afloat, no matter about in what condition, it meant the bodies of the couriers could eventually be identified along with the bullets that had killed them – with Warren’s fingerprints and DNA on the casings.
Chapter 22
Warren couldn’t put it off any longer, he knew Jimbo would be telling Conway about the ‘cock-up’ as soon as he had the opportunity. Once his clothes had come out of the drier he dressed and decided time was up, he had to bite the bullet and face Conway.
He pulled up the Fiesta outside Conway’s home, taking a couple of deep breaths to compose himself. He climbed out of the car and clicked the lock. Confidently, he walked down the path and pressed the front door bell. The door opened.
‘So you decided to show yourself! Why have you been ignoring my fucking calls?’ Conway demanded to know as Warren pushed passed and went straight to Conway’s drinks cabinet. ‘Well fucking answer!’
‘So, the lad told you what happened?’ Warren said as he took of a bottle of tequila out of Conway’s drink cabinet.
‘Course he fucking did, like you should have done two fucking hours ago!’
‘Tell you what, it looks to me like you set me up, there were no fucking diamonds or drugs. You wanted me to take the fall for whatever it is I don’t know about,’ Warren bluffed.
‘W
hat? You fucking crazy?’
‘From where I’m standing Mick, looks like you used me and the lad as patsies.’
‘Get fucking real! Just tell me where my bleedin’ diamonds and cash are!’
‘You should know, you set the deal up, and me up while you were at it.’ He poured a generous measure into a cut glass tumbler.
‘Like fuck I did.’ Conway snatched the bottle and poured himself one, grimacing as he swallowed the Mexican firewater. ‘Hate this stuff. And what the fuck do you mean – I should know?’
‘Stands to reason, very few people knew what was happening, and I know it wasn’t me. How do I know this wasn’t your idea all along? Bump off the couriers, steal the drugs and the rocks? Looks like a nice little low risk earner to me.’
‘Why would I do that? I’d have just got you to do it in the first place,’ Conway spat out.
‘Keep it looking kosher to your investors? Make a mug of me, get whoever it was to give Jimbo a tap on the head, use my gun to execute the couriers and it all points my way. Nice one.’
Conway calmed. ‘Look Ray, I can assure you I know fuck all about it. I had a lot of money invested in this fiasco. On the other hand if I find out you’ve ripped me off, you’re dead. Get me?’
‘So what happens now?’ asked Warren.
‘What happens? What happens now my friend…’
‘So we’re still friends?’
‘A figure of speech. As I was saying, you find whoever it was ripped me off and deal with them.’
‘Any ideas who could be behind it?’
‘You said it yourself, no fucker knew. So no, I don’t have an effing clue.’
‘Thought you’d say that, any chance of some cash to tide me over?’ Warren asked keeping up the pretence.
‘Piss off – go rob a bank!’
Chapter 23
The tarmac looked slick in the floodlights as the rain steadily fell, puddles formed on the tarmac of the Humber Bridge viewing area car park. A solitary vehicle, a black BMW with tinted windows stood beneath the floodlights. Condensation started to build up on the windows as John and Bob waited.
In the rear view mirror, John saw a vehicle approaching. ‘I think he may be here.’ A dark coloured Range Rover pulled up beside them, the driver killed the ignition and turned off the lights. He reached over into the back seat and picked up a briefcase. A moment later Peter Staples climbed out of the Range Rover, shut the door behind him and opened the rear door of the BMW and lowered himself in.
‘Evening,’ he said, wiping the rain from his face.
‘You’re late,’ John said, sternly.
‘Better late than never,’ not even trying to justify being ten minutes late.
‘So, your report?’ He left the question hanging.
‘No problems,’ he passed over the briefcase into the front.
Bob put the case across his knees and opened the latches. ‘No, it went easier than I expected. But you never told me there would be two of them.’
‘Two? We didn’t know ourselves. We were led to believe Cole would be operating on his own.’
‘He had a young guy with him, but as I said, no problems – contract fulfilled.’
‘The crew of the yacht?’
‘As I’ve said, the contract had been completed.’
‘Good,’ he passed over a bundle of cash. ‘This is what we agreed.’ Staples didn’t check, just put the money in his coat pocket.
‘We have a freelance operation we’d like you to take care of,’ said Bob as he turned to face Staples. ‘Totally off the books of course, should anything go wrong we will be denying all knowledge. Interested?
‘Usual fee?’
‘Plus a substantial bonus once the task has been completed.’ Staples raised his eyebrows, he was already being well paid.
John opened the glove compartment and gave Staples two further envelopes. ‘Your retainer and the details of the contract. A speedy conclusion would be appreciated.’
Staples never spoke. He nodded and returned to the Range Rover. Once inside out of the rain he opened the larger of the two envelopes.
His target was Raymond Cole.
‘So,’ said John hesitating slightly, ‘I think we should inform our uniformed colleagues that Greg, alias Raymond Cole is wanted in matters relating to terrorism. And he is to be apprehended as a matter of urgency and to be held in isolation without questioning and then handed over to us.’
‘Should Staples not fulfil the contract first I take it?’
‘Exactly.’
Chapter 24
Back in the Great Thornton Street flat, the central heating had kicked in. Strangely, Warren felt at home. He was wired from the day’s events and his run-in with Conway, which had gone better than he anticipated, and settled for a mug of strong instant coffee. He walked over to the window and looked down into the parking area, no change, the same depressing view and the same group of lads with their tinnies.
Three more times he tried to contact Gemmell Strategies and again received the same voice mail message.
This just isn’t right, dropping the mobile onto the coffee table and sitting back on the settee he picked up the coffee. His mind was working overtime – going into possibilities he didn’t want to believe but there seemed to be no other alternative, on the face of it Bob and John were responsible for recent events. The more he thought about the answer phone the more certain he was. For the last time he picked up the mobile, if Bob and John had gone incommunicado was he still being monitored? Yes, he thought well this works both ways. He took the back off the mobile and removed the battery. ‘And fuck you too,’ he said as he put the unassembled mobile down on the table.
Warren picked up his mug and swallowed the now cold coffee, put on his jacket and boots and picked up the car keys. Taking the stairs he went down to the parking area, nodded to the group of lager swilling lads and popped the bonnet of the Fiesta. ‘Now where is it?’ He said out loud as he searched for the tell-tale blue light of the tracking device the Fiesta had been fitted with. He saw the flashing light reflecting underneath the steel battery tray. He reached in with his right hand. ‘Got you – you bugger.’ Twisting his arm at the wrist he managed to get a firm grip of the silver metal box no larger than a box of matches and tugged, the device came free trailing the feed wires, which he separated and tied off to prevent a short circuit. The blue was still flashing, indicating it also had an integral battery.
He dropped it to the concrete and stamped down hard with his booted foot, the light stopped, picking up the pieces he put them in his jacket pocket and walked towards Anlaby Road. At the traffic lights at the corner of Ice House Road he crossed Anlaby Road and walked up the Park Street Bridge, the road bridge over the main arterial railway track into Hull’s Paragon Station. At the other side of the bridge was a Tesco superstore. Specification or style wasn’t a necessity for his need; he bought two of the cheapest unlocked pay-as-you-go mobile phones he could, Nokia 106s. One for contacting Conway, the other for private calls as needed, along with half a dozen SIM cards.
Back in the flat, he did some more thinking while he reassembled the ‘spook’ mobile and transferred the contact list to one of the new phones. Events had moved on much quicker and he was deeper in than he ever expected. He needed a friend other than Jimbo, one who knew what they were actually doing; there was only one name that came to mind, Detective Inspector Bill Grimes. With the cheap pay-as-you-go Nokia mobile in his hand he decided he had no other option and tapped in a text message. “Need to meet, urgent, Warren.” He punched in Grimes’s number and waited – impatiently.
It wasn’t long before a reply came back and a flurry of messages followed. The meet was arranged for the same evening at The Black Boy in the old town, chosen for its out of the way location. Warren walked through the back streets to The Black Boy, feeling conspicuous, drawing little comfort from the Sig tucked away inside his jacket. He would have sooner left it behind, but felt the need of the extra security
it offered regardless of the risk.
It was only a ten-minute walk to the pub through the back streets, he judged the journey to arrive with time to spare, time to check the place out. Even though he must have visited the pub dozens of times since he first came to the city he still wanted to give the exits a once over. Once he was satisfied everything was ok he ordered at the bar. With a pint of lager and a whisky chaser he chose a table away from the pub doorway, but one that still afforded a good view of the exits. He trusted Grimes – but would he come alone? Warren kept asking himself. He knew if the boot was on the other foot he’d be tempted to bring backup.
The clock ticked its way around – eight o’clock, he had been waiting for the past fifteen minutes. Grimes said he’d be there by quarter to. Then a text came through on his mobile, it was Grimes. “Been held up at work, be with you in five.”
DI Bill Grimes, still dressed in his formal work clothes; a pinstriped two-piece suit, arrived five minutes later and walked straight to the bar. Casually looking around, saw Warren and gave a slight incline of the head. ‘Stella, please mate,’ he said to the barman.
Warren left his drink on the table and walked over to join Grimes. ‘I’ll get that,’ he said to the young bloke behind the bar passing over a five pound note, ‘and I’ll have a single malt.’
‘I’ll need more than that,’ he said pointing to the fiver.
He took the five back and handed over a tenner. ‘And one for yourself.’
‘Cheers, I’ll take a half,’ he passed Warren back his change.
‘Shall we?’ Warren nodded towards the rear table.
‘Tell you what Greg, could have knocked me over with a feather when I got your text, totally unexpected. Thought I’d seen the last of you,’ said Grimes as he sat down and took off his tie and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. ‘So, what’s all this about?’ He picked up his Stella and sipped
‘I’m well and truly in the shit, Bill.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘You in a hurry?’
