Suits and Bullets

by Alfie Robins

Grimes could tell from Warren’s appearance something was amiss, no smart suit or shiny shoes and the hair, no longer a close crop cut, but longer – no style, like the beard.

  ‘Not at all mate, I’m here as long as you need me – well, until we get pissed or they throw us out,’ he said trying to lighten the atmosphere.’

  ‘You remember that day I was called into the Super’s office?’

  ‘Yeah I remember, you walked out with those two blokes never to be seen again – until now that is.’

  ‘Well I’m telling you, I wish I’d never fucking met them.’ He hesitated, picked up the malt and knocked it back in one. ‘It goes something like this…’

  For the next hour and two pints, Warren gave Grimes chapter and verse of what had happened from his meeting with the Suits: the assumed identity, the firearms training, the drug deal and how he had been set up on the Seabird.

  ‘Bloody hell Greg, that’s some story, straight out of some paperback crime novel. No wonder you’re bloody paranoid.’

  ‘What brought you to that conclusion?’

  ‘You’ve never kept your eyes still since I arrived, constantly checking the place out.’ Grimes signalled to the barman for another round of drinks. ‘That’s it, you’ve told me everything?’

  ‘Not quite everything, the gun that was used to execute the crew of the Seabird – it was mine.’

  ‘So, when they dig the bullets out at the post-mortem they can link them to you?’

  ‘Only if, and it’s a big if, Bob and John themselves have linked me to the weapon.’

  ‘Where’s the gun now?’ Warren gently tapped the side of his jacket. ‘For fuck’s sake Greg, you shouldn’t be carrying that through the streets. You’ve got to let me hand it in.’

  ‘Sorry Bill, I can’t do that, if I do I may as well admit it was me who shot those two blokes. The evidence is stacked up against me.’

  Silence.

  ‘I take it from what you’ve told me you were responsible for putting William Boland in hospital?’

  Warren smirked. ‘Didn’t know that was his name, he was a little shit. I called him Hillbilly. It was one of those situations, know what I mean? Impulse, if I’d just slapped his wrist, the next time he fancied having a go I wouldn’t have seen him coming.’

  ‘I had one of the uniform lads trail through the CCTV near where he was found, all we could see was a grainy back view of someone walking away from the alley. I said to Scotty, the bloke looked familiar, the way he walked, held himself. Never in a million years thought it would be you.’

  ‘A kid with attitude. Had to be done.’ He picked up his pint, seemingly studying the condensation running down the glass. ‘You going to help me?’

  ‘I’ll think about it while I go for a piss.’

  Grimes stood and went to the gents. Warren sat waiting impatiently for his return, tearing a beer mat into tiny pieces while checked out the faces.

  The DI returned and sat down. ‘Ok.’

  ‘Thought you were going to say no, want another?’

  ‘No thanks, had enough.’

  ‘So what is it you want me to do?’

  ‘Raymond Cole, according to my “handlers” he’s on remand in Belmarsh, can you get me anything on his current situation?’

  ‘That it?’

  ‘Gemmell Strategies, who they are and which department they’re linked to, anything you can get me.’

  ‘In the meantime what are you going to do?’

  ‘That raises another problem. They’re supposed to be available twenty-four seven, seems they’ve gone off the radar. I haven’t been able to contact them for twenty-four hours. I’m going to take a drive out that way when we’re finished here.’

  ‘Is that wise?’ asked Grimes. Warren gave him a quizzical look. ‘Because you’re half pissed?’

  ‘You do have a point. Maybe in the morning.’

  ‘Right then, I’m heading off,’ Grimes stood and eased the crick in his back. ‘I’ll be in touch.’ He held out his hand. ‘Text me that phone number.’

  ‘Keep it to yourself?’ Warren asked looking into his eyes, keeping a firm grip of Grimes’s hand.

  ‘No problem, pal.’

  The next morning before paying a visit to Gemmell Strategies, Warren packed his meagre belongings into his rucksack. It was time to move on – but to where? he asked himself. If he stayed put, his so called handlers would soon have him under surveillance and on top of that Conway or one of his cronies could pay a visit at anytime, day or night and it wasn’t a risk he fancied taking.

  The flat on Beverley Road was also an option he ruled out and at one point considered moving back into his own home, but decided against it for the time being. A bed and breakfast seemed to be the logical answer. Twenty minutes after locking the Great Thornton Street flat he was pulling into the car park of a budget hotel along Springbank, The Shangri La. Warren chose the hotel for its close proximity to the town and the fact that the parking area was around the back, out of casual view.

  He backed the Fiesta into a space, facing the car park entrance should he have need to leave in a hurry. With his rucksack slung over his shoulder he walked around the front of the hotel, up six concrete steps and into the dated foyer. A young female receptionist sat behind the desk – busy.

  ‘Excuse me? Warren said to the girl behind the desk filing her fingernails. ‘You have a vacancy?’

  ‘Thirty-five pounds a night and that doesn’t include breakfast,’ the girl behind the reception desk said without even looking up.

  ‘Sounds ok to me,’ he said, dropping the rucksack to the floor.

  ‘How long are you staying?’ She asked, putting down the nail file.

  ‘Probably a week or so.’ Warren replied as he looked around at the shabby foyer, hoping it wouldn’t be for too long.

  ‘Fill this in,’ she said passing over a registration form, ‘and I’ll need your credit card details.’

  ‘Cash ok?’ He said as he started to fill in the registration form with fictitious details.

  ‘Suppose so, I’ll need a week in advance.’ Warren paid for two weeks up front.

  ‘Third floor, number twelve.’ Was all she said as she passed over the key, which was attached to a piece of plastic.

  ‘Thanks, enjoy your day,’ he replied sarcastically after the short transaction. She obviously wished she was somewhere else as she once again started work on her manicure.

  Warren put the key in the door and turned the lock, he was quite surprised when he walked into the en-suite room. A double bed, large Ikea type wardrobe and dressing table, above all the room smelled clean and damp free. He threw his rucksack onto the bed and dropped down beside it. After unpacking his meagre belongings he had the same old problem – where to stash the Sig? Bottom of the wardrobe? Under the mattress? The room offered little in the way of places to conceal the weapon; he settled for the old option and removed the panel below the bath, wrapped the weapon in a towel, pushed it to the back and replaced the panel.

  ‘Right, time for a visit,’ he said to the empty room when the Sig was safely concealed. At the Priory Business Park, he parked the Fiesta well away from his final destination, he wanted to approach Gemmell Strategies discreetly, not in a noisy, highly tuned up Ford. From a distance nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary, the building looked the same as the last time he was there. The deep gravel of the car park crunched underfoot, glancing up he could see the security cameras on the front corners of the building. Not much chance of surprise then, he thought as he approached the doorway, expecting a voice to call out through the brass grill near the admittance button.

  No voice, he pressed the bell, still no response and pressed again, this time keeping his finger on the button. Hammering on the door itself also proved to be no use. Then a voice came through the speaker grill. ‘Can I help you?’ Warren didn’t recognise the voice.

  ‘DS Greg Warren, open the door please,’ Warren demanded reverting back to his old self.

  ‘S
orry sir, the building is unoccupied at the moment.’

  ‘Who am I speaking too?’

  ‘Security sir, you have activated the remote sensors. Is there anything I can help you with?’

  ‘Unoccupied, do you know when it will be occupied?’

  ‘Sorry, sir, as far as we are aware they are on shut-down until further notice.’

  What the hell is going on? ‘Gemmell Strategies, do you have a contact number?’

  ‘We do sir, but I can’t give you it without verifying your identification.’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ Warren took out his wallet and found the original business card Bob had given him. ‘If I read out a couple of numbers, will you at least confirm if they’re the same ones you hold?’

  ‘I can live with that sir.’ Warren read out the numbers and waited. ‘Yes sir, that’s the numbers we have.’

  The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced Gemmell Strategies were responsible for his current predicament – he was an expendable resource. There was no reason as to why, only the fact that he had helped to put a very large amount of money into John and Bob’s pension funds. Reason enough.

  The drive back to the Shangri La was easy enough, traffic was light. He parked the Fiesta around the back of the hotel and used the rear door to enter. No sooner was he in his room than a text message came through. It was from Grimes. ‘Need to meet urgent, same place, two hours.’

  Warren was puzzled about what could be so urgent, there was nothing he could do to hurry the meeting, it was a question of being patient. He checked the Sig hadn’t been tampered with then passed the time away with a shower and a change of clothes. Time was still dragging and Warren decided on a quick bottle of beer in the hotel bar, if you could call an ageing 1960s style cocktail bar in the corner of the lounge a bar.

  Warren wasn’t alone in the lounge, a tall, skinny balding bloke stood at the business side of the bar.

  ‘Settled in alright?’ Skinny asked.

  ‘Yeah, thanks.’

  ‘Staying long?’

  ‘No, I shouldn’t think so.’

  ‘Not from around here then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So you’re here on business then?’

  ‘What’s with the all the questions?’ Warren snapped, not wanting to get drawn into conversation.

  ‘Just being friendly that’s all. What can I get you?’

  ‘Tell you what, I’ve changed my mind,’ he turned and walked from the lounge and out of the hotel. ‘Nosey prat,’ he said to himself as he walked down the concrete steps and headed towards the town centre. He checked his watch; there was still thirty minutes to go before the meeting. A nice steady walk, he told himself, periodically stopping and looking in shop windows, not browsing but checking he wasn’t being tailed.

  Grimes was already in the Black Boy when he arrived, a pint waiting for him on the table.

  ‘Cheers,’ Warren said as he sat down, ‘what’s so urgent?’

  Grimes leaned in closer, elbows resting on the battle-scarred table top and keeping his voice low. ‘Congratulations, your wanted status has just been upgraded to terrorism!’

  ‘Oh for fuck’s sake, how has that come about – terrorism?’ Warren picked up his pint glass and swallowed half the contents in one go.

  ‘Yeah well, you’ve been flagged up. Law enforcement agencies all over Europe are already interested in Cole’s activities; it could be seen as natural progression. Anyway, I was checking out your mate the “real” Cole, and I got pinged and locked out of the system. Just a matter of time before someone asks what I was up to.’

  ‘I’m really sorry about this Bill, the last thing I wanted was to drop you in the shit.’

  ‘It seems someone wants you found pretty quick, can’t think of a faster way to get your details out nationally. Probably be on Crimewatch tonight, then you’ll be fucked.’

  ‘Like I said, I didn’t reckon on any of this mate.’

  ‘Yeah well, it’s too late now,’ he said as he fumbled in his pocket for his e-cigarette. A little more relaxed with the faux cigarette in between his fingers, he sat back in his chair. ‘Once I got pinged, I called a mate of mine in the Prison Service and asked him to make a few discreet enquiries. It seems Raymond Cole was topped, a couple of weeks back.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Some con stuck him with a shiv, they found him dead in his cell.’

  ‘Have they got the bloke that did him?’

  ‘Some perv named Peter Price, doing life for sex offences against kids. Seems he had a gripe with Cole for cutting up his arse. Didn’t have anything to lose – he was never getting out.’

  ‘Think he was put up to it?’

  ‘Seems logical. Probably doing some screw a good turn, in return for keeping him in baccy for the rest of his natural.’

  ‘Gemmell would have the contacts to make that happen, I reckon that’s why it’s all been kept under wraps.’

  ‘What the fuck have you got yourself into?’

  ‘I keep asking myself the same question.’

  ‘Did you find anything about Gemmell Strategies?’

  ‘They’re not registered with Companies House, but then we were expecting that. There’s only so far I can go without dropping myself in it even further, the only useful info I’ve come across is they definitely run a “Black Operation”, accountable only to the Home Office if truth be known I bet even the PM won’t know they exist. One dangerous outfit.’

  ‘Who told you this?’ The conversation was making Warren even more paranoid; his head and neck constantly turning as he checked faces in the pub.

  ‘An old mate of mine, he used to do some freelance work for the Intelligence Services.’

  ‘You’ve got a lot of old mates.’ The suspicion was raising.

  ‘Lucky for you I have.’

  ‘So, as I see it I’m right up shit creek.’

  ‘Absolutely, up to your neck. You’ve no options left Greg, you have to let me take you in for your own safety.’

  ‘Can’t do that Bill, got to try and get to the bottom of this, why they were using me for their personal gain.’

  Warren picked up a beer mat and unconsciously tore it into small pieces.

  ‘Look Greg, I can have a word with the Super, tell him what’s happened, we can protect you, it’s the only way you’ll be safe.’

  ‘Like Cole you mean?’ He said, looking up from the mess he had created. ‘If they can get to him in High Security what chance would I have in a backwater nick? No thanks.’

  ‘So, what’s your next move?’

  ‘My turn to ring a pal.’

  ‘Anyone I know?’

  ‘Well actually you do.’ Warren smiled.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Let’s just say he’s a mutual acquaintance and leave it at that.’ Grimes wouldn’t be very pleased if Warren told him he was going to call Conway.

  ‘It seems to me it’s just a matter of time before they put your real name out there. A rogue copper with an automatic gun on the streets – there’ll be a hue and cry.’

  ‘Have to keep my head down and try to get this mess sorted.’

  ‘The good thing is you look a bloody mess, not like the photograph they’re likely to put out.’ Grimes stood up to leave. ‘If you need me you know where I am, just keep your head down.’

  ‘Thanks Bill, I’ll be in touch.’

  Warren wandered over to the bar, ordered single malt and returned to the table alone. As he sipped, he studied the faces of the punters, of course no one was interested in him, but he was suspicious of every face. If he was to come through this in one piece he needed access to Gemmell Strategies files.

  Warren didn’t notice the smart businessman wearing a two-piece charcoal grey suit, standing at the far end of the bar, checking his iPad and who occasionally looked into the mirror behind the optics, observing. Although Warren was a professional, this guy was good, he was better.

  Staples had been in the ‘game’ a long t
ime, too long he was always telling himself. Once he had shown he was prepared to do anything asked of him, regardless of the legitimacy, his association with Gemmell Strategies had proved to be very lucrative. He knew he was coming to the end of his tenure with the organisation, and planned to retire to a sunnier climate sooner rather than later. Terminating Warren was to be his ‘swan song’.

  Shadowing someone was the easy part of the job – he had had years of practise. He had no problems in discreetly following Warren through the town centre, back to the Shangri La. Although Warren had removed the tracking device from under the bonnet of the Fiesta, he hadn’t banked on there being two devices. The second had been concealed inside of the rear bumper, running on an independent power supply; every move the Fiesta made was recorded on Staples’s iPad.

  He made the reverse journey to the Shangri La, again with the occasional glance over his shoulder and checking in windows. ‘Give it up for fuck’s sake, Bill’s right you’re paranoid,’ he said to himself as he saw his reflection in a phone shop window. ‘Little Miss I Couldn’t Give A Toss’, was on duty when he walked into the hotel foyer. From the snide look she gave him he reckoned the skinny bloke must have told her what had happened, not that anything really did, but the story was probably embellished beyond recognition.

  From the shelter of a disused shop doorway Staples watched Warren enter the hotel. He waited a while, giving him time enough to reach his room. Then Staples crossed the busy road, up the concrete steps and walked into the hotel foyer, nodded to the girl and went to his own room. It hadn’t been hard to persuade the girl on the reception to give him the room next to Warren, once two fifty pound notes were placed in front of her.

  Chapter 25

  In his own room Warren did what he always did first, check the Sig was still in place. Leaving the panel loose, he took the weapon through to the bedroom, wondering if he was ever likely to use it. He sat in the only chair and prayed the answer would remain no. He laid the holstered weapon on the bed and took out the second mobile, changed the SIM card and called Conway.

  ‘I wondered when you’d surface. Where the fuck did you disappear to?’ he demanded to know.