by Alfie Robins
The Blood Red Line
Alfie Robins
The right of Alfie Robins to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication maybe reproduced, stored into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronically, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without prior written permission of the publisher.
First Published by Kings Town Publishing. 2017.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN:978-09927594-7-6
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
About the Author
Alfie Robins was born and raised in the English east coast city of Kingston Upon Hull, known locally as, ‘Ull. Alfie left school at 15 and started work as a ships carpenter working on the trawlers on Hull fish dock. Over the years he has had a varied career, carpenter, production manager in the caravan industry, sales manager with a radio communication and a postman with Royal Mail. He is married and has three grown up children, four grandsons and lives with his wife and son in rural East Yorkshire, England.
Also by Alfie Robins
Reprisal
Snakes and Losers
A Winning Hand Loses
Just Whistle
Funeral Rites
Why Won’t You Stay Dead
Coming soon
Heads She Loses, Tails She Loses.
Acknowledgements
As always, I would like to give special thanks to my family for their encouragement and constructive, but not always welcome, criticism during the process of writing this book.
Thank you all.
Once more the novel is based in the present day in and around Hull and East Yorkshire. Also references are made to Hull as it used to be during its heyday as the country’s premier fishing port. The majority of locations mentioned do exist in Hull and the surrounding area, whilst other exist purely in my imagination.
This one is for all the boys.
The Blood Red Line
Chapter 1
The evening was closing in. Darkening clouds scudded inland above the River Humber threatening a storm as the sun sank towards the west. Eight Officers of The Humberside Police Firearms Unit, travelling in a nondescript Ford Transit, followed a top specification, black 4 X 4 Range Rover at a discrete distance. They had picked the suspect vehicle up as it left the North Yorkshire Police jurisdiction west of Goole and had been sitting on the tail of the Range Rover for approximately thirty miles.
Chatter was kept to a minimum as the team leader gave a live commentary over the communication system to the Gold Command Centre.
‘Zulu-Alfa-2-Zero to control, we are maintaining visual contact with target vehicle, continuing west along the A63 Clive Sullivan Way, passing under the Humber Bridge – continuing along A63 towards the city,’ the team leader relayed as the vehicles passed the industrial and retail parks along the banks of the River Humber. ‘Vehicle signalling to leave the A63 at the Brighton Street junction - repeat, leaving A63 at the Brighton Street junction. Control - approaching Freightliner Road roundabout, target vehicle turning left, left, left onto Freightliner Road.’ Tension built as the vehicles slowed.
The team leader, a sergeant, turned to face the officers in the rear of the van. ‘Get ready.’ Face visors were pulled down into position, helmet cameras activated and carbines made ready. The Range Rover slowed as it approached the roundabout, signalled and turned left into the industrial area. The sergeant spoke to the driver. ‘Okay, Dave, on my mark.’ No further words were needed. ‘Control, about to engage with suspect vehicle.’ He banged a fist on the dashboard. ‘Here we go,’ he said quietly as the van accelerated and overtook the Range Rover, the police driver pulled the Ford Transit across the bows of the vehicle and slammed on the brakes. The driver of the 4x4 braked hard, tyres squealing on the tarmac as he stopped. Immediately the back doors of the van flew open. Officers dressed in black combat gear and kitted out with Heckler & Koch automatic carbines, swarmed around the vehicle. The sergeant shouted instructions to the occupant of the 4X4. ‘Turn off the engine - remain in the vehicle - place your hands on the steering wheel.’
To all intents, it appeared the driver was being compliant. The vehicle engine was turned off and the occupant placed both hands on the steering wheel in full view. The sergeant placed a hand on the shoulder of the officer standing next to him. The signal was confirmed with a nod of the head. Cautiously, the officer walked slowly over to the 4X4, Heckler and Koch carbine primed and pointing towards the vehicle. Slowly and steadily he approached the vehicle. He reached out with a leather gloved hand to open the vehicle door – that’s when the shit hit the fan. The single occupant of the Range Rover dropped his right hand into his lap and picked up a weapon. At point, blank range he discharged his weapon as the door opened. The officer, stunned, staggered backwards, but remained standing. Then the screaming began - but it wasn’t the officer.
When the occupant of the vehicle discharged his Eastern European pistol, the weapon exploded – his right hand hung in shreds. The gunman fell from the vehicle, landing heavily in a bloody heap on the tarmac - screaming. His name was Dave Scabies. The situation was contained.
Number 56, Hendon Street was just like the house next door and the house next door to that. A row of semi-detached houses with postage stamp front gardens and satellite dishes high on the walls, UPVC double glazing and long gardens at the rear that backed on to the Dairycoates railway sidings. To all intents and purposes the prefabricated shed at the bottom of the garden of number 56, looked nothing more than a home for the householder’s gardening equipment. There was one significant difference, it was no longer a store for plant pots and lawnmowers. The place was a one man hive of activity, often buzzing to the sound of machinery. Visitors weren’t welcome and nor were they allowed to enter without telephoning in advance. Aptly enough, the man who owned the shed was named Gardener, Bill Gardener.
The work was easy for a man with Gardener’s skills and the money had been good - was good. But the truth was he no longer enjoyed the work, nor did he need the money the work brought in any longer. The trouble was it was a tricky situation to get out of - alive.
This day Gardener was expecting a visitor, yes, the visitor had telephoned in advance. He walked down the garden path bordered with spring flowers and shrubs, towards the shed, as he neared he could hear metal machining against metal. He knocked on the solid hardwood door and waited. A moment or two later a key turned in the lock and bolts slid open. The visitor gave a quick glance over his shoulder, then stepped inside the shed and locked the door behind him. Gardener returned to the lathe and continued with his work.
His guest placed his briefcase on the workbench, then settled himself on a tall stool and watched Gardener work.
‘You heard what happened to Scabby Dave?’ he asked. The man was a regular visitor to the shed, an old acquaintance of Gardener’s from their army days and more recently an unwelcome business associate. The visitor’s name was Neil Powers. Once upon a time, both men served in Her Majesty’s Armed Forces as sergeants in the Royal Logistic Regiment. Now, Powers was a gangster, not the “wanna be gansta” type, but the real deal, a proper gangster. He was the man you didn’t want to know; the man nightmares were made of.
‘It happens,’ Gardener replied, his back to Powers as he focused on the job in hand. ‘You get what you pay for, if you buy crap for peanuts, you can’t expect anything else but a job done by a monkey.’ He wound back
the cutting tool and pressed the stop button on the lathe. The whining motor slowed and cut-out. Gardener pulled a rag from his overall pocket and wiped his hands, then dropped the rag on the workbench and picked up his tobacco tin. Just like in his work, he rolled himself a cigarette with precision. Stuck it to his bottom lip and flicked his Zippo and lit up. ‘What have you brought?’ The small workshop began to fill with a blue haze that clung to the low ceiling.
‘The usual, five Baikal 79s, no rush - as and when.’ Powers opened the briefcase, took out the firearms and placed them on the workbench. He shifted his position on the tall stool, took out his cigarettes and sparked up.
Gardener wrapped the pistols in an old curtain and locked them safely away.
For operators like Powers, the Baikal could be a money spinner, it could be bought legally in Russia for around £40, or if the cash was available you could buy them in bulk for around £10 each. The cost to convert them into 9mm killing machines was a mere £50 or so, depending on quantity. The big risk was bringing them into the country. Powers was careful; he left the hands-on importation to others in his organisation. After half an hour in Gardener’s workshop the Baikal would become a reliable 9mm automatic weapon, demanding a price of anything up to £1000.
The Baikal was a Russian weapon that originated in Izhievsk, an Urals backwater some 2500 miles from Hull. Izhievsk is - was the centre of the Russian arms industry, the birth place of the AK-47. The Baikal had started its life as the Markov pistol, used by both the Soviet police and military although production ceased in the 1990s, there were still plenty to be had. From the Markov, the CS gas cartridge firing Baikal was born, primarily a weapon for self-defence after the collapse of the Berlin Wall.
The weapons were then transported to a small town called Alytus, in Lithuania. In a small hub of workshops belonging to the notorious criminal gang known as the Bauble, the weapons were converted to fire live ammunition. Powers, however, preferred the conversion to be taken care of by his own men, he needed to guarantee the products he sold. Gardener was one of these men. For a man, as skilled as Gardener, an ex-munitions expert in the armed forces, the operation to re-bore the barrel and make other minor adjustments was a piece of piss. Of course, Powers wasn’t one to miss an opportunity, a “dirty” weapon was always available for hire at a substantially reduced price.
‘How they got onto him, that’s what I’d like to know.’
‘Always did have a big gob that one. You want a brew?’ Gardener flicked the switch turning on the kettle.
‘No thanks, I’m not stopping, people to see and all that.’ Gardener was relieved, doing business with Powers was one thing, socializing didn’t even come into it. Back in the day when they served together at equal rank things were different. Now he could only tolerate Powers in small doses. Gardener was hardly squeaky clean himself, but since their return to civvy street, he made every effort to keep things strictly business. ‘I’ll have them picked up next week and the next batch dropped off.’ Powers stood up to leave and dusted down his suit trousers. Picked up his briefcase and unlocked the shed door. ‘Be seeing you,’ he said as he opened the door.
‘See you next week then,’ Gardener said with his head down and back towards Powers.
Powers shut the door behind him as he left. Gardener eased the cutting tool away to a safe distance and stopped the lathe, walked over to the door locked it once more. He took a tin down from a shelf, opened it, took out a teabag, dropped it into his mug and filled it with boiling water, stubbed out his cigarette and went back to his lathe leaving his tea to brew. Just another day in the life of Bill Gardener.
Chapter 2
The weather had taken a turn for the better. The cold wintery conditions of the previous days had been replaced by a warm spring with unseasonably warm humid nights. The high humidity made for an uneasy night for Detective Sergeant Greg Warren, it was a night of tossing and turning well into the small hours. He lay on his back atop of the duvet, arms behind his head, watching through the gap in the curtains, waiting for daylight. It was a case of mind over matter, mind won, he made a move. Reluctantly he kicked his legs over the bedside and sat on the edge for a couple of minutes as he gathered his thoughts. He had lots of thoughts.
He eased himself off the bed and took the two steps to the window, pulled the curtains aside slightly and peered into the street. Darkness was beginning to give way to dawn. Naked, he walked to the bathroom, ran the basin tap and dowsed his face in cool water, then returned to the bedroom and dressed in shorts and a running vest. Downstairs in the kitchen, he opened the fridge, took out a carton of fresh orange and drank straight from the container to slake the overnight thirst. Sitting on a kitchen chair he put on his trainers. While most normal people were still in bed, he left the house for his regular four miles pounding of the streets, with his iPod strapped to his upper arm. Only today he had no intention of breaking any records, there was no hurry, a steady jog was the order of the day, he had issues to mull over.
Warren, born and bred in Camden, North London, had followed a troubled path through his school years and beyond, finally coming to his senses at the age of twenty-one and joining the Metropolitan Police Force. After completing his initial training at the police college in Hendon, Warren was assigned to Clapton Road nick. His stay at Clapton Road was an enjoyable one, providing the recruit with experience in most aspects of police work. He’d worked and studied hard, and realising his ambition, promotion into the Criminal Investigation Department followed. Warren continued with his studies and passed the sergeants promotion board. Alas, due to fierce competition in the London area, promotion was slow in arriving. Hence, his move up north to Hull, hoping his fortunes would change. They did, but not always for the better.
For the past three months, Detective Sergeant Greg Warren had endured enforced “gardening leave”, his superiors had called him reckless with no regard for authority, which, in his opinion was a total load of bollocks. Okay, so he’d had to make one or two questionable decisions, but he stood by them. His leave had been spent doing nothing out of the ordinary. He drank too much, ate too much, and certainly pondered too long over the “what ifs” of life. Today was to be the day that defined the rest of his life, the day of reckoning, his future was in the balance. Warren was to appear before the Police Internal Disciplinary Panel, they would decide his future in the Police Force, that’s if he still had one.
Some months earlier, Warren had realised his dream of promotion and excitement, both came faster than he could have ever anticipated, when he was introduced to the two ‘suits’ who were to change his life. Now, it looked as if the promotion was going to be short lived, and maybe his job along with it. All the things he strove towards since joining the police force, now on the verge of being flushed down the toilet.
Warren had been drafted into a clandestine government department operating under the cover name of Gemmell Strategies. Unfortunately for the newly promoted Detective Sergeant, things hadn’t worked out the way he had hoped they would. He’d stepped over the ‘thin blue line’, perhaps with the blood that had been spilled it should have been renamed the ‘blood red line’. Of course, all in the call of duty, or so he truly believed. Others didn’t necessarily agree.
Warren’s run was steady, along the pavements of Anlaby Road, with a circuit of the K.C. Stadium and home again, he had hardly broken into a sweat. He let himself inside and headed straight for the kitchen, where he retrieved the carton of orange juice from the fridge. He drank deep before going upstairs to the bathroom, and setting the shower running while he stripped off. Standing under the pulsing power shower, he considered his options should things not go the way he wanted. He couldn’t think of any. The shower did little to ease the tension. With a towel around his waist, he stood in front of the mirror and shaved, he studied his reflection, his bright blue eyes seemed pale - watery, he was sure there were more grey hairs than he had previously.
He padded through to the bedroom. Opening the w
ardrobe, he took out his best suit - his only suit, a dark grey fine pin stripe with three buttons and a single vent. After deliberating, he picked a pale blue shirt and navy tie to match, he wanted to - had to make a good impression. Warren dressed and went downstairs to the kitchen, put two slices of bread in the toaster and put the kettle on to boil while he gave his shoes a quick polish. Sat at the kitchen table, he watched the morning news on the television while he ate his breakfast. He glanced up at the wall clock and sighed, still an hour to go before he had to leave. The way his nerves were feeling, he thought maybe this was an appropriate time to start smoking. The clock ticked its way around, time to go. He took his jacket off the hanger, put it on and checked his appearance in the glass door of the built-in oven then straightened his tie.
‘Okay, matey,’ he said to the reflection, ‘let’s go and find out what they have to say.’
The meeting was to take place at the new Humberside Police headquarters, a state of the art purpose built building on Clough Road. The building looked more like a place of learning, a modern education Academy than a place of law enforcement. Warren drove into the car park and showed his ID to the Private Security Officer manning the barrier and was told where to park. Warren shook his head. ‘Private security, what was the job coming too?’ he said out loud. ‘Maybe I’ll find out when they sack me.’ He thought he might be better off out of it anyway. That said, he really didn’t fancy working security in a supermarket looking out for tow-rags shoplifting. He parked up and walked around to the front of the station, again, he was annoyed at having to ‘buzz’ to be admitted into the building. The reception was manned by a Civilian Support Officer, not a copper in sight. Eventually Warren was booked in, given a visitor’s badge, which he attached to the top pocket of his jacket and was escorted up two floors and through a maze of corridors.
