by Alfie Robins
‘Odd, all this coming about so soon after we tried to turn over the workshop. Could be linked.’
‘You’re starting to think like a copper. Come on mate, I’ll walk to the car with you.’
‘I don’t need a bleedin babysitter,’ he told Warren.
‘I know you don’t, but I’m walking with you all the same.’ Warren very much doubted that Mouse would be hanging around, but still, better to be safe than sorry.
Chapter 25
The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that doing business with Ray Cole was a bad idea, no matter what his credentials were. He picked up his mobile and dialled. DC Bernie Philips was duly summoned.
Powers sat in the BMW, checking emails on his phone when there was a tap on the widow. He glanced and carried on. Then the door opened and Philips climbed into the passenger seat.
‘So, Raymond Cole, what can you tell me?’ He didn’t look up, still busy checking his emails.
Philips took a sheet of A4 from his pocket. ‘Raymond Mathew Cole, age thirty-two, both parents dead and brought up by his grandparent in Leeds. He’s been arrested for GBH, aggravated assault, suspected of being involved in a number of contract hits in Holland, Germany and in the UK. Funnily enough he was only convicted the one time. Even then, while he was inside on remand for murder, he arranged to be sprung on the way to his court hearing.’
‘What’s the score with him now?’ asked Powers.
‘That’s it, he was never recaptured. No one has seen hide nor hair of him since he was sprung. But I believe different.’
‘So, explain,’ Powers told him.
Philips didn’t speak, just took an envelope from his inside jacket pocket and passed it over.
Power gave his quizzical look, opened the envelope and took out a photograph. ‘Why are you showing me mug shots of Ray Cole?’
‘You sure about that?’
‘Sure about what?’ he asked and put the photograph back in the envelope.
‘That it is Cole?’
‘Don’t piss me about, I’ve met him, remember?’ he made to reach across Philips to open the passenger door.
‘Just hang on Mr Powers, then who is this.’ He again reached into his pocket, took out his mobile, selected an image and placed it down on the dashboard.
Powers settled back in his seat and looked him in the eye, without speaking he picked up the mobile, turned it over and looked, Cole again, now he was seriously getting pissed. ‘Just what are you getting at?
‘That, is a photograph of my boss, Detective Sergeant Greg Warren, Cole and Warren, Warren and Cole, call them what you will, but I’m telling you they are one of the same.’
‘Piss off, you really expect me to believe that?’
‘Straight up, Mr Powers, I took that photo of Warren myself, he’s an undercover cop.’
‘Let me look at that picture again.’ Philips once again passed over the envelope. ‘If, as you’re telling me they’re both the same bloke, does Cole really exist or is he someone your lot dreamt up?’
‘Oh no, Mr Powers, Raymond Cole is real alright - somewhere, everything about him is genuine, but as to where the real Cole actually is, I haven’t got a bloody clue, but I’m working on it.’
As before, Powers put his hand in his inside jacket pocket and took out an envelope and handed it over. Powers kept a tight hold onto the envelope. ‘You keep me up to speed on everything, okay?
‘No problem, will do.’ Philips nodded and pocketed the envelope, took back his mobile and left Powers to do what he willed with the information.
Geez, he couldn’t comprehend why the hell this information hadn’t been passed onto him. He watched Philips leave then took out his mobile and dialled a number not stored in the mobile’s memory.
‘Sam, it’s me,’ he said into the handset, ‘something urgent has come up, I need you to give it priority.’
‘Trouble?’ asked Sam.
‘Nothing I can’t deal with, it’s a case of the usual dick heads not sharing information. I need everything you have on DS Greg Warren, he’s working out of the Priory Road nick, here in Hull. Also, see what you can come up with on a Raymond Cole, allegedly he did a runner from Belmarsh.’
‘Allegedly?’
‘Yeah, well, let’s just say I have my doubts about it. I know its short notice, but I need it ASAP, make sure the email is encrypted.’
‘I’m on it.’
‘Thanks, Sam.’ He hung up. ‘So, you think you can play me do you?’ he said to himself. ‘Well two can play at that game, time to have a bit of fun Detective Sergeant Greg Warren.’
Chapter 26
Warren sat forward in his seat, elbows resting on the desk and looked over towards where Jimbo sat fiddling with his iPad. ‘Been thinking, Jimbo, I don’t suppose …’
‘Oh, no you don’t.’ He shook his head.
‘Don’t what?
‘I don’t like the way you said that, that tone always means trouble.’ He stood up and started to pace around the small room.
‘Just listen for a minute, that’s all I ask. Before we take care of Mouse, you reckon you’d be willing to have another chat with him?’
‘Chat? A fucking chat, are you having a laugh? NO, I bloody well won’t, I don’t want another fucking beating.’
‘I knew you’d be up for it.’
‘Are you bleedin listening to me? NO.’
‘All I want you to do is sound him out, see if Powers knows anything, just a simple task to do for a mate.’
Jimbo continued pacing, then stopped in front of Warren’s desk. He slammed both hands palms down on the surface. ‘A proper mate wouldn’t even think about it, never mind ask. Oh, for fuck’s sake, when would I ask him, before or after I get my head kicked in? Cos, you know as well as I do that’s what’ll happen …’
‘Not if I’m stood around the corner waiting.’
‘Oh, shit. When’s this happening?’
In the back of Warren’s mind, a plan of sorts was developing. ‘Maybe tonight if you’re up for it?’
Later that same evening, Warren parked the Escort in the Aldi Supermarket car park, out of view of the Rose’s entrance. Standing on the opposite side of the road, concealed in a doorway of a closed down shop, Warren watched. Against his better judgement, Jimbo had agreed to have a word with Sebastian London. Standing with his hand poised to push open the pub door he took a deep breath, pushed the door and walked into the pub doing his best to appear confident. No change, the same racist posters on the walls and the same racist thugs occupying the tables. He was pleased to see a different bloke behind the bar, not the one Warren had thrown onto his arse. There was no sign of Mouse, but it was only a matter of time before he turned up, he wasn’t welcome in many of the city’s pubs. Jimbo ordered a pint of lager, passed over a fiver and pocketed the change. He did his best to appear relaxed and stood with his elbow resting on the bar. With a pint in front of him Jimbo constantly looked around, trying to appear cool, but he was not a happy man. ‘Seb been in yet?’ he asked the barman, who just shook his head. Ten minutes later, Mouse made an appearance. In the large mirror behind the optics, Jimbo saw him heading towards the bar.
‘You’re the last person I was expecting to see in here tonight,’ he clapped Jimbo on the shoulder. ‘No hard feelings?’
‘Water under the bridge,’ Jimbo lied.
‘In that case, giz a pint,’ he told the barman, ‘my mate’s paying.’ Jimbo took out a five-pound note from his denim jacket pocket and passed it across the bar. ‘So, Jimbo, what the fuck do you want?’
As he turned to face him, he could smell the familiar coffin breath coming from Mouse’s rotten teeth. ‘Thought I’d let you know I passed your message on.’
‘And what message was that?’ he said laughing.
‘Not funny, Seb, not funny at all.’
‘So, what did that Rasta pal of yours have to say?’
‘Told me to fuck off. Straight up, said I’d served my purpose and
he didn’t need me anymore.’
‘Well, what you expect? Never trust anyone who listens to Reggae, that’s what I say.’
‘Yeah, well, I’ve learnt my lesson, played me for a fool he did.’ As he eased into the role, the lying came easier. ‘What did the fella you work for make of the info I gave you?’ Jimbo asked casually, as he picked up his pint and had a swallow.
‘You looking to get paid or summat?’
‘No, nowt like that, just wondered,’ he said as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘From what I can make out, everything you told me was right, reading between the lines I think this Cole’s day are numbered, know what I mean?’ he said, making a gun shape with his fingers and holding it to Jimbo’s head.
Warren checked his watch. It was twenty minutes since he had seen Mouse go into the pub, it wouldn’t be much longer. He left the concealment of the doorway, crossed the road and walked down by the side of the Rose and around the back of the pub. The car park, if it could be called that was more akin to a bomb site, with a block of half demolished linked garages strewn with rubble. In the darkness, he carefully made his way through the debris and concealed himself in what was left of a prefabricated garage. From the rear waistband of his jeans he removed the 9mm Walther, took the suppressor from his pocket and attached it.
‘So, Seb, can we have a word in private?’ Jimbo asked sheepishly. Seb, he thought, the twat would always be Mouse as far as he was concerned.
‘There’s nothing you can’t say right here.’
‘Don’t think so, mate. Look, let’s go around the back, it’ll be worth it.’
‘You not coming onto me are you, Jimbo?’
‘You’re not my type, too fucking ugly.’ Jimbo picked up his pint and drank it down. ‘Well?’
‘Better be good, Jimbo, better be good,’ he replied, following Jimbo out of the pub.
Jimbo glanced across the road to where Warren had been concealed, he sighed a breath of relief. Warren was in place.
‘So, the Rasta fucked you off?’ Mouse said, falling in step with Jimbo, as they walked down the dark narrow street.
‘Something like that,’ he walked into the rubble filled car park, Mouse still by his side.
‘So, we’re here, what you got to tell me that’s so important?’
‘Remember I told you I passed the message on to Cole?’
‘Y-e-a-h’
‘Well he wanted to thank you personally.’
Warren stepped out of his concealment. ‘Hello, Mouse man,’ he said, taking the thug completely by surprise. Before he had time to react he grabbed Mouse by the bicep.
That was when Jimbo saw the Walther in his right hand. ‘For fuck sakes, Ray, where did that come from, for fuck’s sake put it away.’
Warren smiled. ‘All in good time, Jimbo.’
‘Let go of my bleedin arm, you fucker before …’
‘Before what, Mouse man? Before what? Now, I know you like dishing out the pain, but can you take it?’
‘You don’t scare me,’ he tried to shake off the grip.
‘You see this?’ Warren held the Walther in front of Mouse’s face. ‘With this I can do some severe damage.’
Mouse’s eyes widened, he didn’t doubt that he would use it, but all the same he called Warren’s bluff. ‘You’re a fucking pussy, you haven’t got the bottle.’
‘That so? Now, I want you to lay down on the ground.’
‘And you can fuck right off, know what I mean?’
‘Just do as you’re told.’
‘What do you reckon you’re gonna do? Give me a massage or summat?’ He started to laugh - nervously, keeping up the bravado.
‘Let’s just call it payback for what you did to Jimbo and all the other poor fuckers who’ve had the misfortune to come across you.’ Then he let go of Mouse’s arm and kicked his legs from beneath him.
‘Enough, Ray, he’s got the message,’ Jimbo said, agitated, but he knew there was nothing he could say once Warren had made up his mind.
‘But has he? I don’t think so. Like I said lay flat.’ Mouse turned his eyes upwards to face it out. ‘Turn over onto your front.’ This time Mouse did as he was told, and lay prostrate among the bricks. ‘Where would you like it? Hands, feet, legs? Or maybe all of them.’ Mouse lay traumatised, he knew it was going to happen, there was nothing more certain.
‘You’re nothing more than a Rasta fuck pussy,’ he said into the brick dust.
Warren bent over, picked up a plastic carrier bag from the rubbish on the floor. ‘Keep still.’ Warren put his foot in the centre of Mouse’s back. Mouse could feel the muzzle of the silence against the back of his knee. ‘Just one more thing, Neil Powers, what can you tell me?’
‘Only that you’re a dead man walking.’
‘That so?’ He stuffed the carrier bag in Mouse’s mouth.
A second later the first phut from the suppressor blew Mouse’s kneecap off.
He writhed in agony, muffled cries barely escaping from his mouth as his knee cap disintegrated. Then another phut, the other knee exploded into a tangled mess of bone and tissue. The crippled man sobbed as the blood became one with the brick dust and lifeless soil. He writhed amongst the debris, he tried to turn, even though his lower legs, contorted, still faced the other way.
Warren dropped to his knees amongst the filth, careful to avoid the free-flowing blood and looked into the tear-filled eyes. Out the corner of his eye, he saw Jimbo throwing up amongst the rubble.
Holding Mouse’s head between his hands he told him the score. ‘Now, you might walk again, but if I’m honest with you, I very much doubt it, not without sticks anyway. So, now might be an appropriate time to retire from all this racist shit, don’t you think? Because if I hear you’re still persecuting people I’ll be paying you another visit. Know what I mean?’ Warren stood up, removed the suppressor from the Walther and put it in his pocket, then replaced the gun in the back waistband of his jeans.
Mouse pulled the plastic carrier bag from his mouth, in shock he was unable to scream, his face, contorted in agony.
Jimbo was struck dumb, he stared from one to the other. He knew Warren’s capabilities, he’d witnessed it all before, but the twisted legs … too much. He took out his mobile and dialled triple nine.
‘Ambulance please, there’s been a serious incident at the rear of the Swan pub, on Beverley Road.’ He hung up before they could request any further details. ‘Gr …,’ he realised the near slip. ‘Ray, time to move.’ He turned his attention to Mouse, laying in agony at his feet and shook his head. ‘I tried to warn you, I couldn’t make it any clearer, but would you listen?’
The two men walked away, the sound of the sobs fading.
‘Fucking hell, Greg, that was a bit extreme don’t you think?’
‘Nope, don’t tell me you’re feeling sorry for him?’
‘No, but …I thought you were just going to teach him a lesson.’
‘I did, Jimbo, a very valuable lesson, let’s face it it’s going to be a long, long time before he starts any more of that racist shit. Job done I reckon.’
Standing by the car in the Aldi car park, Jimbo asked. ‘And where the hell did you get the gun from, I thought you turned yours in?’
Warren smiled and touched the side of his nose, knowingly. ‘You don’t want to know, mate.’
There had been a time when Warren had never condoned the use of firearms, much preferring his feet and fists to get him out of trouble, or more was the case they had been the things that caused his trouble. During his time with Gemmell Strategies he had undergone firearms training and surprised himself - he loved it. There was no feeling of remorse when he pulled the trigger, not even when he’d topped the hitman sent to kill him. Blowing the man’s head off had been easy.
‘What do you make of Mouse’s comment, was he braving it out or do reckon there’s something in it??’
‘Hmm, that’s the question, Jimbo, if he was being serious, someone ha
s been opening their mouth when they shouldn’t.’
‘Keep your eyes and ears open, mate, if anyone in the nick has been blabbing, they’re the dead man walking.’ Then he lightened the conversation. ‘Fancy a pint, mate?’
‘Take me home, Greg, just take me home.’
‘Hang on a minute,’ Warren said as he started the engine, ‘what did you get out of rat face?’
‘More or less confirms what he told us, he reckons your days are numbered,’ making the gun symbol with his fingers.
‘That’s it?’
‘Yep, dead meat, that’s what he told me, that’s if you can believe a word he says.’
‘Best get in first then,’ Warren said, as he put the car into gear.
‘Thought you’d say that.’
They could hear the blues and twos of the approaching ambulance as they drove away.
Warren sat on his sofa, legs stretched out in front of him, nursing a glass of his newfound friend Jim Beam. The television was on, the volume low but it didn’t hold his interest. Instead he sat reflecting on the night’s events, the violence was a thing of the past, or so he had thought. It was coming easy, way too easy. A few months back, whilst still working in North London the violence had got the better of him, the result of which he was forced to undergo a course of anger management counselling. He was the first to admit it had worked - for a while, until his secondment into undercover work, where it once again reared its ugly head. What frightened him was the fact he no longer cared, he’d killed and maimed with no hesitation, worse, with no feeling of remorse afterwards. He promised himself that when the case was over he would seek professional help - again. In the meantime, JB made a pretty good substitute.
The next morning standing beneath the power shower, was it guilt he was feeling? Then he remembered what Mouse really was, a bully and thug who was now out of action and hopefully for a very long time. Warren gave his morning run a miss, along with his usual healthyish breakfast, what he craved was a strong coffee and bacon roll, maybe two from the station canteen. He was already sat at his desk when the team made an appearance.
