by Alfie Robins
‘Cool, keep fucking cool! Easier said than done. Her mother will fucking kill me if anything happens to her.’
‘Pity she’s in Canada,’ Trish mumbled under her breath.
‘You say something, luv?’
‘Poor woman, she must be out of her mind with worry,’ she lied. ‘How’s the coffee?’
‘Prefer tea.’ Arse, thought Trish. The mug was back on the tray and he was heading for the whisky bottle. ‘Ray, what the fuck am I going to do?’ Holding his glass he gestured to Warren, who shook his head, it was way too early in the day to start hitting the hard stuff.
‘Look, Pat, try not to worry, she’s a big girl…’
‘Big girl - she’s fucking seventeen, barely out of nappies.’
Strange how things change, thought Warren, it wasn’t so long ago since Conway had been involved with people who didn’t think twice about pimping girls Rachell’s age.
‘Just try and keep calm, I have an idea or two - we’ll find her I promise,’ Warren said as he stood up.
Conway jumped from his seat and stood almost nose to nose with Warren. ‘Where the fuck are you going?’
‘To set things in motion and try to find your daughter. Where do you think? Pat, you’ve got to keep a grip on things. Just let me make a few enquiries.’
‘Enquiries? You sound just like a fucking copper.’
This prompted Trish to raise an eyebrow.
If only you knew. ‘If anything develops give me a bell. You ready, love?’
‘Right behind you, babe,’ she said all girly, making Warren smile.
They left Conway nursing his glass of whisky. ‘I almost feel sorry for the man, even if he is an arrogant, self-centred, sexist pig.’ Trish said as they walked down the garden path.
‘That’s what I like about you, Trish, never mince your words do you, babe?’
She laughed. ‘I thought it was a nice touch. I nearly smiled when he said you sounded like a copper. Anyway, what are these enquiries you’re going to make?’ she asked, as the Escort pulled away from the kerbside.
‘When I was down south I did a liaison stint with the Transport Police at Liverpool Street Station. I’ll give one of the lads a bell and see if they can come up with anything. The trains have cameras on them these days, never know we might come up lucky.’
‘If not?’
‘Not a clue, Trish, not a clue,’ he replied as he concentrated on his driving.
Chapter 9
‘Can I have some hush PLEASE,’ Warren asked Jimbo and Trish who were having some animated conversation about Jimbo’s nose ring of all things
‘Well, I think they’re bloody ridiculous,’ she told him. ‘What happens when you have a cold and your nose runs?’
‘I wipe it. Some people just don’t have any class…’
‘Give over will you, I’m trying to think here,’ Warren told them.
‘That’ll be a first,’ Jimbo muttered under his breath.
‘Heard that, I’m not deaf.’
‘No, just daft.’
Warren shook his head, took his wallet out of his jacket and examined the piece of paper Mouse had given him. ‘Give me some hush,’ he said as he dialled the number scrawled down. ‘Shush.’ The call was accepted.
‘Who is this?’
‘Cole, my names Raymond Cole, I’m in the market for…’
‘Sorry, you’ve got the wrong number.’ Powers hung up.
Powers didn’t seem unduly bothered by the call, but Warren knew that when he found out who’d been giving out his number there would be serious repercussions. He obviously wasn’t used to accepting unsolicited business calls.
‘Well?’ Jimbo asked.
‘Hung up on me,’ Warren looked at his watch. ‘I’ll give him two minutes and call again.’
He did. The mobile at the other end rang. Powers picked up. ‘Mr Powers please don’t hang up, this a onetime only offer, an offer that could be financially lucrative.’
‘Speak, I’ll give you thirty seconds, say your piece.’
‘Five hundred pounds just to talk to me, no strings, how does that sound? Then we’ll see where we can go from there.’
‘I don’t do business on the phone with strangers, if you want to discuss business I suggest we do it face to face. I’ll call you back in twenty-four hours.’ He hung up.
This gave Powers a full day to find out all he could about Raymond Cole.
‘Where the hell are you going to get five hundred notes?’ Jimbo asked.
‘Let me worry about that.’ He did after all, have his own illicit stash.
‘You think he went for it?’
‘Time will tell.’ Warren knew full well, that Powers would have a contact somewhere in the police force, someone, who for a cash payment would run the name Raymond Cole through the system. Warren wasn’t unduly worried, he still had the contacts of his own from when he was working undercover, all it took was a quick telephone call.
Warren made the call.
Less than a minute later he received an email, his alter ego was resurrected - Ray Cole was back in the system. ‘Now we wait for him to call back.’
‘If he calls back,’ Jimbo said depressingly.
‘Don’t be so negative, Jimbo, he’ll call back. In the meantime, I’ll bell my mate at Liverpool Street Station; see if he can trace Rachell Conway’s movements.’
Gardener stood at his lathe with his back to Powers, concentrating as he guided the tungsten tip tool down the steel barrel belonging to one of the Baikal pistols. The visitor to the shed perched on a tall wooden stool, holding a stained mug of strong instant coffee. ‘So, you’ve never heard of this, Ray Cole?’ It fascinated him to watch Gardener work. There was a time, back in the day, when Powers himself wouldn’t have minded getting his hands on converting a pistol or two, after all he did have the skills taught him by Her Majesty’s Army.
‘Nope, you know as well as I do, just because we’ve never come across him it’s not to say he’s not on the level.’
‘Yeah, but what’s bugging me is how did he get my number? More to the point, which arsehole gave him it?’
‘I take it you’re going to meet him?’
He put his mug down on the workbench and took out his cigarettes. ‘Not sure on that, I’ve got someone running a check on him, depends what they come back with.’
Gardener turned the lathe’s wheel, easing back the cutting tool and pressed the stop button. He picked up an oily rag and wiped his hands as he turned to face Powers. ‘Did you ever find out where Scabby Dave got a hold of the gun that blew his hand off?’ he asked, as he picked up his battered tobacco tin to roll himself a cigarette.
Powers reached over with his lighter and lit Gardener’s roll-up. A blue haze hung from the low ceiling like a noxious cloud.
‘From what the lads tell me it was converted over here in the UK, they reckon it was some numpty from around here.’
‘Makes you wonder what sort of Muppet did the conversion, or tried to.’ Gardener picked up his mug. ‘Cold,’ he said, pouring the liquid down the sink drain. ‘You want another?’
Powers shook his head. ‘Muppet or not, it’s bad for business.’
‘Then put them out of business or bring them onboard.’
‘The thought had crossed my mind. Any guesses who’s likely to be in the frame for it?’
Gardener stood with his back against the lathe resting on the hard metal. ‘Been giving it some thought since your last visit and drawn a blank,’ he said, as he dunked his tea bag up and down in his mug, giving it an extra squeeze between finger and thumb. ‘If it is someone local, it’ll only take a few quid to get a name.’ He dropped the used tea bag on the bench and poured milk into the mug.
Powers picked up one of the converted guns and admired Gardener’s workmanship. ‘Nice. I’ll take these two with me.’ He wrapped both weapons in a clean cloth and placed them in his briefcase. ‘If anybody does come to mind give me a bell, okay?’
Gardener no
dded and turned back to the lathe and pressed the power button. ‘Aye, and you let me know how it goes with this Cole, fella.’
Powers left his old army mate to get on with what he did best. He’d parked his vehicle further along Hendon Street. He always parked a discreet distance away from number 56, there was nothing to be gained by drawing attention to the house. A dog walker stood by his car whilst the mutt pissed up his nearside front wheel, Powers glared, the man dragged the dog away mid pee and marched away at double time. Powers smiled, the glare always worked. He clicked the key fob, opened the door and dropped into the driving seat of his brand-new BMW 7 Series saloon, he put his mobile into the hands-free cradle and made a call. ‘It’s me,’ he said out loud, ‘got anything for me?’ A very brief conversation took place. ‘That’s it? You sure? Okay, thanks.’ He ended the call. Powers had many people he could count on to supply information, including serving police officers - as long as the price was right.
The search of the Police National Computer revealed what had always been intended. Raymond Cole’s back story had stood up to scrutiny. To anyone carrying out a PNC check, he was who he claimed to be. Cole was a player with a reputation to match. Drug importation, robbery, with an unhealthy interest in the arms trade and more importantly a very violent man. A man still on the run from the authorities for murder. Powers informant had summed him up as a “respected” member of the north eastern criminal fraternity, and one who should be regarded as dangerous - a man to be wary of.
‘You know where Jimbo is?’ Before Trish had a chance to answer Jimbo opened the door and walked in. ‘And where have you been?’ Warren asked.
‘Can’t a bloke go for a pee without asking your permission?’ Jimbo pulled out his chair and sat down.
‘Don’t get stroppy, only asking. I thought you’d like to know my mate in BTP has come up with something on Conway’s daughter.’
‘Then don’t keep it to yourself,’ Trish said impatiently.
Warren turned to face her, he smiled. ‘You mean, “please don’t keep it to yourself, sergeant?”’
‘Whatever,’ she sighed. ‘You know you’re so full of sh …’
Jimbo cut her off before she had a chance to finish.
‘Now, now, don’t go upsetting him, Trish, he’ll only get a sulk on.’
Warren tried to keep a serious look on his face. ‘Have you two finished taking the piss out of your senior officer?’ The comment was followed by a snigger or two. ‘Right, according to my mate, Rachell did indeed get on the 6.50am train from Kings Cross to Hull, she was seen waving bye to her relatives and getting on the train.’
‘Then how come she wasn’t on the train when it arrived in Hull?’
‘She got off again, you div.’
Jimbo tutted.
‘But what the hell did she get off for?’ Trish asked, leaning forward resting her elbows on the desk
‘The trains CCTV showed her getting off at Watford. She was met by a young bloke and they left the station together - hand in hand.’
‘So, that’s it then, problem solved, she’d gone and got herself a bloke - end of.’ Jimbo said as he pushed back in his chair.
‘Jimbo, can you see Conway leaving it at that? Because I can’t.’
‘From what I’ve seen of him - no, the man’s too possessive.’ Trish added, head down and carried on with her reports, then added. ‘More like he’ll want the bloke castrated.’
Warren smiled as he answered. ‘Ouch, you could be right.’
‘So,’ said Jimbo, with his serious face on, ‘what can we do about it?’
‘Call in some more favours, see if they can get an ID on the fella, facial recognition might throw something up if he’s got a record. Do whatever I can to try and keep Conway onside.’
Trish lifted her head. ‘Costs money, good luck with that. Tea, coffee, anyone?’
Chapter 10
Joey Smale had skipped school - again. Who needed school? He certainly didn’t, what good was it learning about equations and adjectives? The fifteen-year-old couldn’t remember the last time he had attended for a full day, on the odd day he had turned up, it was only to show his face, then piss off again. According to his teachers, he had reached the stage of “un-teachable” long ago. Arthur Smale, Joey’s dad was not around, he didn’t need the hassle of a kid in his life and did a disappearing act soon after the lad had been born. Roxy, Joey’s mother, she wasn’t much better, she didn’t give a toss if he went to school or not. As long as Joey was bringing in enough money to help feed her drug habit, she was happy. Any shortfall in cash to feed her addiction was subsidized with prostitution.
The lad grafted hard for his money. He worked as a runner for two or three dealers on a North Hull housing estate, picking up and delivering, topping up his income with a bit of robbing on the side. Overall, he was content with his lot. Most days he managed to earn enough to keep his mum off his back, and at the same time, keep her off his. He always had spare cash in his pocket to treat himself, even enough to buy a brand new PS4 console and he rode around the estate on a brand-new bike.
Joey had just completed a drop-off in an alley, behind a Turkish take-away on Beverley Road area. He was on his way to deliver the cash he had collected to his employer. He was in no rush and cycled steadily, he was clean, nothing on him even if the cops did spot him.
Robbo Dooley, the man he was running for, didn’t deal in drugs, he ran a semi-legitimate business, carrying out small general engineering repairs from his lock-up workshop in a garage block in North Hull, to say the least, not a very profitable business at that. On the other hand, there was a not so legitimate side to the business - he worked as a contractor carrying out the conversion of illegal firearms.
As soon as Joey cycled into the communal garage block he could hear the sound of metal scraping against metal, it was coming from the other side of the steel garage door at the far end. He cycled to the far end and stopped, sitting on his bike, he thumped the door with his fist. The machine noise inside stopped, then a different noise as the door slid on its track, opening just enough for a face to peer out.
‘Oh, it’s you. Took your time, didn’t you?’ It was Robbo. Dooley opened the door enough to allow the lad and his bike to squeeze through. Joey just shrugged his shoulders. ‘Got the money?’ Robbo asked, as he closed the door.
‘Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t, would I?’ Joey replied cockily. Robbo often though about scelping the lad across his head for his cheek, but Joey was growing fast and starting to fill out, it wasn’t worth taking the risk. The lad unzipped his hoody and pulled out the Tesco’s carrier bag from the waist of his baggy jeans. The carrier bag was stuffed with cash.
‘Cheeky sod. You nicked any?’
‘C’mon Robbo, would I do that?’
‘Yes, you bloody would.’ he replied, as he took the five hundred quid from the bag, then counted off four ten-pound notes and passed them over to Joey. It was easy money - as long as the coppers didn’t stop you. All he had to do was pick up a parcel from Robbo, drop it off at a meet down some alley or another and collect the cash. ‘You fancy making a bit more?’
‘How much more?’
‘Sixty quid.’
This sounded good to the lad. ‘I’m listening.’ Joey was saving up for a new flat screen plasma television for his bedroom.
‘I’m expanding the business, going into short term loans. You deliver the goods as usual, the only difference is you pick it up pretty sharpish after it’s been used for the job.’
‘Sound a bit risky, riding around with a “hot” pistol in my hoody. Make it eighty and we have a deal.’ Robbo had expected the lad to negotiate, he was nobody’s fool.
‘Good man,’ Robbo took out his fags and lit up.
Eighty notes, it would keep his mother in Crack for two, maybe three days. If she was happy, so was he.
‘When do I start? Joey asked enthusiastically.
‘You just have,’ he put his arm around the lad’s shoulder. Robbo
knew Joey’s situation, the need to help feed his mother’s habit and in a sort of a way he admired his resilience.
‘Here’s the deal.’ Robbo crossed the untidy floor space, took a key from his pocket and unlocked the top drawer of the metal filing cabinet. From the cabinet, he took out a Baikal automatic. The weapon was identical in looks to those converted by Gardener. ‘You take this now, and at half ten tonight you meet a bloke who calls himself Seb, in the underpass on Hall Road. He gives you cash and you give him the goods, no cash - no goods, got it?’ Joey nodded. ‘Remember get the money first before you hand over. You shove the cash through my letter box. If I don’t see you in the meantime, day after tomorrow I’ll give you a call, you come by and collect an envelope, then you meet the same bloke, same time, same place. This time he gives you the package, and you give him the envelope, it’s his deposit. I’ll be here waiting, simple. What could be easier?’
Robbo checked that the weapon’s safety catch was on then, he wrapped the weapon in a clean cloth, stuffed into the same Tesco carrier bag and handed it over. ‘You okay with this?’
‘Done it before remember?’ Joey put the package inside his hoody.
‘So, you have. But listen, from what they tell me this Seb has a bit of a reputation, if he tries to pull a fast one, hold on tight to the goods and get the fuck out of there. Comprendo?’
Joey nodded. ‘You worry too much, Robbo, I can handle myself. What about my money?’
‘Half now, the rest when you bring the goods back, okay?’
‘Cool,’ said Joey, holding out his hand for the cash. Robbo peeled off another four, ten-pound notes and handed them over. ‘Cheers.’ Eighty quid, not a bad mornings work the lad thought.
‘Don’t let me down now,’ Robbo called out as he closed the workshop door.
Robbo had been a little worried about his own workmanship since he’d heard about what happened to Dave “Scabby” Scabies. He went over and over it in his head, he was sure he’d done everything right with the conversion, this was the second time something had gone wrong - but what? He didn’t know. The one good thing to come out of it was that the pistol had blown up, and the police wouldn’t be able to trace it back - as long as Scabies kept his gob shut, which he would.
