by Alfie Robins
In a previous life, Robbo had been a skilled engineer in one of Hull’s large engineering companies until the company went bust and he lost his job - along with his pension. So, out of necessity he’d become self-employed doing small jobs for several of his old employer’s customers. The converting of firearms was something he’d fallen into, a favour for a dubious friend. A favour that had now turned into a very lucrative side-line, dealing directly with his friend’s, associate. As far as bringing the guns into the country was concerned it was easy, it was his Strategies responsibility. The weapons, concealed inside pre-marked crates were smuggled into the country on one of the North Sea Ferries from Bruges, Belgium.
Robbo’s friend was responsible for making sure that minor engine parts that needed attention were crated up and transferred from the ship to shore, to whichever repairer in the city was to be used. Dooley was illicitly on the preferred supplier list. He wasn’t in the same league of converters used by Powers, not by any means, he only ever used qualified armourers. Strangely, his contact had never mentioned Powers, perhaps there was method in the madness, no doubt if he had heard, he would have taken up some other occupation.
With the goods tucked well away inside his hoody, Joey cycled home through the alleys, keeping well away from the main roads, checking all the time for coppers, over time he had even been able to recognise the undercover cops who operated in the area. Cycle fast and keep your eyes skinned was his motto, the last thing he wanted was for some nosey copper to do an impromptu stop and search.
Joey and his mother lived two floors up in the last remaining tower-block on the estate. He manhandled his bike up the stairwell with no problem - he’d done it hundreds of times. Joey opened the front door to the three-bed roomed flat he shared with his mum.
‘That you, Joey?’ his mother called out from the living room.
‘No, it’s the Boston Strangler. Who else was you expecting?’ He called back, as he propped his bike against the wall in the hallway.
‘Cheeky sod. You got my cigs?’
Joey, still with the goods inside his hoody stuck his head around the living room doorway. A small square room with furniture that had seen better days, the television fixed to the wall. His mum sat on the settee with her legs tucked beneath her, eyes glued to the crappy daytime reality show.
‘Can’t see why you couldn’t go to the shop yourself. Not as if your legs don’t work anymore?’ He threw the cigarettes across the room and tutted, he didn’t know what her “friends” saw in her, with her bleached blonde hair, thickly applied makeup, and she was as thin as a rake.
‘Less of your cheek,’ she said as she ripped off the cellophane. ‘You going out again?’
‘Only just come in,’ he grumbled.
‘Got someone coming around later, that’s all.’ Referring to one of her regular “friends”.
‘Whatever.’ Joey left her to her smokes and disappeared into his bedroom.
Joey’s room was his private space, a room his mother never entered. It was the cleanest and tidiest room in the flat. He made sure the bedroom door was firmly closed, opened the Ikea type, touch me and I’ll fall to bits wardrobe, then pulled out a bundle of clothes that lay on the base. Inside the wardrobe was a false bottom made of plywood. He eased the plywood free and placed the Tesco carrier bag in the void. Next, he took out a biscuit tin where he kept his earnings, well hidden from his mother. He removed the lid and stuffed in the cash Robbo had given him earlier, then replaced the tin and its contents inside the void, and everything back as it was.
Joey went through to the lounge; his mum was still sat in the same place still watching the boring reality show on the television. ‘What’s for tea?’ he asked.
‘Whatever you want, as long as you make it yourself,’ she replied, not taking her eyes off the screen. For some reason, she was enthralled with the rubbish.
‘Right, I’m off out then.’
‘What about our tea?’
‘You can get your own, I’ll get something out.’ She was a rubbish cook anyway, he was better off with a McDonalds. He just hoped her ‘friend’, left before he returned to collect his package.
After catching up with some of his mates and enjoying his double cheese burger and fries from McDonalds, Joey headed home to the flat. It was almost time. Being in a hurry he didn’t carry his bike up two floors, he locked it to the radiator in the foyer and took the stairs two at a time. He listened outside the door, for the tell-tale signs of whether his mum had company or not before letting himself in. All silent, his mum’s visitor had already left, still, he tried to be as quiet as he could. He stuck his head around the living room door frame, with her clothing in disarray, she lay full length on the settee, comatose. Her drug paraphernalia laid out on the coffee table, her “friend” had obviously brought her a present. Joey shook his head and closed the door - he’d seen it all before.
In his bedroom, he retrieved the Tesco carrier bag, tucked it inside his hoody and left. Joey was a tough kid, still, riding around North Hull at night could be tricky, especially on your own. He constantly glanced over his shoulder, always on the lookout; this was the reason he’d managed to evade arrest. As he approached the Hall Road underpass, he was doubly cautious, arriving early and hanging back in the shadows between two industrial wheelie bins. From his vantage point he had a good view of both the underpass entrances on either side of the road, not that he expected to see many use it. At night, it was a no-go area to decent people, the only people who used it after dark were those up to no good, another hour and the gangs would begin to gather. The lad checked his watch, it was almost time. He’d seen no one enter or come out of the underpass, he reckoned there was a good chance that this Seb bloke hadn’t turned up.
Joey had a cautious look around, no strangers hanging around, no cop cars - nothing. Another last look around, then took a scarf from his pocket and wrapped it around the lower half of his face - like he’d seen them do on the telly. With the hood of his hoody over his head, he cycled into the gloom. He moved out of the shadows and cycled towards the underpass and paused at the entrance. Not surprisingly, only half of the underpass lights were working, people who made use of the underpass at night preferred the darkness. Joey peered into the gloom, midway in the tunnel, a figure stood leaning against the graffiti cover wall. It had to be this Seb fella, scruffy looking, he stood in the gloom, smoking. The lad braked and pulled up short, one foot on the floor and the other still on the pedal ready for a quick exit, the last thing he wanted was to be mugged.
‘You, Joey?’ The scruffy bloke asked.
‘Who’s asking?’
‘Seb.’ He reached inside his own jacket. Joey watched, eagle eyed, ready for a quick spin around and away. A brown padded envelope was produced and he opened the flap enough for Joey to look inside. ‘And you got something for me?’ Joey came closer, reached inside his own hoody and took out the carrier bag, simultaneously they swapped goods. Seb opened the bag and un-wrapped the Baikal. ‘Cool, same time in forty-eight hours - right?’ Joey nodded, staring into the rat like face.
Seb tucked the gun out of sight in the back waistband of his jeans and swaggered off. Tosser thought Joey, his heart beating hard, he was glad the deal had been done. He’d done the same thing a dozen times before, this time it was different though. There was something about the bloke, he didn’t know what, but was glad it was done.
He cycled through the alleys and cut threws, as fast as he could, constantly looking over his shoulder. He was sweating, his t-shirt beneath the hoody clung to him, he wasn’t stopping until he reached Robbo’s house. The lights were on, but he didn’t knock on the door, just did as he was told. He cycled right up to the front door, stuffed the money through his letter box and was away home.
Today was just another day for Robbo. The first job every morning was filling and switching on the kettle for his caffeine fix, he always started the day with a coffee and a fag. Inside his jacket, was the bundle of cash Joey had pushed
through his letter-box the previous evening. He made his brew of supermarket instant, then tipped the cash onto the workbench and counted; it was all there - all twelve hundred quid. Not a bad turn around. His contact, the wholesaler let Dooley have the Baikal for a round “ton”, one of the perks. The plan was to give Seb his deposit of five hundred notes back when the pistol was returned, after the job was completed. Even after giving Joey his cut he would clear five hundred quid for an hour or two’s work and still have the pistol to rent out again. He was getting faster at converting, but he was a long way from being in Gardener’s league in both skill and speed.
He was opening the bottom drawer of the metal filing cabinet, to hide the stash with the rest when there was a banging on the door. Quietly he edged towards the door and looked through the spy hole he’d made. It was Joey.
Robbo slid open the door, just enough for the lad and his bike to get in.
Joey always looked forward to his visits to the workshop; he loved the smell of oil and machined metal.
‘How did it go?’
‘No problems,’ said Joey as he propped his bike against the workbench. ‘Do you know this bloke, Seb?’
‘No, not personally, I was recommended. Did it all through a contact. You know how I work.’
‘Who?’
‘C’mon, Joey, you know I can’t tell you that, why?’
‘Cos he’s seriously weird.’
‘Define weird.’ He picked up his mug.
‘I don’t know, just something about him, your regular customers are bad enough, but this bloke was in a different league altogether. On top of that he was a right ugly fucker, face like a rabid rat.’
Robbo laughed. ‘Don’t care what he looks like, as long as his money’s good. Anyway, you up for another drop?’
‘So soon?’
‘Supply and demand, apparently. If there’s a demand, I’ll supply,’ he laughed out loud. ‘Seriously, this is the last one for a while. Don’t want to attract too much attention.’
It was easy money for Joey. ‘Yeah, but not for too long?’
‘No, but I’ve got to keep my head down, don’t want to overdo a good thing, just do the odd contract work.’
‘So, how are you going to fill the time?’
‘I’m going to spend a bit of time doing up an old motor bike I got my hands on.’ At the rear of the workshop was what looked like a pile of junk covered with an old sheet. Robbo, pulled off the cover. ‘It’s a 1960s, 250cc Triumph.’
‘Can I help?’ Joey asked, enthusiastically.
‘Don’t see why not,’ Robbo replied, as he put the cover back in place.
‘Cool, when are we starting?’
‘Let’s get this job over with first,’ he said laughing. He was surprised and pleased that the lad was showing some interest, interest in a job that was actually legal. He went over to the filing cabinet in the corner. He took a key from his pocket, unlocked a drawer and took out a Baikal pistol. He wrapped the pistol in a clean rag and passed it to the lad.
‘No problem, Robbo. Where’s the drop?’ He took the package and concealed it inside his hoody.
‘Ingelmire Lane,’ he scribbled down the address on a scrap of paper and handed it to the lad. ‘The blokes kosher, but as always, cash first before you hand it over.’
‘You want me to count the dosh?’
‘No need, he’s cool, but like I said, cash first. Then straight back here and through my letter-box. Okay?’
‘No probs, Robbo. Tonight?’
‘Between 10pm and 10.30pm, right? Right, bugger off and I’ll see you later.’
Joey dutifully did as he was told. He’d always fancied having a motorbike and was a little excited at the prospect. Maybe Robbo would let him ride it when they’d rebuilt it? He was feeling quite pleased as he cycled home, as ever he was aware of everything and everyone around him, always on the lookout for coppers.
Back home, he left his bike in the hallway and went through to the kitchen. ‘That you, Joey?’ His mum called out when she heard the door opening. As usual she was sprawled on the settee watching daytime television.
‘No, it’s the Boston Strangler.’ Same greeting whenever he came home and the same response, but she never ever realised.
‘Don’t be clever, be a love and make me a cuppa.’
She never called him love. He thought it must be something she’d taken.
‘In a bit,’ he opened the fridge door and looked inside, empty as usual. He grabbed a can of cola and went through to his bedroom. Joey made sure the door was closed firmly. He reached inside his hoody and took out the Baikal, placed it on the bed and carefully unwrapped the weapon. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he picked up the can and pulled back the tab. He took a sip of cola and put the can down on his bedside table.
‘My tea ready?’ his mum called out.
‘Two minutes,’ he called back. Two minutes turned into twenty. He picked up the Baikal and stood in front of the mirror fixed to his wardrobe door. He stood legs apart, arms out straight, gripping the pistol with two hands. Cool, he thought, as he admired his reflection. Then he changed stance. Standing sideways facing the mirror, he held the weapon with one hand, the pistol tipped sideways gangsta style, just like he’d seen Robbo’s customers do when they checked the goods. He tucked the pistol in the back waistband of his jeans and dropped his arm by his side. ‘You dead, man,’ he snarled at his reflection in the mirror, swiftly reaching for the Baikal and bringing up his arm outstretched, pointing towards his image. His finger, ever so lightly brushed against the trigger - that’s when the Baikal exploded. His screams could be heard throughout the block of flats, if not all of North Hull. But in the living room, not ten feet away, the screams fell on deaf ears, his mum lay sprawled out on the floor by the coffee table. She had given up on waiting for the coffee, and decided a shot of “H” was a better option.
Chapter 11
Warren sat at his desk deliberating as to whether he should pre-empt things and give Powers a call, the twenty-four hours he had stated had already been and gone. He sat tearing his plastic coffee cup in shreds. ‘Have you heard how the boss is?’
Trish looked up from her computer monitor. ‘He’s doing alright, but it’s going to be a long job.’
‘So, we’d better get sorted with our replacement.’ He went back to the shredding. ‘The McDonalds shooting, has there been any progress?’
Trish rifled through the increasing pile of folders on her desk. She found the one she wanted and opened it. ‘Not a great deal, the witness checked out okay, in his interview he said he was too far away to get any details other than he was sure it was an Audi, no description of the occupants - it’s a blank. See for yourself,’ she pushed the folder across the desk to Warren.
He threw his artwork into the bin and spread the folder open and began reading. ‘Alan Browning, 19 years old and a bit of a pusher. Probably stood on someone’s toes, dealing where he shouldn’t have been.’
‘Harsh, not so long ago he would have been given a kicking and spent a couple of days in hospital, but now?’ Trish shook her head. ‘You think it could be gang related?’
‘Always a possibility,’ said Warren with his head down reading the file.
‘Say’s here the bullet that killed him was a 9mm.’
‘Hmm, ballistics think it could have been fired from one of these Eastern European pistols. A distinct possibility it was a Baikal.’
Warren closed the folder and passed it back. ‘We’re not getting very far are we?’
‘Early days, Greg, early days.’
Warren’s mobile rang, it was the call he’d been waiting for. Warren looked across at Trish and gave the thumbs up and mouthed the name Powers.
‘Mr Powers, it’s good of you to call me back. I trust I come up to scratch?’
‘Just doing my homework you understand, have to be careful with who you’re dealing with,’ the voice said.
‘You do indeed, as it happens I’ve carried out a bit
of research myself and I’m even more convinced we can do business together.’
‘We’re a long way from that scenario. There’s a café at the Humber Bridge viewing area, 10am in the morning. Please come alone, Mr Cole. Goodbye.’ He hung up.
‘And it was very nice talking to you, Mr Powers,’ Warren said, as he placed his mobile down on the desk. ‘Well he sounds like a nice bloke, he wants to buy me a cup of tea.’ Warren paused. ‘I wonder if he’ll stretch to a toasted tea-cake?’
‘You’re crackers,’ Trish told him.’
‘C’mon, you know as well as I do this job’s not for anyone sane.’
Powers often conducted his business meetings at the Humber View café, it was respectable and at certain times of the day quiet. It was a place where travelling businessmen regularly carried out meetings, often hundreds of miles away from the offices. Today, Powers sat alone, he’d paid a visit to Gardener earlier in the day and needed a little time out without any interruptions, the café was a place he could sit in peace without being constantly interrupted. He’d needed to decide if he would return the call to Raymond Cole. If as the information given to him was correct, he would be foolish not to make the call, after all it looked as if it could turn out to be financially lucrative.
The call duly made, Powers placed his mobile on the table, he was staring through the window when the waitress brought across a second pot of tea. ‘Thanks, love,’ he said as she placed it down. Then his mobile vibrated and skidded about the table. He picked it up, looked at the screen, recognising the caller ID he accepted the call.
‘Neil, it's me.’ It was Powers’ police contact.
‘What can I do for you?’ Powers asked.
‘Got a lead on where that dodgy pistol might have come from.’
