by Alfie Robins
‘Share,’ he said in a low voice into the phone.
‘This isn’t official, as far as I know it could be a load of cobblers, right?’
‘Okay, I’m listening.’
‘I’ve heard a whisper the bloke you are looking for works out of a lockup workshop in north Hull.’
‘Got a name for me?’
‘Robert Dooley, goes by the name of Robbo. Now you have to understand, Neil, this isn’t a cert, just a name one of my snouts came up with. Like I say, it’s only a whisper.’ The voice sounded nervous, as if he didn’t want any repercussions from Powers if the information turned out to be useless.
‘Does anyone else know about this?’
‘No, not as far as I’m aware.’
‘Keep it that way.’ He ended the call, and keyed in another number. The call was picked up almost immediately.
‘Boss, what can I do for you?’ It was the newly named Sebastian.
‘You sound like shit,’ Powers told him.
‘Yeah well, got a bad tooth haven’t I?’ replied Seb, referring to the teeth loosened by Warren.
‘You heard of anyone called Robert Dooley?’
‘Can’t say as I have, why?’
‘Just interested, this bloke lives somewhere in north Hull, find him and I want to know everything about him - right?
‘No probs boss, get back to you soon.’
The call was disconnected, Powers returned to staring out of the window.
The north bank towers of the Humber Bridge stood tall and proud as Warren drove beneath the bridge along the A63, Clive Sullivan Way. He thought how murky the Humber looked when the tide was out, a series of mud flats covered in white specks, feeding gulls. He turned off the A63, drove past the Humber Bridge viewing area and headed for the overflow parking area. He arrived before the arranged time, arriving early was a habit that had proved to be a good one - always get to the rendezvous well before time, it was essential to check things out, it was more imperative to find a quick exit should one be needed.
Warren parked the Escort out of direct view between two heavy goods vehicles, climbed out and clicked the key fob. He stood looking around taking stock of his surroundings. The car park was larger than he had anticipated, with high sloping grassy banks and thick privet hedges, ideal if anyone wanted to conceal themselves. Warren walked the perimeter; everything appeared kosher, nothing untoward. Jimbo was getting good at the undercover lark, Warren never spotted him.
Jimbo had arrived separately, and, like Warren, well in advance and carried out his own recce of the area, finding himself a concealed hiding place amongst vegetation with a good view of the café and its approaches. By the time Warren arrived back at his vehicle it was almost time for the meet. He opened up the Escort, climbed in and then drove through to the main visitor parking area, this time pulling up in clear view of the café. For appearance sake, should anyone be watching, he sat a while, making the pretence of talking on his mobile, all the while he was scanning the area.
Once satisfied that things looked okay, not that there was much he could do about it at this stage of the game, Warren walked across the open space of the car park. If there were anyone concealed with a weapon it would be now he used it.
Nothing.
Pushing open the café door he looked around. Two guys sat close to the counter having a late breakfast meeting, towards the far end sat a family enjoying their bacon rolls before venturing down onto the riverside foreshore. One solitary figure sat towards the rear of the café, like Warren, he liked a good view of the exits. Warren gave his walk an exaggerated swagger, the Raymond Cole bluster. He approached the table and stood before the solitary figure.
‘Mr Powers?’ he said, reaching across the table holding out his arm. Powers ignored the hand. Warren shrugged. ‘May I?’ he asked inclining his head to a vacant chair. ‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ he said when he still didn’t receive an answer, just an intimidating stare. So, you are a hard-man, thought Warren, there was something about Powers that made him come to the conclusion so quickly. ‘Tea, please, love,’ Warren called over to the young woman behind the counter as he sat down. Still no response from Powers. Warren sat, arms folded across his chest, the well-practised stare hadn’t worked, he’d seen it all before.
Then Powers moved, his hands came up from his lap, he placed them palm down on the table, arms outstretched. ‘Who are you?’
‘Raymond Cole, but you can call me Ray.’
‘Who are you really?’ All the time he tried to stare Warren out.
‘I’m the man who’s giving you five hundred notes for ten minutes of your time.’ The waitress brought over Warren’s tea and put the tray down on the table. ‘Thanks, love.’
‘Then you’ve already wasted three minutes. What do you want?’
‘I have a colleague in Newcastle who requires information. See, it’s been brought to our attention someone in this area has been supplying defective firearms. Not good for business.’
‘What makes you think that I can help?’
‘I’ve been told that you’re the man in the know, shall we say the man with his finger on the trigger, so to speak.’ Warren gave a short faux laugh at his own joke.
‘Before we go any further, who gave you my number?’
‘Ha, that would be telling,’ he said touching the side of his nose knowingly.
‘Then good morning to you, Mr Cole.’ Powers stood up to leave.
‘You know someone who goes by the name of Mouse?’ Warren said quickly before Powers had chance to move from the table.
Powers promptly resumed his seat. ‘The name rings a bell.’
‘You might want to have a word with him, it only cost me a ton for your number.’
‘Noted, Mr Cole. Yes, there has been some defective Eastern European pistols, I didn’t realise they’d reached your neck of the woods?’
‘Oh yes, bad merchandise rubs off on all of us. We want it ended.’
‘Well, I can assure you the matter is already in hand, it’s being dealt with. So, now if you will excuse me I have a business to attend to.’
‘Before you leave,’ Warren reached inside his jacket and took out a bulging envelope and placed it on the table. ‘Five hundred, as agreed.’
‘Keep it, not necessary.
‘Call it a goodwill gesture,’ Warren told him. ‘Of course, there’s plenty more where this came from.’ Warren held onto the envelope momentarily. ‘My colleagues and I are looking to find a new, more dependable supplier, someone who can supply reliable goods.’
‘As I said, I have a business to run. You have my number, use it sparingly.’ Powers brushed aside Warren’s hand and picked up the envelope and put it in his own pocket, ‘I’ll look forward to hearing from you,’ and left.
Warren watched through the café window as Powers headed towards a new BMW. There was no guessing what the business Powers had to attend to was, he didn’t want to be in Mouse’s shoes any time soon.
Powers hadn’t realised how wide spread the problem had become, he thought it a local problem, not one which had repercussions in other parts of the country. Obviously, this Dooley had been spreading his wings. The matter needed dealing with sooner rather than later. As for Mouse, Powers did have plans to deal with him, but first there was one more thing he needed the rodent to do.
Chapter 12
Trish came into the office waving a sheet of paper, her face like thunder, she was fuming. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve seen this?’ She slapped the sheet down with the palm of her hand. Neither Warren nor Jimbo had seen her so worked up, they sat in awe and let her finish her rant. ‘Well, say something?’
Warren was the first to respond. ‘Trish, calm down, what’s got you rattled?’ he said as he reached across the desk and slid the sheet toward him.
‘Fifteen year old lad got his bloody hand blown off, that’s what’s rattling me. This is getting bloody ridiculous, kids getting maimed.’
Warren sat forward in his se
at. ‘When was this?’
‘Late yesterday afternoon. And where was his mother? Out of her head on Heroin, she wants bloody locking up.’
‘Okay Trish, you’ve got the lad’s details?’ She nodded. ‘Grab your jacket and we’ll check it out, then we’ll go see the lad in the infirmary.’
Trish continued to put the world to rights as they drove to the North Hull address. ‘Not very appealing, is it?’ Trish remarked as they walked across the parking area. Warren was non-committal. He’d seen worse places in north London. A uniformed officer stood by the entrance to the flats. The detectives flashed their warrant cards, and were directed to the flat the lad shared with his mother. Another uniform stood by the door, wrote their names into the log and allowed them access.
‘Where’s the mother?’ Trish asked the uniform.
‘Living room,’ was all he said, shaking his head in disgust.
Trish stepped over the threshold, Warren close behind, followed her through the short hallway. There was nothing remarkable about the place, small basic kitchen - not the most hygienic room in the house, about on par with the bathroom and toilet that could have benefitted from a splash of bleach and a good clean through.
Warren entered the living room. ‘Mrs Smale?’ he said as he looked around and saw a woman with bottle blonde hair, sprawled legs akimbo on the settee. She didn’t respond, still half cut from her fix. He looked towards Trish and wrinkled his nose, convinced she must have pissed herself while she was out of it. ‘Mrs Smale?’ he repeated. He was wasting his breath, he turned his back on her. ‘Must have been some fix if she’s still out of it,’ he said as they left the room.
‘The lad’s room,’ Trish told him, as she gently pushed open the door with the toe of her boot. ‘Best put these on,’ she passed him a pair of protective nitrile gloves.
The room was not typical for a fifteen-year-old boy - it was clean and tidy, apart from the blood and mess left by the Paramedics. A made up single bed was pushed against one wall, again, untypical for a boy of his age was the expensive television fixed high on the wall facing the bed. Next to the bed was a melamine bedside cabinet with a lamp, a couple of mountain biking magazines lay on the floor next to the bed. The wardrobe wobbled as Warren opened the door, the false bottom still open, inside Warren saw the biscuit tin, the type usually seen in the shops around Christmas time, carefully he lifted it out and placed it on the bed.
‘What have you got there?’ asked Trish.
‘Let’s have a look shall we?’ The festive snow scene lid was a loose fit and came away easily. ‘Wow,’ he was amazed. ‘This is a serious amount of cash, you don’t get this much for doing a paper round.’
‘Do lads still do that - paper rounds?’ Trish asked seriously.
‘Buggered if I know.’
‘I’m not surprised he kept it hidden away from her,’ Trish inclined her head toward the living room.
Warren shouted to the uniform on the door. ‘Have the CSIs been yet?’
‘Not yet, Sarge, they’ve been held up.’
‘Give us a minute will you,’ asked Warren.
The uniform left his post at the door and joined them in the bedroom. ‘Sarge,’ he said to Warren, still searching in the wardrobe.
Trish responded. ‘Keep this safe until the CSIs get here,’ she said putting the lid back on the tin.
‘What’s in it?’ She lifted the corner slightly allowing him to see the contents. If she hadn’t she knew curiosity would overcome him and he’d look inside, possibly interfering with any trace evidence. ‘Jesus, how much is in there?’
‘A lot, we’ll let the CSI’s count it, just keep your eye on it.’ Again, Trish gestured towards the living room where Joey’s mum sat, still high as a kite.
‘Bloody hell, yes, if she gets her hands on it she’ll be stoned from now until Christmas.’
‘Now where, the Infirmary?’
‘Yep,’ Warren replied.
Trying to find a parking place at the Hull Royal Infirmary was nigh on impossible. ‘I’m not driving around this bloody car park any longer,’ grumbled Warren, as he pulled the pool car into a restricted area on the hospital concourse and stopped directly in front of the thirteen-storey hospital.
‘Oi, you can’t park there,’ a security guard shouted and marched across as Warren and Trish climbed out of the vehicle. Warren flashed his ID at the guard. ‘Makes no difference, mate, you can’t leave it there,’ he said in his ‘jobs worth voice’.
‘If you don’t want it there - you move it,’ Warren replied sternly, as he tossed the vehicle keys to the man who nearly fell arse over tit to catch them. ‘And don’t scratch it.’ Not that it would have made much difference to the battered vehicle - maybe even enhanced it a little.
‘Bloody coppers,’ the man mutter behind Warren’s back as he walked back to his security cabin.
The detectives made their way across the hospital lobby and walked across the large open foyer.
‘Excuse me.’ Warren said, again, holding his warrant card high to the girl behind the booking-in desk. ‘Can you tell me which ward Joey Smale is on?’
She looked up from the computer screen, glanced at the ID and started to tap tap on the keyboard. ‘He’s over in the Women and Children’s building, just across the way, turn left out of the main doors, you can’t miss it.’
‘Thanks.’
‘No problem, just press the buzzer on the door and they’ll give you access.’
Warren and Trish were duly admitted into the Women and Children’s building, a modern purpose-built unit. It was a much friendlier environment than the main building. A charge nurse once again checked their identification then escorted them along brightly painted corridors with cartoon characters and posters on the walls. Joey was recovering in a private side ward following the operation on his damaged hand.
‘He’s not long out of surgery,’ the nurse told them.
‘Is he conscious?’ asked Trish.
‘Not really, on and off, more off than on. I doubt you’ll get any sense out of him until the anaesthetic wears off, of course then there’s the pain killers to contend with. Poor lad’s in a terrible state.’
‘In here,’ the nurse opened the door, a second nurse sat on a chair by his side. She smiled at the officers and continued to monitor the machines. The room was bright and cheerful, not that Joey was taking any pleasure from his surroundings. The lad lay on the bed, wired up to the heart monitors and fluid drips and goodness knows what else. ‘He’s stable,’ she said, ‘keeps drifting in and out. It’ll be a while before you can speak to him.’
Trish was visibly upset. Joey looked so small. She’d seen it all during her career, but the sight of the lad minus his hand and half of his right arm touched a nerve. ‘How is he really?’ she asked.
‘The operation went well, he’ll make full recovery. Once the wounds healed he’ll be fitted with a prosthetic limb. What he’ll need when he wakes is his mum.’
Trish walked to the bedside and placed a hand on his forehead. ‘Fat chance of that happening.’ The nurse raised her eyebrows, gave an enquiring look. ‘She’s a junkie, she was out of her head when it happened.’
‘Who rang for the Paramedics?’
‘A neighbour, his mum was high on Heroin when they arrived, didn’t have a clue what happened or what was going on. Doubt she still does.’
‘Takes all sorts,’ the nurse replied, ‘we’ve alerted Social Services about what’s happened.’
‘Let’s hope they can sort something for him.’ Warren turned to Trish, ‘not much point hanging about,’ he said, taking a business card from his wallet. ‘Do me a favour,’ he asked the nurse, ‘will you give me a call when you think he’ll be able to talk to us?’
‘Of course,’ she replied taking the card.
‘No pressure, but the sooner the better you understand, the faster we find out what happened we can try and stop it happening again.’
‘As soon as he’s able to talk I’ll be in tou
ch.’
‘Thanks,’ said Warren as they left, closing the door on the bleeping machines.
Chapter 13
It wasn’t long before the news of what happened to Joey reached Powers, via the power of local radio. He was scathing, how the hell had a lad of that age got himself involved with a dodgy weapon and who the hell had been the supplier? If truth was known, he had very little doubt that it was none other than Robert Dooley, who else? The matter needed dealing with ASAP.
Powers needed a drink. He went through to the kitchen and selected an expensive bottle of red wine from the rack. Settled in his leather Chesterfield chair with a large glass of red, he took out his mobile and dialled. The recipient of the call recognised the ID and answered almost immediately.
‘Yes, boss?’ Sebastian said into the handset.
‘Dooley, did you do a deal with him?’
‘Yep, met a young lad for the handover.’
‘Thought as much. Have you heard the local news recently?’
‘Can’t say I have, never listen to that crap, why?’
‘Seems the lad you did the deal with, might have had his hand blown off by a dodgy one.’
‘For fuck’s sake, still if he was working with Dooley …’
Powers cut him short. ‘He was a kid for fuck’s sake, I want him taken care of sooner rather than later, Dooley that is, just in case it’s not clear.’ Bloody moron, Powers thought to himself.
‘No probs boss, I’m on it.’ Then the line went dead. Sebastian immediately dialled another number.
‘Yo, Mouse what can I do for you?’ Albert Drury was an old pal from Mouse’s school days, between them they had caused the teachers untold grief right until the day they were excluded.
‘I’ve told you before you moron, call me Sebastian or Seb. Listen, the boss wants a special job doing. You up for it?’
‘How special?’
‘Very, know what I mean? I reckon there will be a bonus if we play our cards right.’ Mouse knew the boss would be willing to pay a little over the odds for a quick result. ‘I’ll be in touch soon, so lay off the gear, know what I mean?’
