Dead of Night

by Deborah Lucy

  Sloper turned and looked behind him. Sure enough, Sam Mendoza was sitting across the room at a table and acknowledged Sloper with a slight nod. Sloper shifted in his seat, his breathing a little faster. Temple saw he’d started to sweat. He could see him turning it all over in his mind. It was Paul Wallace’s turn.

  ‘We know all about the girls you run, the money you’ve got, the drugs, the deals – we’ve been watching you for about ten months now. A bent cop. Nobody likes a bent cop. We’ve also been talking to Gemma.’

  ‘Gemma’s a fucking whore,’ Sloper retorted. ‘No one believes whores.’

  Temple cut in quick. ‘Gemma, as you know, is Harker’s daughter, Simon. Put in a call to Harker, go on. Ring him up. That’s what you usually do, isn’t it? He usually comes to your rescue. Only this time, he won’t know what you’re talking about. Who do you think he’ll believe when he reads Gemma’s statement? A statement that goes back years, that will tell him of years of your dealings on the streets of Swindon, deals with the drug dealers, the pimps. Who do you think he’ll want to believe? She knows it all. She’ll tell her dad how you pimped out his own daughter when he thought you were looking out for her. What do you think he’ll say then? Who do you think he’ll believe with that statement and all the evidence that’s been gathered about you?’

  Sloper looked between the two of them. He scanned their faces, looking for chinks in their armour, looking into the backs of their eyes for anything he could exploit or deride. He sat back in his chair and looked over their heads at the wall. Temple watched him, looking for any sign or gesture of surrender. The bullish attitude Sloper had when he approached them was turning into something else.

  Sloper’s hand moved for his mobile on the table. Surely after all he’d heard, Sloper wouldn’t ring Harker? If he did, Temple knew his gamble wouldn’t pay off. As Temple watched him, he’d almost stopped breathing. Then he started to see darkened marks appearing through the cheap suit under Sloper’s armpits. He had a sweat on. Sloper believed every word. Temple kept the pressure on. It was like a high stakes game of poker.

  ‘We have times, dates, faces, names. Now you know we’ve been in your house, Simon; we installed covert surveillance months ago. We know about the money and the drugs you’ve got stashed there. We’ve also been all over your phones. The investigation’s nearly over now but there’s a couple of things outstanding that we’re going to give you an opportunity to help us with. Something so we can say that you’ve been helpful to us in our enquiries, as the other officers sweep up a couple of other characters. It might help you in mitigation.’

  Sloper had turned very red by now, as if his blood pressure was pushing at its limits. He was having difficulty controlling himself. Beads of sweat had appeared on his top lip. His hand involuntarily wiped across his mouth to make the telltale signs of his discomfort disappear. His shoulders moved as his breath became quicker and more shallow. Temple thought he was on the verge of a heart attack. Eventually he spoke.

  ‘What do you want?’ There was no trace of contrition in Sloper’s voice.

  ‘You took some drugs and money from Gemma Harker’s flat last week – correction, your flat. That’s right, isn’t it?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘We know you did. And Gemma’s made a statement to that effect. She knew it was there, saw it herself and then, when she returned with two girls, it was gone. You see, your actions in taking the money and drugs set off a chain of events. The two girls who took refuge at Gemma’s flat had to run when you took the money and drugs because they’d lost it. You know as well as I do what happens to people who lose drugs and money. You knew exactly what you were doing in taking it.

  ‘Next we get a police report that one of the girls is missing. The girl with her has been reported missing from London. In addition to that, the people that have been pissed off by having their drugs and money stolen then kidnap a different girl from Gemma’s flat in retaliation. So we’ve now got three girls, one of who’s been kidnapped and two who are running in fear of their lives, possibly being held too. You caused all that.’

  Sloper sat opposite, his eyes flicking downwards and back to Temple, taking in what was being said, trying to think ahead, think his way out. His heart was banging. How come he hadn’t spotted them if they’d been watching him for months – how come he hadn’t seen it?

  It was true the Met were good, but as Sloper’s mind sped over the deals he’d done, he couldn’t believe he wouldn’t have spotted something. And fucking Gemma, that bitch who he had kept out of the hands of dangerous pimps over the years, had opened her filthy mouth.

  Temple was watching him and knew he had to continue to pile it on.

  ‘We now have three vulnerable teenagers in the hands of ruthless dealers and we want them back. Whatever else you are out here to the scum you deal with, you’re still a cop. We’re giving you a chance to redeem yourself and get the girls back. We want them out of the way before the investigation goes any further. I particularly want the girl taken from Gemma’s flat. You’re going to make some phone calls and we’re going to find them – alive.’

  Temple’s mobile rang; he could see it was Gary Lewis. He answered the call but before Lewis could utter a word, Temple stopped him.

  ‘Wait,’ he said into the phone. He looked directly at Sloper and muted the call. ‘My colleagues sitting outside want to know – am I taking you in now or are you going to be cooperative?’

  The last thing Sloper wanted was to be taken into custody. His best chance of getting himself out of this shit was on the outside.

  ‘I’ll make some phone calls,’ he said. ‘I’ll help.’

  ‘Wait,’ Temple instructed Sloper.

  Temple stood up, moved away from the table and continued his phone call with Gary Lewis, leaving Paul Wallace to supervise Sloper.

  ‘What do you want, Gary?’

  ‘The meet – be in the Greenbridge area and I’ll ring you again.’ Lewis then ended the call. Temple was left looking at his mobile. He knew he couldn’t trust the bastard. He wouldn’t know until later whether he was just pissing him around. He’d make sure Lewis was arrested as soon as they had the girls. He wouldn’t be so arrogant in custody. He went back to Sloper.

  ‘Start ringing,’ he nodded at him.

  * * *

  With his hand fixed hard on Lordon’s shoulder, the man followed at arm’s length behind him as they walked through the streets of Swindon. Lordon had no thoughts of running; a bullet in the back was something he knew he wouldn’t survive. He might, however, survive if he could just reunite this angry man with Katya. He didn’t care about losing her – there were plenty more to recruit out there. He just didn’t want this kind of trouble. The sooner this was resolved the better. He could then resume business as usual. That was the most important thing.

  They walked in silence in the dark until Lordon reached the address where he had sent Katya with the drugs. Another nondescript low-rent Victorian terrace, it had been used as a trap house in the past and had been passed on to another ‘set’. Lordon approached the door and, looking down at his feet, he banged on it with his fist. The door was opened.

  Before anyone knew what was happening, the man thrust Lordon forward with all his might, using him as a battering ram to force both of them in through the door. The momentum of the action pushed the door wide open and the man behind it fell to the floor. The man maintained his grip on Lordon, his hand now tightly around the back of his neck like a vice. In his other hand was his gun, the barrel of which was now against Lordon’s temple.

  ‘Stay down!’ The man kicked at the legs of the guy scrambling on the floor trying to get to his feet, his angry, loud command adding to the confusion of the sudden intrusion. The guy stayed on his knees, sliding along the hallway on the laminate flooring, briefly looking up and seeing a quiet Lordon with a gun held to his head.

  They all burst through a door into a living room at the end of the narrow passage, the man on the floor scrab
bling through on all fours. The gunman stood still, his thick body filling the door frame with Lordon standing in front of him, the gun barrel pressed hard into the skin on the side of his head. He looked at the startled men in the small room. There were two sitting on a settee looking up at them and one standing. They had initially jumped when the intruders burst in and were all now stock-still, all eyes on the man with the gun. The man who was knocked to the floor at the front door slid across the room, his back against the wall.

  ‘You tell me where Katya is or I spray his brains all over you.’ The gunman looked around at the startled men. ‘And then I’ll spray your brains all over him.’ He gestured to the man on the floor. They were silent and still, their eyes fixed on Lordon and the gun. Lordon spoke.

  ‘I sent a girl here. Her name was Katya, she had a delivery. We just want to know where she is. This man has come to collect her.’ Lordon was trying to stay as calm as possible. He spoke slowly and clearly.

  As he finished, a noise came from a room beyond. It was the sound of a toilet flushing. Still no one moved in the room as they all seemed to be waiting for something. After twenty long seconds, the door opened, Katya walked through and froze at the sight that greeted her.

  ‘Come here, Katya.’ The man spoke softly, still pressing the gun into the side of Lordon’s head. Lordon felt the pressure of the barrel increase and spoke quietly.

  ‘Just everyone be calm, be calm. No one move. Katya, come over here, let me swap places with you.’

  ‘Come here, Katya, we’re going home.’ The man’s softly spoken voice was at odds with the gun he was holding. Katya held drugs in her hand and, not taking her eyes off the gun, she put them on a low table in the room. She moved slowly and walked towards the man with the gun. She didn’t know him but she knew he’d been sent for her. She stood next to Lordon. Suddenly the man pushed Lordon away. He fell into the room and into another man who had been standing stock-still. With Katya in his grip, the man turned on them.

  ‘You scumbags. You filthy pieces of shit. You think I’m going to let you go? You think this is over?’

  He released a shot, which embedded into the wall opposite. The noise in the confines of the small room stunned them and had them involuntarily ducking their heads and falling to the floor. Screams were heard from a room above. He let another shot go into the room, which he aimed at another wall.

  ‘I know every one of your faces. I will come back and you will all pay with your lives for this.’

  Now conscious of movements behind him coming down the stairs, the man took Katya by the arm and turned. Suddenly, at the bottom of the stairs were two girls. As soon as China and Megon saw the man with the gun in his hand, they screamed. He looked at them. Two terrified scrag ends in cheap tracksuits. With him and Katya barring their entrance into the living room, their only alternative was back up the stairs or out the front door.

  ‘Go, get out,’ he barked at them, flicking his head towards the front door. Looking at one another for a second, both took the opportunity being given to them and ran out into the dark of the night.

  Chapter 34

  Brian Porten walked down Fleming Way in Swindon. The darkness of the street at night was diluted by the street lights and bright headlights from the cars going by. He walked along the pavement, facing towards the oncoming cars, his shoulders hunched up. He was going towards the centre of town. He knew what he had to do tonight; he couldn’t go back empty-handed. There should be enough litter around the streets to keep him occupied. He felt the chill of the wind when it blew into his face so he made sure his coat collar was turned up and pulled his cap down, firmly fixing it onto his head.

  He hummed to himself as he walked, no distinct tune, just a low hum to keep himself company in his head. The streets were becoming all too familiar to him; he knew all the little side streets, the alleyways, little dead ends, the building recesses the sleepers used to keep themselves sheltered. Just as litter swept along by the wind gathered in crevices, so did they.

  He looked at the grey hue of the buildings and their outline in the skyline in the semi-darkness. They didn’t look too much better in the light, he concluded. It was all stark, boxy, drearily utilitarian and concrete. As he walked, from his pocket he took out his handkerchief and wiped it across his mouth. Returning it to his pocket, he kept it in his hand, his fingers keeping the feel of the cotton cloth against his skin. It soothed him; like a baby with a comforter, he needed to have the cotton material close to hand. It helped him to keep clean; the very fact that it was white made him feel clean.

  The people that he looked upon had no cleanliness. Their filthy appearance was something that constantly needled him. He wondered how they didn’t smell their own and each other’s stench. Perhaps it was only the clean that could smell their engrained body odour and piss-stinking clothing.

  Soon he was where he wanted to be. He could see them. He slowed down, his step becoming more relaxed, his stride less urgent. He couldn’t see their faces; they were wrapped up against the cold with all manner of hats, balaclavas and woollen scarves around their heads. They wore old military-type coats or puffa-style jackets to keep warm, along with their blankets and duvets.

  He walked slowly now, his eyes taking in the numbers of them, how they looked, what they were drinking, whether they were talkative or part-comatose already. Some were invisible; they had already made their beds for the night and were under a pile of blankets, faced away into doorways, the world shut out. He wouldn’t disturb the sleeping; he didn’t know how they would react to being suddenly woken, and besides which, they might pull a knife on him or be way too drowsy to understand what he was saying to them anyway.

  Just around the corner, away from the main area and sitting in a door recess, was a man, alone. He had a woollen hat pulled down on his head and at the sight of him, Porten knew he had all the information he needed. He had to be in his early to late sixties, the long, wiry hair coming out of the beanie hat he wore was an indication of the length of time he’d spent on the streets.

  As did his profuse facial hair; his fringe, beard and eyebrows created almost a natural home-grown balaclava, with his thick, purple nose the only unprotected protrusion. The man wore matted gloves with his fingers coming through the ends. His boots were worn and scuffed and he was wearing a threadbare green parka. His legs were pulled up and he was rubbing his hands and rocking his body in little sideways movements to keep out the cold. Yes, he would do.

  Observing him, Brian took out his handkerchief and wiped it slowly across his mouth, feeling the soft cotton against his lips. He approached the man, standing over him as he spoke.

  ‘You look cold, mate,’ he said in a gentle voice. He waited to see if the man would respond. He replied, but not immediately.

  ‘It’s getting in my bones tonight,’ the man replied in muffled tones. ‘This helps though.’ He pulled out a small bottle of cheap vodka from the inside of his coat.

  ‘Yes, that will do it. Something nice to keep the cold out. Take a good swig of that and you’ll have a fire inside.’

  The man did exactly as suggested and put the bottle up to his mouth. Porten watched the man tilt his head back. As he emptied the liquid into his mouth, he saw him gulp. The liquid poured over the man’s Adam’s apple like a waterfall over a fixed rock. Having quenched his thirst, he sat the bottle back in his lap. A minute or so later, Porten encouraged him to take another, deeper swig. If he was coming with him, he didn’t want him talking or seeing where he was being taken.

  He seemed fairly pliable. Porten continued with the small talk and, little by little, found the man engaged with him. They chatted tentatively at first but gradually Porten made sure his conversation fell in with the man’s and was agreeable.

  It was all lip service on Brian Porten’s part; he didn’t care what circumstances had brought this man to the streets so he didn’t enquire. He didn’t care to ask when was the last time the man before him on the pavement had actually sat in a room, i
n a chair, with a fire, food on the table, listening to music playing. Simple, basic pleasures that were denied to the man in front of him. No, Porten didn’t care. The man was sitting in the street creating a mess. He was an eyesore. He had to go.

  ‘If you want a bed for the night and some more vodka, I can offer you one. It’s not much mind you but it’s better than sleeping in this doorway and it’ll be much warmer. A lot more comfortable. And don’t worry about me, I’ll just drop you off and then I’ll be gone.’

  The man looked up; they’d found some common ground in the small amount of time they’d been speaking. He knew he had to be careful but he was tired and so cold that he was numb. He’d only spent six months on the streets but he’d learned a lot in that time. He’d had to learn who to trust, where he could sleep and where he couldn’t, where he could find the cheapest booze, free blankets and clothing.

  He hadn’t always been homeless; he’d had a good job and a nice rental. He’d passed people like him on the streets himself then. He’d been employed, had a salary paid into the bank every month and then suddenly redundancy hit and it was all gone. There was no money for the rent.

  He hadn’t given street sleepers the time of day, not one kind word, not one penny when he was earning. Yet here was this man, a complete stranger, out late at night like a kind Samaritan offering a place to stay, a warm place with some vodka. It was too good an offer to refuse.

  After the man had drunk some more vodka, Porten helped him to his feet. He was stiff with the cold and a little slow, so Porten walked along by his side as he shuffled along. Not talking much, he walked the man slowly to his car. There was no CCTV here in this side street and so neither of them would be seen as they walked alongside one another.

  Porten followed the same well-used plan. As he drove out of Swindon away from street lighting, the landscape became darkened. The only light came from car headlights of the oncoming traffic. The dark also helped to disorientate; Porten navigated a few bending and winding roads that gave no indication of location and before long, his passenger had no idea where he was or where they were heading to.