Lizzie stood in the doorway, clutching her child. She wore a grubby, stained, white vest top and jersey shorts which were slightly too tight. Her hair was scraped back in a straggly ponytail.
She avoided eye contact. ‘You looking for Chris?’
George smiled. ‘I’m not, no. Is it Elizabeth?’ He knew they could always tell a copper, uniform or not.
‘Lizzie.’ She looked a little worried.
‘Lizzie, thank you. Do you mind if I come in?’
Lizzie stepped aside, gripping her child. George squeezed past. He entered a small bedsit, made even smaller by the double bed that dominated the room. There was a tiny kitchen area at one end. It was tidy, though.
‘Lizzie, did you want to sit down?’
Lizzie sat on a small sofa under the window and pulled her daughter onto her lap. Outside, the drizzle had stopped and the sky had begun to clear a little. The window suddenly glowed as the sun emerged from behind a cloud.
‘Alright, Katie?’ Lizzie hugged her daughter and smiled nervously at George. He sat down on the edge of the bed.
‘Lizzie, there’s no easy way to say this. I am here to talk to you, but it’s about Chris.’
Lizzie stopped rubbing Katie’s back. He could see in her eyes that she had guessed that he was not here to deliver good news.
‘Chris was involved in a car accident in the early hours of this morning. Lizzie, I’m very sorry, but Chris died at the scene. The paramedics did everything they could but his injuries were just too serious.’
Lizzie’s expression registered nothing. The news didn’t seem to have sunk in. ‘What car? Chris doesn’t drive. He doesn’t have a car.’
‘He was in someone else’s car. He was the only one in it. We’re not sure where he was going or where he’d been. We’re still sort of piecing it together, really. Listen, Lizzie, can I give someone a call and get them round here? Or maybe drop you round at a friend’s place? You shouldn’t be on your own.’
Lizzie nodded. ‘Yeah, I’m supposed to be going to Jackie’s anyway — Chris’s mum. She’ll be waiting in for me. We were gonna go to the park.’ Lizzie broke into a sort of smile which quickly disappeared. ‘She won’t know, will she?’ There was panic in her voice.
‘I don’t think she could know yet, no. I’ll drop you round there and I’ll talk to her, all right?’ George didn’t relish the thought of delivering the bad news twice, but he knew that Lizzie couldn’t be left on her own.
‘I’ll let you sort out what you need and get ready.’ George rose to his feet and went towards the door. He was surprised to find her standing right behind him, barefoot, but apparently ready to leave.
‘Lizzie?’ he said softly.
‘Yeah?’
‘It’s quite chilly out there. Do you want to put something on, maybe get a jacket for young Katie there?’
Lizzie stared at George for a couple of seconds, and then backed away and sat down on the bed. She placed Katie next to her and lifted her hands to her face. She began to weep, silently.
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ George said.
Lizzie nodded. For the first time in seven years, George had a cup of coffee in Peto Court.
Chapter 8
‘So here we are again.’ DI Craig Jacobs smiled broadly as a coffee was placed in front of him. ‘And you’re buying!’
‘Don’t get too excited about it, pal. Remember, I’m just looking at options at the moment and you might be one of them.’
Jacobs was not downhearted. He knew that he had the area commander hooked.
‘So, I assume you have questions for me, now that you’ve had time to think?’
‘Yeah, I have some questions. I have to say, when you said this was a bit out of the box I had no idea it would involve sending in a bunch of civilian workers to bully their way into the ranks of the drug dealers.’ Huntington peered around nervously. It was ten thirty and Costa was quiet. A teenage staff member was busy nearby, struggling to operate a mop bucket.
‘I’ll be honest with you, sir, the man who implemented this in the city was a brave guy. He did insist on some restrictions and criteria, but even so, it does take some balls.’
‘Restrictions? Criteria? What did he insist on specifically?’
Jacobs poured sugar into his cup, and leaned back. ‘Well, first we sat down and talked about personnel. We agreed there should be five or six people, which is enough for safety but not so many that the place was swamped. We handpicked the team, and I have to say we made a good job of it. They were perfect — two lads and a girl from Firearms, one from the tactical team and a couple of civvies. One was the safety trainer and the other was an ex copper and a driver trainer.’
‘I thought you said they were all civvies?’
‘They were. At least they were by the time they started. They were all transferred on to civilian contracts and given a career break from the police. That way their pensions weren’t affected and they went back to being coppers when the career break ended. Initially this was signed for six months while the scheme was being piloted, but you can extend career breaks for as long as you want, as I’m sure you know.’
‘Of course,’ Huntington waved his hand. ‘So what happened to this team when it all stopped?’
‘Most of them were similar to me, sir. We were at the coalface as it were, and we could see the impact we were having. We went into the area hard. We prepared the ground by making a name for them out on the street, so there was really very little actual work needed to get a foothold. The street dealers folded pretty quickly, they told us how to get to the suppliers, who was doing what, and even offered to distribute for us.’
‘And did they?’
‘Well, sir . . . yes, they did. It was necessary. Like I said, you have to do things ordinary coppers wouldn’t, and what better way than taking part? No one suspected a thing, not at any point.’
Huntington exhaled, and looked across to where the lad had now knocked over the mop bucket and was trying to dry the floor with kitchen towels. ‘It doesn’t rest easy with me. I mean, the intel guys have done some buying of gear in the past, but there’s always an arrest out of it, an instant result. I assume with this there is a period of time where we would be dealing drugs to the scum of Epping Hill while we wait for the main suppliers to rear their heads? And where would we get the drugs from in the first place?’
Jacobs ignored the question. ‘The beauty of this job is that it gives you back control of the estate. In the past you’ve bought from a dealer who’s got a few wraps of something naughty in his pocket. He gets nicked, and before he’s even in custody someone’s taken his place. If you want to make a difference, and I mean a real difference, you’ve got to look at getting to the people that are bringing the stuff in and giving it to these idiots. Six months, sir. Run it as a pilot operation for six months, but I promise you we will have made a massive difference within four.’
‘And the drugs? You didn’t answer my question,’ Huntington persisted.
‘The drugs we get from the competition. Like I say, we go in there and make a bit of a noise. The uniform boys out on the street have already given us a reputation, so we’ll be in business very quickly.’
‘In business?’
Jacobs smiled. ‘Sorry, bad choice of words.’
‘So we would need to select the team from the force here?’
‘Well, yes. The success of the pilot depends on the personnel in your team. However, I happen to know that some, if not all, of the members of the city team would transfer down here if they felt they might be able to see a pilot through.’
Huntington dabbed at his lips with a serviette. ‘Transfer them in?’
‘It would make sense. I could have a word. That way we get a team who’ve done something like this before. They can avoid repeating previous mistakes and really hit the ground running. It also takes away the problem of uniform officers recognising colleagues and blowing the operation, and it’s easier for your books because you
can just transfer them straight in as civvies.’
Huntington nodded ‘I would need to meet them. They would have to understand that there are rules, and that they’re not in the city now. I’d need to be satisfied before I give them the green light.’
‘Of course. I’ll arrange a meeting with Ed Kavski. He ran the team the last time around and he would be a key acquisition — he’s ex-military and he’s a good man.’
Huntington looked at Jacobs. ‘I’m not sure this job needs a good man.’
Chapter 9
‘Taxi for you?’ The taxi driver poked his head out of his window, looking at a figure sheltering in a shabby telephone box. A fine drizzle fell on Epping Hill.
‘Well, if it isn’t Effingell’s finest taxi service!’
‘How you doing, friend?’ The taxi driver watched the man slide to the middle of the rear bench.
'Can't complain, you know how it is. Where's the accent from, man?’
‘Iran my friend, my home once.’ The taxi driver sighed.
‘And now look at you. Sat on the outskirts of Effingell.’
‘Yes indeed, sir. Now, where can I take you today?’
The man leant forward, closer to the mirror. ‘Well now, I’m not entirely sure about that. I was hoping you might know. Didn’t someone tell you what my destination should be?’
‘Someone told me?’
‘That’s right. Someone might have mentioned that you work for me?’ The last part of the sentence was almost whispered. The driver looked in the mirror. The man was leaning back into the rear seat. The taxi driver suddenly remembered a conversation with one of the Polish drivers, who had told him a story about picking someone up who didn’t know where they were going. He told him that he was expected to know the destination. All the drivers had done it. It was like a trial run, where the passenger worked out if he liked you or not. He said that those the passenger liked got more work — different to the normal cabbying, but it paid well. Those he didn’t like weren’t treated so well. He’d heard of them getting assaulted, more than once, until they got the message and stopped working the taxis.
The car slowed while the driver hesitated. ‘So I work for you, too?’ His throat felt dry and tight.
‘Well, you don’t have to. This is a free country.’
‘Okay, well, I know where to take you then, sir. And I have something for you. I keep it in the back, tucked down the seat.’
The man turned and tugged at his seat. The driver looked back to check if any cars were following. He’d heard stories from the other drivers, those that had been there far longer than his two months. They talked about undercover cops with baseball caps driving bashed-up old Vauxhall Novas or Citroën Saxos, a cigarette on the go and a young girl in the passenger seat. You would pass them by and go about your business, not realising that they were checking your plate, watching your fares or preparing to pounce.
‘Good work.’ The man had found what he was looking for and sat down again. He was handling a brown padded envelope, gently moving his hands up and down it, feeling every bulge. He looked out of the window.
‘And the rain has stopped. Ain’t that just the way. So, Iranian, you said?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long you been over here then?’
‘Eight months.’ He kept his answers short. He wasn’t looking for a conversation.
‘Eight months in Effingell.’ The passenger sniffed and looked out of the window.
‘No, I come here two months ago. I went to Gravesend for a while. They put us in a communal house, but now I have a house with just me and my family.’
‘Big family?’
‘With my wife, and I have three children.’
‘Three fucking children! Three fucking children and you gotta feed them all, clothe the little fuckers and get them their fucking iPhones on a taxi driver’s money. I tell you, I got speaking to an Indian fella, he was saying that they come here for a better way of life for their children, to be a little better off, like.’
The driver made listening noises and prayed for the traffic lights to change. They were nearly there.
‘So the Indian fella’s kids, they ain’t seen nothing like some of the shit we get over here. But now they get to see it all, maybe have a quick go on someone’s fucking X-Box, or realise that the way you get fanny over here is to have the latest gear, you understand? And now all they want is what every other fucker’s got. Do you see my point? We’re fucking spoilt, see, we get what we want, and especially the kids.’ The man was leaning forward again.
‘I think I see.’
‘No, you don’t. Way I see it, you come ’ere for a better life and it ain’t for me to say whether you’re right or wrong, but you do come ’ere, and you bring your family and you are richer. You get a house to keep yourself dry and warm and some cash to put food on the table and in Iran, maybe that’s a rich man’s life, but here, you’re nothing. And that means that your family, when they get old enough to understand, they’re gonna see you as nothing too.’
The brakes squeaked as the taxi pulled up in Newington Crescent, level with a row of garages. You could leave it by foot, along a small alleyway that ran along the back of the garages and out into terraced streets. Just like he had been told.
‘This is the place then, sir.’
The man in the back looked around. ‘So it is.’
He undid the top two buttons of his jacket, pulled it open and slipped the parcel into the inside pocket. He took his time to do it up, and then his right hand touched a pocket on the outside of his jacket. He shuffled along to directly behind the driver’s seat. The driver tensed and reached for the door handle, watching the mirror. The man pushed the back door open and straightened his coat before bending and knocking on the window. The driver opened it halfway.
‘I understand this is your first fare, so you won’t know how it all works.’ The man placed an unlit cigarette in his mouth. ‘You want one?’
‘No, thank you.’
The man thrust a ten-pound note through the window, which dropped onto his lap.
‘That’s the fare. You keep the change now. I enjoyed the chat. I hope you listened to me, though. Where you are now, it’s all about the money and there’s plenty out there to be earned. I always need people like you, people that know when they’re on to a good thing and can keep their mouths shut, you understand?’
The driver nodded.
‘Sure you do. There’s no risk for you. If the police ever stop your car and find anything, it’s just a parcel tucked down the back seat, nothing to do with you. You just tell the fuckers that you drive a cab, you ain’t got no control on people sitting in the back and stuffing envelopes down there now, have you? Trust me, it’s been done a hundred times and the driver is always the one that walks. Most of the people you see out driving taxis are doing their bit for me, it’s no skin off their nose, see.’
The driver nodded again.
‘Later, when your shift’s done, you’ll have a look down the back seat. You’ll see that one of your passengers will have left an envelope for you, you understand? This is your first time, friend, so the package is sweet this time round. You won’t always make that, but keep your nose clean, your head down and get the job done and you’ll earn a week’s wage in a fucking heartbeat. That okay with you?’
‘Yes, sure. I understand. Thank you.’
The man pulled up his coat collar and lowered himself to the driver’s level. The cigarette bobbed in his lips as he spoke. ‘You’d be a mug to fuck up this sort of opportunity. Just think of that family of yours, you understand? The only job of a father and a husband is to put food on the table, right? And keep his family safe.’
The man stood up, thrust both hands into his jacket pockets and strode off. The driver exhaled and watched him walk away. The driver checked himself in the mirror and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. He exhaled again and stepped out of the car. He checked that the crescent was empty, then opened
the back door and leaned in to thrust his hands down the seat, as the man had done before him. Sure enough, his fingertips touched paper. He pulled the parcel out. He looked around again, seeing no one, but still he reached through the car to place the parcel on the front passenger seat. He moved quickly back to the driver’s seat, pulled the door shut and picked up the parcel. Giving a last check all around him, he opened it up. He reached in and pulled the contents out into the light. Twenty pound notes, crisp and new looking. He counted them in hundreds, more money than he had ever seen passing from one hand to the other.
Suddenly there was a thump on the window. A large figure loomed and leered through the glass. It pointed a long finger and thumped again. The driver jumped back. The figure shouted through the glass, and yanked the door open. A sudden draught of air picked up the bank notes and sent them flying off the driver’s lap.
‘Fucking idiot!’
The driver was knocked sideways by a blow to the side of his head. More of the notes fell off his lap and into the foot-well. The door slammed shut again. The car shook as someone got in the back, and then there was silence.
The driver lifted a hand to the side of his throbbing face. ‘Just take it. I don’t want trouble,’ he said. His voice quivered. He didn’t want to turn and see who was in the back. He knew from home that if you looked at them and they thought you might know who they were, it was worse, you might give them no choice.
‘I gave you clear instructions, didn’t I?’
‘You come back?’
‘Of course I did. And you failed my test. I told you, didn’t I? I said to wait for your shift to end, that any packages down the back of the seat should be left there. You get stopped now, how you gonna explain five hundred quid in wads of twenties? Then the gavvers, see, they look at who you’ve had in your cab, they link you to me and all of a sudden I’m in a whole world of shit. But that ain’t gonna happen. Have I made myself clear?’
The driver nodded.
‘Now come on, you nodded the last time, which in this country means yes. Clearly you hadn’t taken it all on board. You know it means yes, right?’
BODILY HARM a gripping crime thriller full of twists Page 5
