Tino nodded. ‘Sure, man.’
‘All right, give it to me outside when we leave. But in principle, I’m interested. Trevor says you’ve got five thousand to sell, and you could be able to get as much as five thousand a week. Is that right?’
Tino sipped his drink. It looked like a scotch and soda. ‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘And it’s E, yeah? Ecstasy?’
‘That’s also right.’
‘I usually deal with bigger quantities than that. Do you think you’ll be able to get more?’
‘I don’t know, man,’ he answered. ‘I might be able to, but I cannot say for sure.’
‘Fair enough. Well, five’ll do for now. We’ll have to play it by ear.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘See how it goes.’
‘Sure.’
‘I can pay you five cash for the first consignment, as long as it’s you who gets it into the country.’
‘It’s already here.’
‘Fine. That’s my price. Take it or leave it.’
‘I was hoping for six, man. You know, I’ve got expenses.’
‘We’ve all got expenses, Tino.’
‘How about five five, Mark?’ said Murk. ‘A nice clean compromise.’
Stegs sat back and took a drink of his pint. Murk was breaking the cardinal rule of informants everywhere – the rule being, never get too involved in the sting. A grass should sell his information, make an introduction if he has to, then slip into the background and try to put as much distance as possible between himself and the arresting officers. That way he tended to stay alive and healthy a lot longer. But Murk was playing it different. He was acting as Tino’s partner, even though he knew the porn star was going down, involving himself in the whole thing for no obvious benefit. After all, he’d done his bit so, in essence, there was absolutely no point in him hanging around, which made the fact that he was very suspicious. Perhaps he simply thought Tino was too stupid to make the connection. Either way, Stegs decided to cut him out.
‘Five on the first. As I’ve said, that’s my final offer. If the stuff’s good, and I sell it on easy enough, I’ll go up to five five for any subsequent purchase. Trevor’ll tell you I’m a reliable bloke. Isn’t that right, Trevor?’
‘I’ve known Mark years, Tino,’ bullshitted Murk. ‘He’s kosher.’
Tino nodded. ‘All right, man,’ he said. ‘Five it is.’
‘If, of course, I’m satisfied with the quality of the sample.’
‘Sure.’ Tino didn’t seem too happy, his face slipping into a boyish hangdog look, but that wasn’t Stegs’s problem. He was going to be even less happy in a few minutes.
‘I only like to deal with one person when I’m setting something up, Trevor, as you well know.’ Murk opened his mouth to say something, but Stegs continued without pause. ‘So, if you’ll excuse us, I’ll go through the details alone with Tino. You can catch up with him later.’
‘I was hoping to advise him. He’s a bit new to all this, Mark.’
‘I’m sure he’ll learn.’
Tino looked at Murk, not a hundred per cent sure whether he wanted to be left alone with Stegs. Murk shrugged in return. ‘If that’s how you want to play it,’ he said to Stegs.
‘It is. Thanks, Trevor, I’ll see you later.’
Murk finished his drink and said his goodbyes.
‘I’ll catch up with you later, man,’ said Tino.
Stegs didn’t say anything. He waited until Murk was out of earshot, then turned back to the Dutchman with a hawkish smile. Tino returned the smile, but it lacked confidence. He was wary of Stegs, and Stegs knew it, enjoying the fact that he was intimidating the other man.
‘You know, Tino, you seem like a nice guy. Amiable. I like that. You don’t often get it in this industry.’
‘That’s kind of you to say so, man. Thanks.’
‘But you’ve got a slight problem.’
Tino’s forehead creased into barely visible worry-lines. ‘What’s that?’
‘I’m an undercover copper and your mate Trevor – and I use the term most fucking loosely – is a police informer, or grass as we sometimes prefer to call them here in the UK.’
‘Oh no,’ said Tino, looking like he was about to burst into tears. ‘No way, man. Did Trevor – did he, how you say – set me up?’
Stegs’s smile grew wider. ‘He did, I’m afraid. That’s the thing you ought to know about Trevor. He’s a Class A cunt. He always does this.’
Tino put his head in his hands, slumping in the seat. ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid,’ he said to himself angrily, sounding not unlike one of those mental people you sometimes get on the Tube.
‘Well, whatever. The point is, I have you, how you say, bang to rights. That’s my warrant card, just in case you’re in any doubt.’ Stegs placed it, open, on the table in front of Tino, who slowly removed his hands from his eyes and gave it a cursory glance before groaning loudly. ‘But luckily for you,’ Stegs continued, replacing it in his pocket, ‘I’m not a heartless man. There may be a way out of this.’
‘What?’
‘Well, for a start, I’m not necessarily going to turn you in. I mean, you’re an idiot, and a criminal too, obviously, but I’m thinking that I may give you a second chance.’
‘Oh man, please, please. I’m not a criminal, I promise. If it hadn’t been for the way the industry treated me, I would never have got involved in this drug dealing, I promise you.’
‘All right, Tino, not quite so loud. I get the picture.’
‘I can’t go to prison, man. Sorry, what is your name again?’
‘Mark.’
‘I can’t go to prison, Mark. It would tear me into pieces. Please. I would die.’ He tried desperately to get his eyes to well up, but failed miserably. He was, Stegs thought, a fucking terrible actor. Thank God he’d got a big cock. ‘And I know you would not want that, Mark,’ he went on, ‘because I can see that underneath the steel you are a good and decent man who would not want my death on your mind. Which is what would happen. It would be the end of me, the end. Do you understand what I’m saying, my friend?’
‘Well, it’s a bit mangled, but I think I get the gist of it. And you’re right, I am a decent man. So maybe we can help each other here.’
‘I’ll do anything, man. Anything at all.’
‘I understand that, Tino, and it’s a good thing too, because I can tell you this: English prisons are roughly on a par with English traffic, English weather and English hospitals. In other words, fucking terrible. And on this little tape recorder in here’ – he opened his jacket slightly to show the edge of the portable tape recorder he’d strapped to his chest – ‘I have evidence that will indict you on charges of conspiracy to sell Class A substances, a most heinous crime in this neck of the woods, and one which will result in you spending several years in exactly such an establishment, and for once being on the receiving end of a rampant penis, like so many of your unfortunate female co-stars, rather than dishing out the punishment. Then maybe you’ll appreciate why some of them scream so loudly when you shove your dick up their arses.’
‘I thought you didn’t watch my films, Mark.’
‘Trevor told me. Apparently, it’s your speciality.’
Tino shrugged. ‘They seem to like it. And they get paid well.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘Excuse me.’ Stegs and Tino both looked up. A young man in his early twenties with glasses and the last remnants of a powerful attack of teenage acne was standing by their table. ‘Are you Tino “Ten Inch” Movali?’
‘I am, my man,’ Tino said with a smile, suddenly perking up.
‘Would you mind signing this?’ asked the young man, handing Tino a beermat and a pen.
‘Sure, of course.’
‘Can you make it out to Pete?’
‘Pete. Sure, no problemo.’
‘I’m a big fan of yours, Tino. I’ve seen loads of your stuff.’
‘Be careful, sonny,’ said Stegs be
lligerently, annoyed at this unwelcome interruption, ‘it’ll make you go blind.’
The young man turned to Stegs. ‘Who are you? One of the money men?’
‘Don’t be cheeky. I’m his co-star, Charlie “The Chopper” Flanagan. I’m new to the scene. You’ll be seeing a lot more of me.’
‘Can I have your autograph as well, then?’
‘Sure. Have you got another beermat?’
The young man picked up one from another table and handed it to Stegs. Tino finished his signature with a flourish and passed the pen over to Stegs, who wrote the name Charlie Flanagan and drew an erect penis complete with hairy testicles alongside it.
‘So, are you in anything at the moment, Charlie?’
‘We’ve just completed my first film, Urban FuckFest,’ replied Stegs. ‘It’s due for release later this year.’
‘That’s fantastic. Look, I’ve always wanted to be in porn films. Do you mind if I join you?’
Stegs gave him a rueful smile. ‘I’m afraid not, son, we’re discussing something very important. However, I appreciate your desire to get into the industry, and we’re always on the look-out for new blood, so I’m going to give you the number of an agent I know.’ Underneath the signature, he wrote down his brother-in-law’s name and number. ‘When you ring, you’ll get either him or his secretary. Just tell them Charlie the Chopper said for you to call, and make sure you say too that you’ve heard there’s a vacancy in one of Ben Dover’s new productions, and that you’re interested. And don’t forget to give them your cock size – that’s always at the top of their list of questions. And make sure you add an extra inch.’
‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’
‘Don’t worry. Everyone does it.’
He smiled. ‘Thanks, Charlie. Thanks a lot. I really appreciate it.’
‘Good luck, son.’
The young man called Pete thanked them both, deposited the beermats in the pocket of his anorak, then did the honourable thing and left them alone.
‘What number did you give him?’ asked Tino. Stegs told him, and a smile cracked the Dutchman’s features. ‘Man, you are one hell of a good actor, Mark. Just like that dolt Trevor.’ He shook his head, the smile disappearing as he remembered the position he was in. ‘I cannot believe that he did this to me. Did you put pressure on him to make him betray me?’
Stegs shook his head. ‘He rang me up and volunteered the information. He makes money out of betraying people. We pay him when his information secures us a conviction.’
‘The bastard! I show him kindness and this is how he pays me. By being a, what is it you call it?’
‘A grass.’
‘A grass, yes. It doesn’t seem right.’
‘And it isn’t right. And I think you might get the opportunity to pay him back in kind.’
For the first time, Tino eyed Stegs with something akin to suspicion. ‘What do you get out of all this, Mark? You are a policeman, no? So why help me?’
‘Because you’re going to do something for me, Tino.’
‘What am I going to do?’
Stegs pulled a photograph of a girl of about twenty from the pocket of his jacket. In the photo, she was standing in what looked like a central London street with high buildings on either side, dressed in winter clothing and smiling at the camera. Judy Flanagan wasn’t particularly pretty, but there was something natural in her expression that gave her a certain attractiveness. Her cheeks were rosy, her smile genuine, and her whole demeanour that of a young, well-educated, middle-class girl who was almost certainly kind to animals and fellow human beings in equal measure, and who probably bought the Big Issue from one of the homeless with a smile and a thank you. Her hooter was a bit of a let-down, though. Wide and flattened, with splayed nostrils, just like her old man’s.
‘Who is this chick?’ asked Tino, inspecting the photo carefully like he was searching for the hidden prize. ‘She has a strange nose.’
‘She’s someone I want you to get to know. And when you get to know her, which is going to happen very quickly, I want you to take her away for a couple of days.’
Tino gave him a confused look. ‘Why, my man?’
There was silence for a few moments as Stegs finished his pint. Then, taking his time, he lit a cigarette and explained.
18
Saturday began just like any other working day for those of us on the O’Brien case.
The Met’s detection rate for murders has come under a lot of criticism in recent years, with clear-up rates of a little over seventy per cent lagging far behind those of the rest of the country, mainly because there are too many murders and, given the trend among CID for early retirement, not enough senior detectives. So when you had an increasingly high-profile double-killing (the papers that morning had finally picked up on the fact that Robbie O’Brien was linked to the botched operation at Heathrow), those officers involved were expected to pull out all the stops.
At the murder squad meeting that morning, Flanagan informed us that he had another news conference set for eleven a.m. to try to, as he said, play down the connection between Slim Robbie and the events of Wednesday. On the one hand, such a connection raised the profile of the case and therefore made it easier to appeal to potential witnesses, but this was outweighed by the fear that those witnesses might well end up keeping quiet if they thought there was some strong ‘organized crime’ element to what had been going on. No-one wants to make themselves a target or end up lost in a witness protection programme, and Flanagan was as aware of this as anyone, and was acting accordingly. I also don’t suppose he was vastly keen on the idea of an intrepid reporter finding out that the man who’d led and planned Operation Surgical Strike was also the one leading the O’Brien murder inquiry, but his demeanour (tenser and more strained than it had been the previous day) suggested that he didn’t discount it as a possibility.
However, he was also excited about our new and potentially ground-breaking lead: the first description of the killer. At last we had something to go on. ‘We’re going to bring the witness in this morning to see if we can get some sort of e-fit together,’ he explained. ‘I don’t know how good a likeness we’re going to get, she didn’t see him for long, but you never know. As soon as we’ve got something, we’ll knock on every door within a quarter-mile radius and see if the face rings any bells. I’ve been promised the use of thirty uniforms, but even so it’s going to take a while. There’s a lot of houses in that part of Islington.’
Next, Flanagan moved on to the material I’d spotted hanging from the rusty nail. Apparently, there wasn’t much of it, but tests at the Forensic Science Laboratory in Lambeth were still continuing to see if there was any way of identifying the make, and therefore where it might have been sold. ‘They haven’t been able to pinpoint it yet,’ he told us, ‘and even the forensics guys aren’t miracle workers. It was only about an inch of cloth, and that’s not a lot to go on, but it is top priority down there.’
Flanagan was right, it wasn’t a lot to go on, but at least on this case the resources were going to be there.
The meeting continued with members of the squad bandying about ideas for widening the search and trying to see if there was any angle we hadn’t covered yet. I mentioned the weapon used. ‘Is it possible it was used before? Has anyone checked HOLMES to see if it might have been?’
As yet, no-one had, though Flanagan wasn’t especially confident that it was going to turn up anything, particularly as we’d yet to recover the gun itself. ‘He was a pro, the man who did this, as much as anyone who kills people is a pro. But the point is, he’s been careful all the way down the line so I can’t see him using a dirty weapon. It will need to be checked out, though, just in case the bullets used can be matched with any that have been fired in separate incidents. I know that the Forensic Science Service did ballistics tests at the crime scene. Speak to Roy Catherwood down at Lambeth, can you? He’s the one who’ll be in charge of documenting all the results.’
&n
bsp; I said I would.
‘Also, sir,’ said Tina, ‘if he is a pro, then he’s going to have done something like this before, isn’t he?’
Flanagan nodded severely, not even looking at her. ‘Good thinking,’ he said, which, with him, was about the best compliment you were going to get. ‘Take a look through HOLMES, see if there’s any other killings with the same MO in London in the past three years, and if any of them throw up a description of the killer.’
Tina said she would, then brought up what she’d found out about Stegs Jenner’s partnership with Jeff Benson, his former colleague in SO10, and how it had ended with the latter’s cover being blown. ‘It’s possible he betrayed a colleague once, so he could easily have done it again. Which means he’s got be worth considering as a suspect for leaking the details of Operation Surgical Strike.’
Flanagan nodded, not looking too displeased with what Tina had said, which wasn’t surprising. ‘Mr Jenner still has some questions to answer, but at the moment we haven’t got an adequate motive for him, or any real evidence. Keep digging, though, and something might come up. And that goes for all of you. Keep digging. We’re unearthing clues. They might be few and far between, but the harder we work at it, the more we’ll turn up.’
So dig we did. I didn’t see much of Tina that weekend. We were like ships passing in the night. When she wasn’t on HOLMES, the police major inquiries database, going through old cases, she was involved in tracking down local Islington-based informants to see if they could throw any light on a possible relationship between Robbie O’Brien and Nicholas Tyndall and his associates – not that she had a great deal of success.
Meanwhile, the internal investigation into what had happened at Heathrow was also gathering pace, and I was contacted by DCS8, Scotland Yard’s successor to the Complaints Investigation Bureau, or CIB, to set up a meeting, which was arranged for Monday. I’d heard from Malik that they’d pretty much exonerated Flanagan already, since it seemed he’d done everything he could to ensure that the op had run smoothly, and it made me wonder whether they were going to end up concluding that somehow O’Brien had found out the venue and had simply sold that information on, which seemed just a little bit convenient for me.
The Crime Trade Page 18
