by Ian Patrick
He lifts his T-shirt and his back has a tiger climbing up from the base of his spine to over his right shoulder. It’s bold and fills his broad frame. It would have cost over a grand to have done. Not bad on a mechanic’s wages. He continues his tale.
“I got the tiger as I’ve been known to be a beast who likes ripping flesh apart. Thought you should know.”
I have no time for the semantics of baldy’s ego. I state my case.
“Gentleman, I think introductions are done. The motor’s on a meter and I haven’t got all day to hear tattoo tales.”
I look at them both. The black guy nods to the heavy and he goes to the back of the garage. I can’t see him. I check my surroundings. A nail gun’s a short stretch away. I shift my feet and gain a few inches closer to it.
“Cup of tea, bruv?”
“Milk, two sugars, cheers.”
“Lenny. Three teas whilst you’re there. One with milk, two sugars.”
“Yes boss.”
“So, my man. I ain’t seen you before. The big man usually sends a different runner for this type of thing, you get me.”
“Maybe his usual’s taken a holiday. I just do as I’m told. Ask no questions and all that.”
“Sweet, bruv. I’m cool with that ya know. He’s a good man. Generous. Know what I’m saying.”
I say nothing in reply. Time fillers aren’t my style. Lenny returns carrying three mugs of tea. He’s slopping the hot liquid over the sides. A packet of unopened digestives in his teeth. He’s carrying nothing else. He puts them down on the bench and drops the biscuits from his mouth like a gun dog on a retrieve. He shakes his burnt hand; he moves towards the Evoque and drops under the engine block. He reaches up. I move towards the nail gun. He brings out a black, oil-stained muslin bag and comes back to where we are. I take a sip of tea and keep the mug close.
“Put the toy down there, Lenny.” The boss man indicates the bench I’m leaning on.
“Go on bruv, take a look at the piece.”
I look at Lenny and nod at the parcel.
“Open the bag.”
Lenny looks at the smiler.
“It’s good Lenny. Do what the man asks.”
Lenny puts on surgical gloves. He brings out a 9mm Glock semi-automatic pistol. It’s pristine. He looks it over smiling. His index finger is near the trigger guard as he turns the barrel towards me. I look at his eyes and they’re focused on me and he isn’t smiling. My tea grips to his face as I throw it and grab his right wrist turning his hand palm up and high over his head. I pull him towards me and as he bends over I kick him in the mouth. He drops to his knees. I have him pinned by his arm to the floor my foot between his shoulder blades. The Glock has fallen to the oil-stained concrete. I tread on it. I grab the nail gun and stick it at Lenny’s temple.
“What kind of fucking shower are you? Move another muscle, Smiley Culture, and Lenny gets a head full of nails.”
Lenny’s head is on its side. His mouth crushed into the oil-stained floor. Blood trickles out of gaps in his teeth like he’s just eaten a beetroot sandwich. He isn’t trying to get up.
Smiley is backing up, hands in the air.
“Boss, get him off. I was trying to prove it was no replica. Boss, boss, tell him for fuck’s sake.”
In his muffled speech is the desperation I want to hear.
“Easy, easy, big man. Put down the nailer and have a biscuit bruv. It’s all cool. He’s right. He’s a simple fella man but wiv’ a heart of gold, bruv’. Now for fuck’s sake lets have us some tea and wrap this shit up. I’ve no beef with you. Your boss paid good money and this is his, I want it gone, understand?”
I look in Smiley’s eyes. His gaze is steady. No swallowing or attempt to avoid me. I let go of Lenny and his arm drops to his side. I grab the cloth and pick up the Glock.
“Thanks for the tea. I’ll see myself out.”
Smiley stands aside. I put the Glock in the bag along with a roll of gaffer tape and some spare surgical gloves.
“Wait. You’ll need these.” Smiley opens a Snap-on tool box and hands me five full magazine clips.
“Where’s it going?”
Smiley looks confused.
“How the fuck do I know?”
I feel a prick for asking.
“Till the next time then.” I take my opportunity and leave. I’m not concerned about the camera. They won’t be reporting this to any authorities.
I feel nervous and alone. I’m in Highbury with a semi-automatic and five clips. I exit the same way I came in and take a back route to the car. Fewer people. Less trouble. No filth. I try and keep my pace steady. My breathing is laboured. I inhale deeply and regain control. I did what I had to. I had no choice. This job is bigger than me. Once I was in the garage I couldn’t refuse to take the gun. As far as they’re concerned I knew what I was collecting. To hesitate is a lifetime’s rumination.
I get to the street where I left the car. It’s deserted. I stop and lean on a wall. No one is behind me on foot or in a vehicle. I activate the key fob. I put the bag in the boot with the spare wheel. It’s too risky to try and conceal the gun anywhere else here. I drive towards Crouch End. I feel hot and the air-con cools me. I have to remain alert. I start a running commentary in my head of what I’m observing. What I don’t want to see and hear are blue lights and two tones.
A saviour for some, a slayer for others. I have no intention of being captured tonight. I can’t account for the firearm until I’ve called in. I can’t call in until I find a callbox. A mobile is not a suitable mode of communication for this call. Who knows who could be listening despite my best efforts to keep the phone clean? By clean I don’t mean in a designer case and well-polished.
I reach the top of Hornsey Rise. Traffic is good, no police visible. Once I reach the Broadway I know there will be a callbox. I see one. I turn into Crescent Rise and kill the engine. I wait. The area is deserted. No one has followed me in. I feel secure in the callbox despite being exposed in the street. I make the call.
“Hello”
Different response. Same voice.
“It’s Sky. I have an issue.”
“Go on.”
“That last job, the one you provided the motor for.”
“Yes.”
“It was a fucking piece. A 9mm Glock and five clips. It’s now in the boot of my car with no owner. I need retrospective RIPA authority to purchase.”
Typical. No reply at the other end. Only a steady hum of breathing.
“Oi. Did you or did you not fucking hear that?”
“I did. You need to get rid of it.”
“No shit, Sherlock. Why do you think I’m calling in? Get someone to the drop box in an hour, it’ll be there.”
“You don’t understand. You can’t give it to us; the whole operation will be lost. Big H is expecting that gun. If you don’t deliver, it’ll look suspicious.”
“So, let me get this right. You’re telling me to hand over a Glock and ammo to one of Scotland Yard’s most wanted? You must have known what it was. You left a grand for me.”
“The money’s yours. You’ve earned it. Now phone Stone and find out what she wants doing with it. If you get found with it, by any police officer, you’re not to call. You’re on your own. Do you understand?”
“Fuck me, this is rich. You recruited me for this job. Good for me you said. A step up the food chain. Do you realise how much I’m out on a limb here? I need shot of this shooter.”
“Stick to the script and you’ll be alright. We’ve spoken long enough. Deliver the gun and move on. You’re in no position to back out now or turn on us. We’re bigger than you, Batford, and don’t forget it.”
My superintendent is silent.
Line’s dead. A drunk is outside banging on the door, rubbing his crotch and waving a can of lager. I wait for him to get closer and open the door into him. He stumbles back, flat on the floor. His can of lager raised above his face. Nothing spilt. I step over him and drop a twenty-pound note
. I need some air. I need to think. The Broadway is scented with the sweet aroma of Indian food. I walk up Hornsey Lane towards Sunnyside service station. I stop at a bench and call Stoner.
She answers on the fourth ring.
6
“Hello, who is it?”
“Hands off cocks and into your socks.”
“All right babes you sound a bit fucked off. You got insomnia or something? Or did you just want to hear my voice before you drop off?”
I resist the urge to throw some fucks in and remain focused on the job, as I’d been instructed.
“I’ve got the parcel. Where do you want it?”
I can hear the rustle of clothing in the background and what sounds like the creak of a bed. I think I can hear snoring. No other background noise or voices. When she gets on the phone she’s whispering.
“Fuck me, that was quick. Did Ghost not tell you?”
“You know he didn’t. He never knew where it was going. That would be fucking suicide for me and him. I wouldn’t be calling you back with the news would I? I’ve done my part of the bargain. I want rid of this tonight or I get rid myself.”
“All right keep your fluff on. I’ll call Ron. Meet him at the lower car park Ally Pally in an hour. It won’t be quicker, he’s got to get his fat arse out of bed.”
“You mean you’re screwing him? Wake the fat bastard up!”
“Funny. Speak tomorrow. Ron will call me later.”
She sounds stilted. I guess I overstepped the mark. I just need to get rid of the gun, get back to Elephant and Castle. A long day, I’m done in.
Back in the car, I turn out onto the Broadway and turn left into Park Road. I can see headlights behind me and notice the silhouettes of two males in the front. Every car that passes lights up the interior. I keep a steady speed of thirty miles per hour. The car gets closer. It’s plain clothes police. Both cops are in their early twenties. I can tell from the ballistic vests pushing out the neck of their T-shirts. I get a brief view but I instinctively know. I also know they are shadowing me whilst they call in a uniform car to effect a stop. Why else would they be interested in a nondescript car with one male on board driving legally? My mind begins to race. Have either of the guys at the garage grassed me up? Ludicrous, as neither had seen my car and no one followed me to it.
I see a garage up ahead and wait to pass before looking in my rearview mirror and pulling over. If it’s nothing they’ll pass. Maybe glance across at me but just drive on. They don’t. The car mirrors my movement.
They know they can’t officially request me to stop. They aren’t in uniform. If I stop they have the choice to engage or not. I wait, engine still running. The interior light goes on. Passenger door opens. Cop One steps out. Radio in hand. I still wait, hoping. Then it happens. Driver gets out. Five feet…four…three…two, both coming at each side of the car. Cop One now shining a torch in through the rear window. They’re both at the rear of the car. I engage the auto gearbox’s sport mode and floor it.
The car leaps to life and goose tails. I can see the officers in my rearview mirror running back to their vehicle. I feel guilty. I have no choice. I forget them and concentrate on the lights approaching Muswell Hill. They change. Green turns to amber, turns to red. I look right, nothing towards. I look left, single vehicle parked, ready to move. He’s looking at me and remains stationary. I’m over the junction heading towards Alexandra Palace. I have to lose this car. Every second counts. Police will be everywhere soon, looking, searching. I have no backup. No get out of jail free card and an automatic pistol in my boot with five clips of ammo. I turn into the first car park. It contains a single car, windows steamed up. I park on the far side. I access the boot from inside and grab the bag. I put on some surgical gloves and release the fuel cap. In the bag is the cash. I stuff some of it in the fuel barrel and light it. It takes. I stay low and head towards the rear of the Alexandra Palace ice rink.
The car parked up is leaving in a hurry. The night air’s getting polluted with flame and smoke. I’m just hoping it’s enough to spread to the interior before it’s discovered. Whatever happens the modern copper is too health and safety aware to get close to a burning vehicle and that will buy me time before the London fire brigade arrives. Hopefully it will have exploded by then.
The bag is slipping off my shoulder as I scramble up the grass embankment and reach the top services road to the Alexandra Palace building. The view of London is amazing from here but I have no desire to sightsee. I stick to the building line and out into the ice rink car park. The parking is light; a group of kids are sat about drinking and smoking weed. They pay me no attention. As I cross the car park I spot a black cab in the lower section. I recognise the plate. It’s the one Ron drives.
I don’t rush towards him but use the cover of the surrounding trees and hedges to get closer. I use the rear of a VW Camper Van as a temporary rest point and to observe the cab. The camper’s interior is fogged up with condensation and the suspension is going through a service. The occupants’ minds won’t be on the outside environment. Ron is the only occupant in his cab. He’s picking his nose and reading the racing pages. I make my move.
Ron shits himself as I rap on the window. He drops his paper and releases the rear door. “Fuck me, why didn’t you phone and let me know you were here?” I ignore the stupidity of the comment and get in.
He turns towards me. “I’ve gone to the liberty of providing a jacket and hat. They’re on the seat. Stick the toy with me up front.”
I willingly hand it over and change jackets. The one he’s provided is a smart grey cotton, casual not business. The hat is flat peaked and matches. I look like a hip photographer on his way back from a shoot, minus his camera.
“Where to?” Ron’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror.
“Holiday Inn, Finchley.”
“Right you are.”
As he moves out into the top car park we approach the junction and he turns left towards Wood Green. He knows not to go towards Muswell Hill. Blue lights fill the cab as we turn. Three police vehicles scream past. One is a dog unit. I was lucky. Ron reaches into a glove box and brings out what looks like a handheld CB radio. He flicks it on.
Control from Yankee One, on scene. Car is well alight. Need fire service. Dog is deployed and tracking, no sign of suspect, over.
“These scanners are great. Twenty notes from Tandy.” Ron flicks it off and we continue towards Muswell Hill via the back roads and towards the North Circular. We don’t say much. I just stare out the window and Ron drives. He glances back every now and then but the male intuition acknowledges nothing needs to be said. He gets to the hotel entrance and stops. I’d already taken what was left of the cash out of the bag. I hand him the BMW keys.
“Get rid of these as well will you?” He nods. Before he opens the door he turns around, his big bulk just skimming the wheel. “The big man likes what you did at the garages. He says Ghost had it coming. Zara will call you.”
I get out and we shake hands. He leaves. I get my phone and punch in a number. It rings out and she answers on the sixth ring.
“Who is this? Do you know what time it is?” The voice is that of a sleep-deprived DCI.
“Batford. It’s oh two thirty hours. Meet me at oh nine hundred hours, Lloyd’s Cafe, Finchley Road. Breakfast’s on me. I’ve got something for you.” I hear rustling as she finds some paper. A pen moving back and forth in an attempt to draw ink. A disgruntled male’s voice in the background. She must work harder on this marriage.
“I’ve written it down. This better be good.” She hangs up first. Privilege of rank.
I enter the hotel lobby and see a public telephone. I dial. This number rings twice.
“Yes.”
“It’s taken care of. I meet with the DCI tomorrow. What do you want me to tell her?”
“Tell her the job’s coming off in a week. Tell her the firm will be tooled up. Tell her you know no more.”
“A week? What the fuck are yo
u talking about, a week?”
“The parcel’s on the move. You’re going to be asked to drive a lorry. You’ll do as you’re told. DCI Winter will be kept suitably employed.”
The line goes dead. My mind is spinning. I have no idea what’s happening or who I’m working for anymore. All I know is that I have no way out. I have to see this through to its conclusion. I feel like the prey and no longer the hunter.
Sensitive log entry 56 – 11th August 2020
Called this morning at 0230 hours by DS Batford.
He was abrupt and gave the following message:
“It’s Batford. It’s 2:30am. Meet me at 9, Lloyds Cafe Finchley Road. Breakfast’s on me. I’ve got something for you.”
I terminated the call as he sounded rushed and not in a position to speak.
I recorded this entry at 0233 hours unable to date stamp log due to being away from office.
I will meet the officer as suggested and see what he has to report.
The rest of my team will continue to cover the cab used to transport our target.
Entry concluded.
7
Torrents of rain assault Lloyd’s Cafe’s glass. Each drop drums out its own rhythm on contact. I’d taken a cab to the venue, not Ron’s. The last thing I need is to be wet and cold today. I have no idea what today will bring. The cafe is complete with the usual clientele. The kind of clientele I’m happy with but ma’am will have to adapt. As I stare out nursing a mug of tea waiting for her to rock up, I have the lyrics to James’ ‘Sometimes’ going through my head – The rain floods gutters, and makes a great sound on concrete.
My thoughts are interrupted by the bell above the door as it’s opened and DCI Winter enters. She’s dressed in tight dark blue denim jeans and fitted black T-shirt, black Barbour biker-style coat. She’s done well. No one turns. If they do they get a good look at her arse then carry on eating. She sees me and sits opposite. She ruffles her hands through her wet blonde hair then ties it back with a band from her wrist.
