by Ian Patrick
They’re all in the main gompa gaining enlightenment and I grab some of their prepared fruit breakfast and take it back to the cell. I refer to it as that, as that’s what it is. If this cell could talk it would talk some shit. Some comedian had left a copy of Crime and Punishment. I had started reading it and continue whilst I wake up. As a child I found comfort in words. They would drown out the sound of my mother screaming as my father let loose with his fists. Sven Hassell was a favourite. Apart from where her screams coincided with screaming in the book. That shit was too real for me.
I check my phones. No calls from Stoner or work. DCI Winter hasn’t contacted. I need to rectify that. The air outside is fresh and a factory worker nods as he makes his way home from a nightshift. I can tell a shift worker by their look. Tired and hungry for sleep. The street is as I’d left it. No change in cars, nothing new overnight. My home is safe for the time being. I find a call box.
I dial 0800 555 111. A male answers.
“Good morning, Crimestoppers how can I help?”
“A guy called Guardino is looking to bring in a huge amount of drugs and guns. It’s due soon. He uses a driver called Ron. Ron drives a black cab. Tell the NCA.”
“Do you have a reference number for this sir or is this the first time of calling?”
“Just pass it on, okay?”
He repeats back what I’ve said.
“Thanks for the call, sir. Have a nice day.”
I intend to have an awesome day, once I’ve had a proper breakfast. Not around here but at an Italian cafe near King’s Cross. All the cabbies use it. They bitch more than a short-changed hooker. You can’t beat the banter though. That call should get DCI Winter running around. The beauty of Crimestoppers is that no one can trace it back to you. NO ONE. Not even my lot. I cannot find out who made the call, from where or on what number. Winter may not know this, but she will soon find out. I don’t want money from them. They’re a charity and I see this as a donation.
The drone and drugs are secure in my osprey brown leather man bag. Osprey being apt, as the commissioner has decided to source a firm that uses eagles to take down drones. I love wildlife but not an eagle in an urban setting hell-bent on disrupting my day. Another example of police cuts. A winged wonder taking over the fight against crime. I have a suit on that I only wear for court appearances but serves its purpose being in the vicinity of the prison. I could be taken for a brief or a cop. Neither of which I mind. The cafe is quiet. The regulars are all away using their timeshares in Tenerife or out fleecing tourists. I grab a cab and head towards the prison. It’s 0830 hours. I can’t be too early and can’t be late. The cab drops me at the gates at 0915 hours – the traffic was slow no matter which route he took.
The wind is light, which suits my purpose. The sky is mottled with clouds but no rain is forecast. Another bonus as I have no plan B. I walk away from the prison and find a park. It’s deserted and well within my two-kilometre flying range. As long as it stays this way for the next hour I should be fine. I grab a coffee at a nearby cafe close to Caledonian Road station and wait for my time to come.
It’s now 0950 hours and I’m back in the park. A local is running his dog. He has a phone to his ear and a fag in his mouth. Every now and then he animatedly points the cigarette at the sky whilst shouting obscenities into the phone. Not a good sign at this time of day. After two minutes he’s had enough and growls at his dog, who follows him out of the park and away.
I sit at a bench and get out the drone and the iPhone. Each one is primed, ready to go. The app loads in my location and a press of the screen sets the come home function. Both are on and the drone’s camera shows a picture of my nose hair on the iPhone’s screen as I check the package. I launch the drone and watch the screen. I control it as the camera shows me the roofs of the houses and the street adjacent to the prison entrance. It’s gained good height and you’d have to be looking far up to notice it. Its 0956 hours. I manoeuvre it over the site where I’m hoping Sugarman will be. A black guy is talking to a screw near the landing site. The drone hovers but I’m conscious of time. The black guy is well-built and has neat corn rowed hair. He shakes the screw’s hand and the screw walks off. The black guy then looks about and walks into the sand area picks up a shovel, looks around again then looks up and waves.
That’s my signal. Not subtle but, hey, needs must. I start the descent. He sees what’s happening and the drone’s camera captures a beaming smile. That smile immediately fades as the same screw enters the yard. I work the control panel and get the drone up again and away. My heart is beating fast. I have limited time and if Sugarman is put off, the job could be too. I have to make this work but it’s out of my hands and in Sugarman’s to get rid of the screw. I move the drone back over to see what’s happening.
The camera’s zoom is incredible and as I switch the zoom up Sugarman hands the screw a series of notes. The screw then leaves and from my vantage point, disappears. Sugarman resumes shovelling sand and looks up again and nods. The nod means yes, go ahead. The drone now drops and proudly I land it in Sugarman’s shovel. The camera goes fuzzy and I see distorted scenes as he frantically gets the package off. He then tips the drone’s camera and plants a great wet kiss on the lens. I press the return home button and start packing away. My work is done. It’s 1005 hours as the drone returns to the park. I have no further need for it. I rip out the camera and the computer chip that controls it. The rest I throw in a large commercial waste bin.
I grab another cab and make my way to Great Ormond Street Hospital. En route my work phone goes. DCI Winter’s number appears on screen. I answer.
“Hello, ma’am. How are we this morning?”
“Where are you? Something’s come in?”
“Oh, I’m fine thanks for asking. I’ve business to attend to.”
“I need you back at Spring Gardens. Office meeting at two p.m.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“You’ll be here, Batford. Two p.m. sharp.”
“Look, I’m in the middle of something right now. If I can get back for that time I will. Alternatively, you can buy me dinner and bring me up to date.”
“Ask your mother to get your dinner. Be at Spring, two p.m.”
“I can’t ask her. She’s dead.”
I kill the line. That part is true. Let her stew on it, or if she’s really caring, she’ll call me back. Twenty minutes goes by. As I expected she’s a heartless bitch. The journey was good and as I get out at the hospital’s entrance I feel elated at this morning’s excursion. It had better test positive and the purity good. I need this job to come off. Deals like this take time and planning with a high-risk element. Never ever let it be said crime doesn’t pay. In the foyer, a photographer is snapping a C-list celebrity holding an oversized cheque. Another product of a fabricated entertainment industry, prostituting itself to the greedy masses of uneducated fuckwits who buy into it. Still, if it benefits sick children, then who am I to complain?
I go past the meeters and greeters and carry on past the reception desk turning right towards the main eating area. As I walk along the corridor various children pass me. Some in chairs with tubes in their noses, some on foot but clearly struggling. Families desperately seeking solutions accompany each one. This is one place where empathy resonates within me. It’s also here where I see strength and resilience beyond what my imagination can conjure up. A place where anyone could challenge you to see who had the most on and only a fool would take the bet.
I know this place; a colleague had a child treated here. I would come and visit his kid when he couldn’t and drop him off and wait for him when he could. I use the word colleague loosely; he was a snout of mine who did a good job. It didn’t last long. He’s dead and his kid’s in care. Even pond life has a heart. The restaurant is quiet, as the lunchtime rush hasn’t begun. I pick a table at the back of the room and get seated where I can see who’s coming in. Stoner arrives on time. She sees where I am and comes over. A steady rh
ythm emanates from the floor as her heels connect with it. She’s dressed like she’s going out for lunch. An expensive handmade dress reveals her sleek shoulders. Her hair is resting over her right shoulder revealing her neckline. She’s smiling. A good sign.
She sits down, leans over and kisses me on the forehead in a way a concerned relative would. Fitting.
“I had word from the garage. It’s passed, you’ll be pleased to hear.”
I nod and smile. “So, lunch with your lover then?” I ask.
“I thought we only had time for coffee?” A smart riposte. “He’s taking me to some posh hotel. Says he’s got business to discuss on the back of this morning. He’s told me to tell you to be available. He likes your work and says you’re on the firm. I’ll know after today what’s happening. It all looks good though.”
“Great. I can’t wait to hear what he has for me and how much he intends to pay. What are you getting out of all this then, besides his cock every night?”
She smiles and frowns. “It’s all about sex with you ain’t it? You think that because I’m blonde with decent tits I’m no good for anything else? I do well out of him. He pays me a decent wage and don’t forget who’s meeting you each time. Yeah, I have to take a slap every now and then but that’s just him. I’m his arranger. I arrange what he needs and I produce what he wants, when he wants it. He’ll pay you well and he never defaults. How do you think he’s stayed in the game so long?”
“He can’t pay you that well if you still live on an estate in North London.”
“Where I live is no concern of yours. I tell you what you need to know. Let’s leave it at that. Where you off to then? A funeral? Who’s here you know?”
I lean forward and she mirrors me. “Where I’m going is no concern of yours and who I see here isn’t either. Let’s leave it at that.” She’s looking me straight in the eyes. Her lips are close enough to touch but we both resist. She breaths out and her breath dances over my face. It’s sweet, not foul.
“Touchy bastard.”
She gets up and I sit back. “I’ll call you this evening and let you know what’s what.” She blows me a kiss, winks and leaves. She’s purposefully working the floor as she exits the eating area. She knows I’ll be looking.
Decision log entry 73 – 0800 hours 12th August 2020
Nothing heard from DS Batford. I haven’t contacted him as I have nothing to update him on and it’s him who needs to get used to calling me with the intelligence he’s tasked to get.
Armed surveillance requested and authority being granted and team availability has been made available to myself.
No other talk over the phones. All seems to be on.
Crimestoppers have passed a log from an unknown caller who asked for the below information to be passed to the NCA. I have asked for clarity as to where this has come from but I have my suspicions. I believe this is from DS Batford as the caller asked for it to be passed to the agency. I cannot prove this at this time. We have assets talking to police about our operation and it MAY have been given by one of them although this is very doubtful, as the information is specific:
A guy called Guardino is looking to bring in a huge amount of drugs and guns. It’s due soon. He uses a driver called Ron. Ron drives a black cab. Tell the NCA.
Above passed to intelligence desk for research. We are already aware of this information from other intelligence feeds.
I will contact Batford later this morning and request he attend the 1400 hours briefing arranged for today.
Entry ends
12
I stay around GOSH and sit for a while in a park in the middle of a square of houses. Pigeons irritate the diners, begging for scraps. Anxious parents stare at their phones and hope. I don’t use a smart phone, as a rule. Why anyone would want a device that can tell others where they are or what their favourite pastimes consist of is beyond me. Same goes for social media. Sure, I use Facebook, Instagram, Twitter but only to research the people’s lives I need to infiltrate. The iPhone for the drone was for just that job.
When did I go from being loyal, true and trusted to a self-serving cleanser of filth and scum? An outsider may see me as out for myself but I see myself as doing some public good whilst getting paid. That’s from both sides of the fence. The fence is wobbling though and I need to secure it. I have no family to turn to. I’ve tried relationships but when you leave in the middle of a date not explaining where you’re going or just lying, your chances of recidivism are thin.
By the time I’ve left Holborn and arrived at Vauxhall I’m in no mood for meetings. The tube was mobbed and I feel as though I’ve just left a frotteurs annual convention. Coming up for air feels good. How Orwellian of me. I ignore the leaflet being thrust towards me like a fencer’s foil as the escalator reaches the top of the station. I do succumb to a samosa and a Mars Bar from the small confectionary. A man’s got to eat.
By the time I surface, my ears are greeted by the sound of sirens and the city grabs my senses with its usual pollutant grace. I avoid Spring Gardens and make my way to Tintagel House, a tall building next to MI6. This place used to be home to many of the Met’s finest teams. It’s now in disrepair and abandoned, much like myself. The security guy looks up as I exit the revolving door and nods as I press the lift button for the third floor. The floor is unoccupied. It was previously a Child Murder Major Incident Team’s offices but they’d long since been kicked out to smaller and less convenient accommodation. I carry on walking down the corridor looking at discarded desks and old phones.
“We’re in here.” It’s a distinctive male, Scottish voice. Not one that grates on you but one that has depth to it and could never get on your tits. I enter the room. The two people I was expecting are sitting on upturned packing crates looking out over the Thames as a frogger boat exits using the ramp. Incredible amphibious craft, if you’re a tourist. The Scottish voice is Mike my detective superintendent and the other person in the room is my commander. She pushes an office chair to me with her foot. I dump my bag and coat and take off my tie.
“How are you?” She’s polite but the small talk is only an icebreaker. She doesn’t have long. You get to that rank and your whole life is split into identifiable periods of time. The length of time varies with who you have to see and who you don’t want to see but have to. I fall into the latter bracket. She authorises my deployment and all I do in it. Well, she should, but it would appear from my last contact she has changed her mind on that aspect. I respond with good grace.
“Alive. Could be worse, I could be deployed undercover for the good of the country with absolutely no backup from my employer… Oh that is the case… Isn’t it, ma’am?”
Go for the throat early in these exchanges. With a woman like the commander she doesn’t appreciate bullshit.
“Cut the shit, Batford. You’ve cost me a car and caused me a lot of grief with the commissioner. It’s fun not telling her what the job is but she's getting sick of the cost both in manpower and money.”
“Manpower? It’s just myself and a desk jockey. Do either of you appreciate how big this fucking job is and what I’m being asked to do? Or would you rather not know until we get a result and get paid out?” They both look at each other like climbing buddies claiming the other was bringing the rope. She’s pissed off though as she’s up and looking out over the river her hands on her hips. Good hips, mind. Never had kids and never will. The job is her baby and she intends to have it suckling from her till she dies.
“This isn’t an everyday job, Batford. That’s why you’re on it. We need someone we can trust to get the job done with the minimum of fuss and backup. I will continue to support your legal deployment. Anything above and beyond that and you’re on your own. We made that quite clear in the beginning. The surveillance commissioner is getting twitchy around the purchase of guns, that’s why I knocked back the last one. You also realise we can’t be seen to know everything. That wouldn’t be lucrative to us in the end. You did a good job thou
gh. It got to the right person. For the record I would rather you didn’t refer to your detective superintendent as a desk jockey. We all have a role in this and as much to lose if the job doesn’t come off. We all have mouths to feed, Batford. Tell me the next stage. I don’t need to know how you’ve got there unless you think I do.”
I light up a cigarette. Neither challenges me and both just look in my direction and wait. I skip the prison drug supply. They won’t want to know about that.
“The main job is on. I find out later what my role will be and when it should all come together. Zara Stone is my person close to Guardino and she seems to be his runner. Bali worked a treat, no one suspects anything. They have a driver called Ron who ferries them about in a black cab. I’ve never met Guardino and it sounds like I won’t. I don’t trust this Ron. He makes me uneasy. They have a guy called Sugarman in the Ville. He’s their chemist. If the stuff’s good Guardino will roll with it.”
I take another drag on my cigarette. Neither of them makes any notes. I break the brief silence.
“I’ve got a meeting in an hour at Spring with DCI Winter. She’s becoming a problem. She was all over me in the beginning and now she’s backed off until a call earlier. I’ve an idea what the meeting’s about.” Neither looks my way but the commander pipes up.
“The one I got a call from? Winter, Klara Winter? Very good at her job. Ruthless, in fact. She’s been hunting Guardino for a while now. She will stop at nothing until she catches him. I will warn you she will be finding out, about now, that her intrusive surveillance authority won’t be renewed by the secretary of state. We’ve acquired that facility now and will be listening to Guardino. Good job you won’t be talking to him. Your Miss Stone will be though. Loose lips sink ships, Batford. Don’t let it be yours. Let Mike here know when you know more. He has some cash for you and a change of car. Let him know where the last one is and I hope it's roadworthy. I’ve dealt with your last pursuit with the law and the burnt-out vehicle. Nothing will come of it. Tell Winter nothing. Let her rant over the loss of the wiretap and she will lean on you.”
