by Ian Patrick
She nods at Mike and they both go to leave. I write the street name down where the car is. He hands me an envelope and I put it in my bag. They leave and I wait. They know I can’t back out. They have my head on the block. One carries the hood, the other the axe.
As I enter the tunnel of the railway arch towards Spring Gardens I wonder how this next meeting will develop. I long for the day I attend one and I feel glad I turned up. Actually, that’s a lie. I’d rather not go to any. No detective enjoys meetings unless it’s about more overtime or more staff. Sadly, those days are gone.
The entrance to the building was easier on this occasion. Same security guard, different drill. Amazing what a laminated piece of plastic can do for access. It works cutting cocaine and slipping a Yale lock and can get you into a secure area. No, I haven’t faked an ID; I’ve actually been issued this one. I place my phones in the same locker outside the room and knock on the door. I don’t have access to the office. I can’t blame her; I’d do the same. DS Hudson opens the door and beckons me in. There’s no music. The time is 1415 hours and she’s already begun.
“Good of you to join us, Batford.” There’s a hint of sarcasm in her voice. I scan the room. The team has increased in staff. She’s had the message about her knockback on the phone authority and upped her staffing levels. She’s on a mission to nail this guy and I need to focus on my game.
“Thanks, all, for getting here. I hope by now you’ve taken the opportunity of bringing each other up to speed. The intrusive authority has been knocked back. I have no option but to adopt a conventional route and that means loads of money for you lot, as the hours will be long. I expect the budget to be managed properly and I expect regular and current intelligence feeds.”
She looks at me when she says this. I look at my watch.
“It would appear we have a friendly who’s contacted Crimestoppers. Guardino is planning to move soon. He also has a driver called Ron who ferries him around. I have a meeting after this with Crimestoppers where I will ask them to divulge their source. Any update on who this Ron is?”
I smile as she states her next meeting. A geeky researcher waves from the back. All thick-rimmed dark glasses, tank top and no hair.
“He’s Ronald Stewart. He’s got previous for GBH, armed robbery and kidnapping. He’s never been stopped in that cab. It’s not licensed for hire. It would appear he only uses it when he’s picking up Guardino or any associates. Further analysis of the cab shows a pattern of two cars that have shadowed the cab on five different occasions in the last month. One of these vehicles is a black Range Rover Evoque, the other a black Porsche Cayan. Both cars are leased to different individuals. We’re working on the names of them now. No pattern or preferred route. My suggestion is that Guardino has a team around him for protection.”
Now that was worth coming to the meeting for. Being out all the time it’s easy to miss bits of the jigsaw. This was tiny but key for me. I need to know my adversaries both on the inside and outside.
“Thanks, Craig. I want two teams out today. Locate this cab and stay on it until further notice. Keep me and the command room updated on all movements. That’s all.”
“Batford, a word in my office.”
Being civil because of the new company, no doubt. I get up and follow her. Her desk has changed. It’s full of paperwork. She’s drowning and I’ve no intention of throwing her a ring.
“What do you have for me?”
I’m tempted to say flowers but the look on her face suggests she’d have hay fever. I’m cautious since my previous meeting with my commander, but she expects something and she’s entitled to it.
“It’s early days but I’ve heard Guardino is looking to move quicker than expected. He’s had a sample tested and he’s happy with it. As soon as I know more I’ll let you know. I’m on this job full time until it’s finished. I do need to know when your team’s out though. I can’t get caught on the plot at this early stage.”
I’ve gambled with that. If she doubts me she will refuse. If she respects me she won’t. “Like you said, different remits. You’re on your own. Call me with any updates any time of day or night. That’s all, Sam.”
Using my first name to soften the message. Fuck her. I will do this my own way. In the words of the late Brian Clough, ‘I may not be the best manager but I’m in the top one’. May the best team win.
Decision log entry 82 – 1600 hours 12th August 2020
UCO, DS Batford, attends meeting late, arrives 1415 hours. I’m noting times due to his lack of diligence to my requests and for any further disciplinary procedures should I see fit.
I included information in the briefing to assess his face. I also need to cover my back should he be into any of the targets mentioned. I have to be mindful of his safety after all.
I also fed in the Crimestoppers information and he smirked. This only goes to affirm to me it was him, although he and I know I can never prove that, despite me saying I would pursue it.
Let him think he’s up against a novice. Hardens my resolve and will hopefully make him less surveillance conscious.
I’ve increased staffing and surveillance capacity. I have taken the decision in light of guns being mentioned and the SCO35 ambivalence to keep me in the loop. I have no option but to consider DS Batford as part of my line of enquiry. I am aware it goes against the grain but I’ve been left with no options as it would appear events are unfolding quicker than expected and DS Batford is closer than I gave him credit.
13
“Mum, where’s my jumper? I’m freezing.”
“In your bottom drawer where it always is.”
“But I can’t find it. Can you help me?”
“All right. I’m coming. I can’t keep doing these stairs all evening running around after you. Your dad will be back soon and I need to get his dinner on… Here it is. On the floor next to you.”
“I tricked you! I wanted to show you my drawing I did. It’s when we went to the beach, just you and me. Look, there’s a boat and someone fishing. Do you remember that day?”
“Yes. Of course I remember it, it was one of the best days of my life. Oh. That’s the door, your dad’s home. Right, you need to tidy this room up and I’ll go down and see what he wants for his dinner.”
“Okay, Mum. Love you.”
“I love you too.”
“Gillian! Where are you? I’m starving.”
“I’m upstairs. I’m coming down now.”
“Why are you up there and not bringing me my dinner? I said I’d be home at eight. I’m coming up.”
“No, please don’t. I’m on my way. Dinner won’t take long. I’ve put a six pack in the fridge for you.”
“Who made this mess? Where is he?”
“He’s in the toilet. He’s just clearing up. He’s been drawing, that’s all. It won’t take long.”
“Oi! Come out of there now and tidy this shit up. I’ve told you before what would happen if your room was messy. I’m going to count to three and if you’re not here I’m coming to get you. One…two…thr… Wise move. You’ve had all the chances I’m prepared to give. You’re not listening and I fucking hate people who don’t listen, especially little shits like you. You’re only here because the social pays well for us to have you but you’ve disrespected this room and it’s time for another lesson in manners.”
“Dennis! Dennis! No, not the belt again. If you mark him we’ll get nicked. Just calm down and have another beer? I’ll get it for you and make up for not having your dinner ready later. What about that?”
“Take your shirt off lad and put your hands against the wall, back facing me. The quicker you do it the quicker it will be over.”
“Jesus, Dennis, leave the boy alone he can’t take another beating… Please…please leave him for all our sakes he’s just a boy, he doesn’t understand! No, Dennis! NO…MY GOD PLEASE STOP YOU’RE KILLING HIM!”
“Sir? Sir? Are you okay?”
“What? Holy shit where am I?”
/>
“You’re in the library. You have fallen asleep but were shouting out as if in pain. I hope you don’t mind me waking you, but I couldn’t bear your suffering any longer.”
I sit up and wipe the saliva from my mouth. My head is hazy, confused, I know where I am, I know the monk in front of me, but I cannot focus. I need to prepare for work. I check the time, it’s 1900 hours. I relax, I have time. He waits whilst my breathing returns to normal. He’s sat opposite just looking out of the window. What the fuck he’s looking at I have no idea. He has fallen in with my breathing pattern, or I have fallen in with his. I begin to feel lighter as the nightmare leaves. I move my back in the chair. I still feel the ridges where my skin was broken. The scars have faded physically but still haunt me mentally. I now feel like a patient in a therapy room whose chosen to catch up on some Z’s rather than talk.
I get up, bow and leave. I never thought I’d do that with any sincerity. I go back to my room. The water from the shower wakes me up and I feel back in the game. The hunter has returned and my prey beckons. Tonight will be different. Winter has her team out and Stoner is unaware. Winter is like the snow, beautiful in appearance but cold and harsh the longer she hangs around. I have no intention of her blowing me out but every intention of showing her team up. It’s my job. It’s what I’m paid to do.
I check the phones. They’re charged and primed. Winter hasn’t phoned, I take that to mean her team is still out. I put a call in to Stoner. Set the evening’s wheels in motion.
It rings twice and she answers in her dulcet tones. She sounds out of it. There’s a nasal quality to her voice and a series of sniffs and coughs.
“Alright babes, what’s up?”
“You sound like shit. I take it it’s snowing with you?”
“Pure white, babes. I’m fucked. If you’re after a meet-up I can’t do it, but there’s some work if you want it but it’s tonight. I was gonna call you but I fell asleep.”
Typical coke-head. She may look all serene but wave a bag of white and she’s like Pavlov’s dog. I’m disappointed. I need her on form or the job slows down and that’s no good when the commodity has been set in motion. I’ve nothing else on though and at least I know Winter will be having a dull night.
“What is it?”
“This fella, we call him Charlie Brown on account of what he’s into, he’s got a lorry needs moving to an industrial site in Hemel Hempstead. It’s cool; it’s not loaded up. Ron can pick you up after if you want?”
“What’s in it for me?”
“You’re on the firm now, lover. The job needs doing and you’ve been selected. I told you before you’ll be looked after. It’s all part of the bigger picture. Look will you do it or not? I’m fading and need an answer.”
Pushy when she wants to be.
“Ok, I’ll do it. Don’t bother with Ron, I’ll make my own way back. What’s Charlie Brown’s number?”
She gives me the number and hangs up. I have a good memory for numbers and punch it in to the phone and dial. Its answered by a gravelly-sounding male voice.
“Charlie?”
“Yeah.”
“I hear a lorry needs moving tonight? Been told to call you.”
“Yeah. Get yourself down to Wembley Industrial and look for Guardian Skips. I’ll meet you there. What’s your name?”
“I’ll see you there in an hour.”
I never give my name over the lines. He should know better and I take it as a test.
14
Wembley Park station is the closet tube to my destination. I exit and wait outside. Watching, observing, ensuring I’m alone. Foot traffic is heavy, which is good for my movement but not for spotting cops. I look at the points that provide cover, a bus stop, cafe window, there’s nothing obvious to me that would indicate a static surveillance. I set off on foot towards the industrial site.
As I enter, the large map board shows Guardian Skips as Unit 7A. There is no one about. All units have shut down for the day. A large industrial bin rattles as a stray cat emerges carrying a part-eaten burger. I can see a large metal slide door that’s about twenty-feet high. Set to the side is a standard metal door. Cameras everywhere. I knock and wait. I can hear footsteps on metal and by the rhythm there’s a staircase inside. Judging by the time it takes the feet to stop, it’s large. The door opens and I meet my contact.
“Sky, is it? CB they call me. C’mon in.” I ignore his knowledge of my name and enter the building. Even a fuckwit like him can make a call and use it to sound clever.
I step over the threshold into a vast hangar space that houses a fleet of skip lorries. None are new, they all look like they’ve seen service. Some are in a state of repair. The garage floor is immaculate. The kind of clean I’ve only ever seen in traffic police garages. Not what I was expecting for a firm that disposes of rubbish. We climb a set of metal stairs and I look up to see an office at the top suspended on a metal platform overlooking the work bay below. It’s a good thing I have no difficulty with heights.
Charlie Brown motions to a seat as we enter and takes out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses from under his desk. I decline by telling him I’m driving and that brings out a wry smile over his round face. He’s in his late fifties, six foot tall and built like a lorry. His bald head is shaved and he has a goatee. He’s a hands-on manager, I can tell by the old oil on his fingers. He doesn’t smoke.
We’re both sitting comfortably and I wait for him to tell me what he needs to. He’s sipping his drink and seems to be doing the same thing. He weakens first.
“Don’t say much do you? What are you, a fucking mute?”
“I’m a man of few words. So people tell me.”
“That’s why he’s hired you for this then.” He’s smiling. “You ever driven a Mercedes AROCS 1824 – BlueTEC 6?”
“I’ve driven many lorries. One blends into the next. I’ll get the hang of it.”
“You haven’t, have you? I can tell a lorry driver from ten paces and you ain’t one. Tell me why I should let you drive this one out?”
Good point, but he’s overstepping the mark. I’ve been hired for the job and he must facilitate the request regardless of his preconceived notion as to my driving experience of heavy goods vehicles. I get up and move towards the expanse of glass that hovers over the works below. I lean on the window, my back to him. I’m safe; I’ll hear him before he can get to me. It’s these situations that separate the men from the boys. I’m no bully but I’m no pushover. I’m tired, hungry and in no mood for debate.
“Let’s put it another way shall we?”
I turn towards where he’s sitting drinking, leaning back in his boss chair looking like he owns the place. “The last person who attempted to educate me as to my ability ended up on the floor with a nail gun at his head and a mouth full of snot and blood. Now, I’m not threatening, I’m just explaining in as few words as possible that I need the keys to whatever vehicle needs moving and the address where it’s to go. Let’s just move on from the getting to know each other stage and onto the parting of ways.”
Charlie Brown isn’t happy. He’s not used to being given direction. Like a sat nav being questioned by a driver. Pointless. I stay standing as his bulk rises from his seat. He cranes his neck forward and back and stretches his arms out wide expanding his fifty-inch chest. I remain still, assessing my options. Option A, move if he rushes me and let the window take him. Problem with that will be the mess and explaining the body. Option B, use my experience of boxing in the army and police and deck him. Option B it is.
This comes to nought when he finishes his Pilates routine, opens a desk drawer and takes out a vehicle key. He throws it at me and I catch it.
“It’s down there. Take it to the engineering shed at Hemel Industrial. Ask for Pikey Paul. He’ll take it off you, then phone Zara. For the record I respect your employer and know he’s keen to get this moved. Your lucky day, you trumped up piece of filth. Darken my door again and I’ll put you through it.”
> I nod in acknowledgement and descend the iron steps to the floor. Charlie Brown stays where he is, presses a button and the large metal doors flow to the side. The night air greets my body and I find the lorry. It’s minus the skip. I climb the steps up to the driver’s cab and put on some gloves; it’s dirty work.
I was glad he didn’t have a pop. I would never have stood a chance. I exit and turn left, heading towards the M1 and my next meeting with the unknown.
The chains on the lorry rattle as I hit junction 1 and head north. It’s 2300 hours, the train to Bedford races me and takes over. I check the central dash. The gauge on the left shows that my fuel and speed are good. The right shows that the temperature is fine. Old habits die hard. A life in the Army and Police create odd habitual patterns and checking vehicles is one of them.
The cab stinks of sweat and graft. The pot below the stereo unit is full of biros for signing off invoices and hire agreements. The air fresheners hanging from the phone charger lead have had their day. I flick on the rear observation screen and leave it. It’s down by my left and gives a great view of the rear of the lorry. The absence of a skip gives great observation of the road behind me and any interested cars I should know about. Right now all is clear as I settle in to the drive. I pass junction 6 and wait for 8 to appear.
As I sweep up the exit lane and approach the roundabout that leads to the site, I wonder what Big H intends to do with this lorry. I’m glad I don’t know. If I’m asked I can genuinely respond and hopefully no further questions will ensue. I see the sign for the engineering works. Progress has been made since the Buncefield fire and the site is coming back to its former glory. I approach the front of the building, stop and turn off the engine and lights. As I’m sat the rear screen becomes distorted with car headlights. They stop behind me and go out. One person in the car. He gets out and walks towards my side. I’m higher than him and my door is locked.
