by Ian Patrick
They hadn’t searched me, which was strange but reassuring. I could be strapped for all they knew. I do want to know what’s in the boxes. These boxes don’t just contain fruit. The top of the wooden crates are adorned with pictures of oranges or bananas. If anyone were to open up the doors it would look like they’ve been to a market and were stocking up. Stocking up with what? I am keen to find out. It would be unusual to have every box containing contraband but most firms like to hide it across platforms, in the same way a paedophile likes to put a pleasure scene in the middle of a cinema-worthy film. You start the film thinking you’re watching Disney then halfway through some child is being horrifically abused. This was one area I never investigated. None of the offenders would have made it to court.
I don’t expect to find that here. Drugs yes, possibly guns, but not child porn. I open the holdall as the van goes over a bump and the crates groan. I take out the radio, calculator and some gaffer tape. I switch on the torch and turn on the radio to hear static and turn on the calculator and tape it to the radio. I begin with the bottom crates and hold the radio near the crate line and run it along and over each one. It’s not long before the radio beeps. There’s metal amongst the fruit in a middle crate. I didn’t learn how to make a metal detector in the army or the police. I learnt this whilst bored on a long-distance flight watching a kids’ cartoon called Curious George about a monkey who lives with a man with a yellow hat.
I get up and loosen a strap. Not too much as I don’t want them collapsing but I do need to get inside the crate’s contents. I manage to move it out enough so as not to disturb the other crates. I put my hand in the middle and feel a carrier bag then on closer grip what’s clearly a gun of some sort. I’ve no gloves left. I remove the bag and look inside. It’s a MAC-10 machine pistol. The main importation has been split into smaller parcels and appears to have arrived. I put the gun back and retighten the straps. No indication of metal from any other box. I sit back and realise this has definitely begun and isn’t a dummy run. I think about calling in but my instructions were clear from both sides.
We’ve been on the road for twenty minutes when the van takes a left turn and slows to around ten miles per hour. The speed humps are back and I feel it in my body as the van goes over them. The van takes a shallow left then comes to a stop and the engine goes off. I can hear no other traffic outside, just the sound of gulls. The rear doors are opened and it’s my turn to be blinded by torchlight. It’s the passengers’ turn to converse.
“Get out, we’re here.”
I grab my holdall and shuffle towards the light. He lowers it and as my eyes adjust I can see a river. It must be the Trent. There are boats moored and as I turn round I can see a self-storage warehouse. The doors are large enough to give access to vehicles and there are three of them. The passenger motions with his torch towards the yellow door at the far end. Near to it is a shipping container. The mist is lifting now as the sun rises and begins burning it off.
I look up at a flock of gulls as they take off from the lock platform near a weir. I wish I had the same freedom. The two heavies walk towards the shipping container and open the door. In the container is a mattress, a fridge and an old electric heater. Power has been rigged up for light and heat. “You stay here until we get the call to get you. You’ll be looked after for food and water, shouldn’t be more than a day.” Scarface is so matter of fact about my accommodation arrangement I almost feel like I’ve arrived at a Premier Inn.
“Very funny. Now show me what I’m meant to be driving and let’s stop taking the piss.”
Scarface looks at me quizzically. “I’m not taking the piss, this is the instructions we’ve been given, now get the fuck in the crate and shut it.”
I drop the holdall and move towards Scarface. The passenger can sense danger and starts forward towards me. I stop once I’m face to face with them both.
“How in the fuck do you expect me to survive in there? I can’t even have a shit. Now I bet there’s a hotel up that road where I’ll stay until you come and get me.”
I wake up in darkness. My head is throbbing and I feel dazed. I sit up then have to immediately lie back down. I’m in the container, they’ve killed the power after they whacked me on the head, with what, I haven’t a clue. I’m struggling to remember the event. I feel around for my bag and find the torch. They’ve unloaded the crates from the van and stacked them in with me. This means one thing. Whatever else is in the crates is on me if this container gets raided.
I hear sounds outside. Voices, a shuffling of feet then the sound of metal scraping and the door opens. It’s bright outside. The male at the door isn’t one of the men from this morning. This guy is skinny and black. His smile is a good start as he enters the container.
“How you doing? I hear you got a good whack on the head. He don’t usually take prisoners, pal, you was lucky.”
He laughs and motions for me to come out.
“Who are you and how did you know I was in here?”
“There’s no time for chit-chat. This aint’ a blind date. Your chariot awaits and I’m on a clock. Get up, grab your shit and come with me if you want to live.”
His face has turned hard. He has a look that says he means what he speaks. I do as he says. As I exit, the view is across the Trent. Boats are moored close by and on the far bank. There’s a lock and the sound of the water flowing fast over the weir is soothing to my head. No people about, it feels early in the day.
Mr Motivator opens the large yellow doors to the building. The motor kicks in as the doors rattle into life. He ducks under, stops them then bends down and ushers me in. There’s clearly something inside he’s not keen on revealing. The skip lorry I drove is parked up. It has a new livery. It’s not Guardino’s company name. The name isn’t important. What it contains is. In the far corner is a prefab office. The two heavies from this morning are sitting in it. They glance out the window, get up and come out. Mr Motivator ushers me towards the office, the other two are now in front of me and step aside. I feel like a boxer entering the ring with my minders flanking me. This time there’s no music, just the sound of feet on the floor and whistling from behind me.
I step in and the door shuts. As I turn the lock engages. The walls are bare and soundproofed. The door is thick and double-skinned. Whatever is said in here is not for outside ears. On the right hand wall is a table with an electric iron on it and a microwave. Two chairs and nothing else. I look out the treble-glazed window and the men are in a group talking, smiling then looking back at me. My heartbeat becomes prevalent to my ears then I notice the room smells of bleach. I have the feeling I’ve just been moved from the holding area to the torture lab. It’s like Guantanamo Bay, but it’s single occupancy accommodation and no orange jump suit.
The men have now finished their catch up and move back in my direction. The passenger peels off towards the main storage door and leaves Scarface and Mr Motivator heading for my door. Scarface checks through the window and motions for me to sit down. I do as instructed. The door opens and they enter. The room is feeling more like an open-top coffin with every breath. Mr Motivator is the only speaker as Scarface has the job of head of security – namely mine.
“Don’t get up my man, I’ve been requested by the head man to have a little chat with you. He has the feelin’ someone’s been talking to the wrong people about his little venture and he believes that person is you. By the wrong people, I mean the filth.”
I remain still. My mouth feels dry as I haven’t drunk or eaten in eight hours and I’m realising my captors and hosts didn’t want to avail me of that as spew stinks and is a bitch to clean up. It reminded me of spells in custody as a young gaoler when prisoners decide to smear the wall with their own shit. I remain calm by concentrating on my breath. A skill I had started learning in Bali and in the Buddhist centre. I figured if it helped them stay calm and focused there must be something in it for me. For them it’s about being there for others but you can’t have everything
and I’ll take whatever I can get.
“You’re not saying much, my man. You need to start talking or I’m gonna have to start some ironing and that won’t be pretty. I hate laundry unless I’m cleaning cash. So why you been talking? Is it the money?”
I attempt to get up. Scarface slides an iron bar down from his sleeve and weighs it up in his right hand. I sit back down and re-evaluate my approach. The sweat runs down my forehead and I feel my breath on my top lip. This is a good sign. Means I’m alert. The halogen lights flicker and die. A generator fires up and they go back on. I’d missed my chance in the brief darkness.
Mr Motivator opens the microwave and takes out a sealed white paper painter’s suit. The type you get from DIY stores to protect clothing. I know he has no intention on decorating but he does plan on making a mess and values his apparel.
“You’ve got some time to start talking whilst I get dressed. I would strongly suggest you do because by the time I’m dressed in this suit and gloves I’m ready for the party and we’re the only ones coming.”
He’s flicked the iron on and turned up the dial on the top that adjusts temperature. “The thing with ironing, especially skin, is that you start too hot and the skin comes away easy. Makes a mess of the base and clogs the steam holes. It’s a bitch to clean and the ones I use ain’t cheap. See this one here? Comes with its own base and is cordless. Gives me more room to move and less chance of people flailing at the lead and getting tangled up.”
He’s suited now and looking at me before he undoes the box of surgical gloves that have come from the microwave. I have nowhere to move. There’s only one entrance and exit and two of them. Different builds but same resolve to keep me here until their work is done. I maintain my breathing and feel remarkably calm for someone about to get branded with an Indesit iron. Mr Motivator has the gloves out of the box and is drawing them through his hands. He nods at Scarface who now walks towards me.
You’d think the most sensible thing in this scenario would be to stand up and fight. Take my chances. But that’s what they’re expecting as they assume my guilt. I’ve seen others before in this situation. They quiver, beg for mercy and still end up the same way, a beaten forlorn bloodied mass of flesh. I intend to act the opposite. I have nothing to lose.
“Take off your shirt.”
“I’d rather keep it on if it’s all the same. It’s cold in here.”
“Fucking cold? Have you any idea what he’s going to do with that iron unless you do as you’re told and tell him what he needs to know? It’s about to go fucking thermal, pal. Now get on with it.”
I take off my top and watch the black guy’s eyes. It’s him I need to disarm, not the bearded goon. Scarface grabs my arms and takes out plastic ties from his pocket and puts them on my wrists behind my back. My shoulders wrench back as he pulls them tight together and the backs of my wrists touch. I then feel his hand on my head as he slams it into the table. I’m dizzy but not enough to black out this time. I’m aware of hot steam near my right ear and smell the burning water. I may have made an error of judgement in my approach.
22
“Ma’am you need to see this.”
“What?”
“It’s a piece of Crimestoppers intelligence just come in this morning. I’ve been working it up and it looks good.”
“Since when has an analyst been given authority to work up intelligence without the proper channels being followed? You’re barely out of your teens and probably still live at home with your mother. I asked for further cover on this desk and you aren’t up to speed with what I expect. Now isn’t the time though, I’m in a hurry.”
“I took some initiative ma’am and I think you’ll be pleased. The information reads:
Guardino has a skip lorry he’s loaded with a large amount of cocaine and guns. It’s already in the UK. It’s being moved from a lockup up north today. One of the guns is hidden in a crate containing fruit.”
“So what’s so special about this?”
“Well, like I said, I worked this up. I had the cab index plate that Ron uses run through the ANPR team. They picked it up travelling north yesterday and it pinged up between two cameras at a place called Gunthorpe and Lowdham. It didn’t go beyond Lowdham so must have stopped in that area. I spoke with an intelligence officer in Nottingham. The only place a lorry could be hidden away is at this storage yard in Gunthorpe. That’s not all: Ron tripped a speed camera and this image was sent over from Notts. It shows him and a passenger in the front. Enhancement of the image shows the passenger as an Aubrey Atwood, street name of Bunsen. He’s got previous for arson and GBH. Uncorroborated source information says he’s used by large OCN’s as a torture tool when they suspect someone’s talking to police or hasn’t paid a debt. An enforcer, if you will. His favoured method is using fire or an iron. He burns them slowly until they confess.”
“So what’s he doing in Nottingham with our man Ron and why didn’t we pick up the cab leaving yesterday?’
“You stood the team down at midnight, ma’am. He returned between midnight and oh two hundred hours. From when he first picked up a camera on the A1, I estimate he left his house at around oh two thirty hours. Maybe he’s driving the lorry for them?”
“Or he’s being used to flush out a grass or an undercover copper. Get me the detective super for Nottinghamshire Police who covers major crime. Put them through to my office and get the team back here and prepare a briefing. They may need overnight bags.”
Decision log entry 88 – 15th August 2020
Fucked off doesn’t even begin to express my feelings right now. DS Batford is clearly a main part in this operation and could now be in imminent danger. I have no idea where he is apart from a possible location geographically. My options are:
1) Do nothing. He is not part of my operation and in interests of national security I should not get involved. I can pass the intelligence on and let D/Supt Hall manage it.
2) I can act on this information as a possible threat to life and deploy my team to the area and work with Nottinghamshire Police in locating where the cab is and “Bunsen”. I can then arrest associates that may wish to talk with police and provide further leads.
My inclination is towards option 2. I have been clearly told by SCO35 to stay out of their remit and concentrate on mine. The targets mentioned have no interest markers on PNC or other systems indicating terrorism or matters that would be of interest to my ‘colleagues’ in the Met.
It is clear to me now that I have been lied to regarding timescales; sources that have dried up have now possibly resurfaced.
What was a simple operation for me has now turned into a farce.
I have a duty to the officer and must take steps to ensure he is not in danger.
Entry complete
23
“Now then, my son. The iron’s hot and ready to be put to work. Any last requests before I get started?”
“Let me ask you something. I’ve done everything I’ve been told to do. I have one form of communication, which you now have. I’ve not tried to escape or make any noise when I was in your container. If you’ve done your homework then you will have been told how brutal I can be and yet I’ve been nothing but civil. You have the wrong man. The only person I speak to is on the one number in that phone. Ring it and ask. How do you know it isn’t Scarface there? I got in his van and had no idea where I was going or where I am now. He had all the details. You work it out.”
Mr Motivator sits with this. His face shows doubt. He’s a veteran in these situations and he’ll know a wrong’un when he sees one and I’m hoping I can convince him it’s not me before he sets to work.
“I’ve not even been paid for any of the work I’ve done. All my money is on a positive completion of this job. So why would I want to risk it getting screwed up?”
He’s moved. I can tell as the steam from the iron near my ear has gone.
“Take his trousers off.”
“What?” Scarface isn’t convince
d of the request
“Take his trousers off. What’s the problem?”
“Nothing, but you ain’t done anything to his top half yet.”
“Who’s been called to do this, me or you? You’re the fucking tea boy, I’m the boiling kettle and if you don’t get rid of his strides in two seconds time the contents of this boiling kettle are gonna rain down on you.”
My belt is undone and hands claw at the top of my trousers. I resist. What man wouldn’t in this scenario? My efforts are futile as a forearm crashes into the back of my neck and in a moment my trousers are down around my ankles.
Mr Motivator is the first to react.
“What the living fuck? He’s got one fucking leg and the other’s out of Terminator. Who the fuck are you bruv?”
“That I can answer. I’m a drifter, ex-army, got my lower leg blown off. I wear this and get my money where I can. Not many good jobs for disabled ex-servicemen.”
Mr Motivator is in my eye line now. He’s put the iron down and he’s looking at my back. I tense. I have no idea what he plans to do and I’m in no position to respond. I wished I believed in God but as I’ve said I’m not a man of any faith. Who would be, with my life’s luck?
“You din’t get those cigarette burns in the Army though did ya? Or those skin welts or that buckle mark. It may be fading but I ain’t no fool. Where your folks now?”
