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by Ian Patrick

  “Dead.”

  He stands in my eye line and lowers the top of his white paper suit. He then takes off his T-shirt. His skin is a mess. Burn and scold marks line his sinewy muscular physique. He turns round and his back is a criss-cross of scar tissue. He too has his version of a guardian angel tattooed on his back but, like mine, it cannot hide the pain or mask the trauma. He turns to Scarface.

  “Now you. Take your top off.”

  “Fuck off. Just get on with it will ya, we ain’t got all day and Big H wants an answer.”

  Mr Motivator doesn’t give. He slows his words down and speaks in a monotone voice.

  “Take…your…top…off.”

  “Alright, alright.”

  Scarface lets go of me but I don’t move. This is about to get interesting. Me and the Motivator have a shared history but with different parents. A shared history can go a long way in the criminal world.

  “You, on the table. Turn around onto your back then sit down on this chair.”

  He kicks a chair along the floor. I stop it with my feet, roll over and do as he asks. I slide off the table, sit up then shuffle to the chair and sit down. I’m now sitting with my hands still strapped behind my back, my trousers down and no top on. Great fun with a hooker, but not now. Scarface is stood in front of us, his lily-white unmarked skin a stark contrast to our own. He’s not wearing his history. He has none to speak of.

  “Now, as you know I’ve been sent to do a job. When I’m sent to do a job I always deliver. It’s expected and I hate to disappoint clients.”

  Mr Motivator is pacing now and as he does he’s putting his arms back in his paper suit, zipping it up and moving towards the gloves. He puts them on. I look at Scarface. He has a twitch near his right eye. I hadn’t seen it before now.

  “Yo, tea boy. Go hang on to my man here whilst I reheat this baby.”

  The iron doesn’t take as long to obtain torture temperature. He lifts it from its cradle and depresses the steam button. Mist ejects from the portholes in the base. He nods at Scarface who grips me tighter. I focus on Mr Motivator’s eyes and don’t shift. If he carries out his act then I’m going to make sure he sees the suffering through my eyes and that it burns through his retinas and deep into his memory. He moves closer now and straddles my legs pinning them together. I can’t move them to kick him in the balls. He grabs the top of my head, as my hair isn’t a decent length to get a grip on. I look him in the eye and his bloodshot eyes meet mine and we lock on.

  “You should have spoken earlier but I now understand why. Your funeral bruv, I need the cash, no hard feelings, eh.”

  I take a deep breath in and hold it as he draws the iron back with his right hand ready to punch me then he fires his blow. At the same time he pulls my head down towards his thigh. I scream with fear. My shoulders are released as I hear another agonised wail. Mr Motivator runs up my body and kicks me to the floor. As I roll onto my back I see him pressing the iron into the face of his adversary. The screaming is gurgled as heated flesh is torn away and muscle is eroded in heat. He starts smashing the iron into Scarface’s head, blow after blow after blow.

  Blood and strips of flesh fly off the iron’s base and hits furniture and wall. I close my eyes, I’ve seen enough. The smell of charred skin and decay invade my nostrils. I’m reminded of a time in my probation where I was searching a house for a dead body. There were no lights and it was pitch black. I found the body on the floor in the hallway. I say I found it, my foot did, and the crunch and stench as it connected with the fetid flesh is now prominent in my mind. At least on this occasion the soon-to-be body is fresh and won’t release a swarm of bluebottles. The screaming stops and all I hear is laboured breathing. It gets closer until it’s at my level. Mr Motivator is sitting by me, his torso running with rivulets of sweat visible through his ripped, bloodied, paper suit. Torn apart by Scarface’s desperate hands.

  I sit up and lean against the wall. He comes over and produces a knife then pulls me forward as he cuts through the plastic that ties my hands. He goes to the corner where my top had been thrown and throws it over to me.

  “Put this on. I’m done. The keys for the lorry are in the microwave. There’s a phone in the glove box. Turn it on and wait for the call telling you where to go. He’s got one last job he needs doing before you drop the lorry off. I told him I couldn’t do it but he said if you were cool after this then it’s yours. He’ll pay you good. His fella who does his books, Hamer, he wants rid of him. He’s been talking to the filth and messing with his money. In the fruit crate in the cab is a piece. He wants it done quick, effective and tonight. Tomorrow this all ends and then it’s party time. He says you’ll know what to do and where to find Hamer. I’ll clean up here.”

  I put my top on and pull on my trousers. I shuffle over to the chair and drag myself up using it for leverage.

  “What made you think it wasn’t me? I need to know before I go.”

  He looks at me as he’s throwing his bloodstained paper suit in a bag. The table looks as though an autopsy has been performed on a warm body. Scarface’s head is no longer. Hair on a scalp is visible, the rest is unidentifiable.

  “Any man who’s been through what you have would never grass. Your parents never did time because you didn’t grass on them. I won’t ask how they died though. Him, well he had it coming. Big H weren’t happy with him and left it up to me to make a judgement call. You passed the test, he didn’t. Simple. Now you better be off as I’ve got some cleaning up to do.”

  I’m way out of my depth. I grab the lorry key and stumble out of the room and into the main storage area. The skip lorry is just parked like any other vehicle would be except if it knew its fate I doubt it would let me start her up. I’m tired and drowsy. I’ve just witnessed a brutal murder and been issued third-party instructions to kill. I wonder just how much more Big H wants from me on this job. I was only ever meant to drive and that was it. But I know that once you’re on the firm you end up the bitch of the boss until he’s done with you and I’ve seen how he gets rid of staff.

  The one thing I’m certain of is the further I’m away from here the better and I have transport laid on. I’ve been told no more, other than it needs moving from here. I know it’s got a gun on board as I’ve seen it and been told why and where I come in. I also know the job of killing Hamer must be done tonight as the bigger job is for completion tomorrow. I have to assume this lorry needs packing before delivery and that’s where I’m taking it next.

  I enter the lorry and drop the glove box. I find the cheap Tesco’s phone and turn it on. The battery is full. I scroll through the contact list and it’s empty. I put the phone in the cup holder and see the signal is good. The main door is rising and daylight enters the building. I’ve had no time to check outside. I wait for shouts of armed police as the doors open further. There’s a quiet hubbub of dog walkers on the road and the moored boats ride the current. If there are people about, then there’s no armed police waiting to go.

  I put on some shades that were in the driver’s door well and turn right. As I get to a public car park opposite the Anchor the phone goes. It’s Stoner. For the first time I’m relieved to hear her voice. There’s panic in it. Something I never thought I’d hear from her.

  “You alright?”

  “Yes, perfectly fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  She doesn’t reply immediately.

  Because I haven’t gone off full salvo about how since we last spoke, I’d been taken in a van by two goons, locked in a storage container, hit unconscious, made to strip and see a man’s head disappear under an Indesit iron by a psychopath who made his decision based on a best guess. I await her next instructions.

  “No reason, just seemed strange not speaking to ya. I had to follow instructions. The other numbers gone, this is the final one until the job’s put to bed.”

  “Oh great, we can just chat whilst I’m on the next part of the road trip to hell.”

  “Sorry lover there ain’t enou
gh credit for that. Big H says to bring the lorry to the Hendon lock up. He says you’ve got summit else to do for him then you’ll go back and pick it up and take it to the final drop off. He ain’t telling me no more. “

  “Meet me at the lock up. If it all goes wrong I need you to get something to someone for me. I need to tell you in person. Just tell me you’ll be there.”

  “Yeah, Yeah… I can do that, just call me when you’re an hour away.”

  “Come alone and don’t tell anyone.”

  “Okay. He’s not looking for me now, Ron ain’t here until tomorrow, so I can do that.”

  ‘Good, it’s important so make sure you’re there. See you later.”

  I terminate the call and turn left over Gunthorpe Bridge and head for the A1 South. I hope she turns up. The message is vital to my survival.

  24

  I’ve always loved a road trip. This is my first in a skip lorry, granted, but the view is good from this height and I’m making great time. At least they filled up the tank so getting to London won’t be a problem. The inside of the lorry’s cab stinks of cigarettes and is littered with small blue pens. It feels different to the one I delivered. I monitor the rear camera. I can’t afford to take chances. DCI Winter could be anywhere by now and I’m certain she’ll be aware of enemy movement even if that enemy is me. I take my first anti-surveillance stop at a sex shop. I don’t go in but stop in the car park. If I was being followed they’d have to commit a car to follow me in. Thankfully this doesn’t happen. I decide to give it ten minutes.

  Ten minutes is a long time to wait to see if you’re being tailed. Even longer when you know you have a weapon in a crate of fruit on the passenger seat next to you capable of firing 1,250 9mm rounds per minute. I have a full clip of thirty-two rounds in the magazine. I have a maximum range of one hundred metres and an effective range between fifty and seventy metres. You need to know your firearms, especially when one is pointed at you. I’ve seen first hand the chaos a weapon can cause and I’ve always chosen my distances carefully when confronted by one. Treacle was different; I’d fucked up on that one and was lucky to walk away. I also know that wasting a fat American sloth using this kind of hardware will bring unwarranted attention and the likelihood of civilian casualty. Know your enemy.

  My enemy at this present time is my mind. I know the temptation a weapon like this can bring in the deluded mind of the criminal. I’m no criminal; I’m an undercover police officer. I’m tempted to use the phone in the shop and call in but I have to be wary of what’s being monitored. I have, after all, killed and witnessed a murder all in the space of forty-eight hours. I’m now in my final hours as far as this work goes. I need completion. Like a builder working on the same project for too long. Prolonged time leads to sloppy execution.

  A car enters the car park. It parks behind me nose in. This is a good sign as the exit won’t be quick. It looks like a sales rep’s car. Saloon, nondescript, the type and model is irrelevant. What is relevant is that the lone male is not exiting the vehicle as quickly as I would like. No other car has come in. In a flurry he checks his rearview and side mirrors, he pauses then the driver’s door opens and a bespectacled, skinny, white male with wavy mousy brown hair exits. He’s in his early fifties; tie neatly done but trousers don’t quite meet his shoes. Like a squirrel he darts across the car park and into the shop’s door. I can only imagine he’s a big spender on his excursions. Loads up with porn rather than pay to view at his hotel whilst scouring the country flogging incontinence pads to the elderly and infirm. His porn habit wouldn’t look good on the company bill.

  My time is up. The engine’s still running and the levels on the dash are good. I move off and head towards the slip road. Having a lorry this size means getting up a decent speed before entering the dual carriageway. It also means cars move away and let you out, mainly out of a desire not to become part of the metalwork. As I make my move, I glance over at a petrol station on the northbound side. Parked up is a motorcycle. The rider moves off as I exit. To anyone else they wouldn’t notice. To me I know it was deliberate. The trail has a scent and I need to lose the hounds.

  NCA - Covert Operations Command and Control Room – 15th August 2020

  “Central Six Thousand, from Alpha One do you copy, over?”

  “Alpha One, this is DCI Winter, Gold Commander, go ahead.”

  “We have armed units in position await further instructions.”

  “Can any activity be observed at the target premises?”

  “Negative. No movement observed at this…standby…visual on ident male Bravo front of premises carrying a black bin liner that appears full…he’s placed it on the floor near a storage container…he’s opened the container and gone in…he’s out, out, out carrying a fruit crate. Alpha One to Central Six Thousand permission to engage, over.”

  “Permission granted.”

  “Alpha One to Charlie Five – attack, attack, attack.”

  “Alpha One to Central Six Thousand… Shots fired from police unit and suspect is down, repeat suspect down, medic on scene and dealing, ambulance on approach.”

  “Alpha One to Central Six Thousand… Suspect is ident to Bravo. Bravo is dead. I repeat Bravo is dead. No firearm in crate but bag contains body parts, head and hands on first account.”

  “Central Six Thousand to Alpha One… All received. Forensic team are on standby awaiting area secure.”

  Link dies. Radio silence permeates room. Only sound heard is the sighing of voices, the hiss of screen static and the tapping of a pen.

  “Fuck it. Get the team in and secure the crime scene. Notts can handle the shooting enquiry just make sure we find out who’s in that bag and let’s hope it’s not Batford.”

  “Yes, ma’am. One other thing. A skip lorry has been sighted on the A1 southbound. Surveillance team engaged.”

  “So it may not be Batford in the bag after all.”

  “Let’s hope it’s the right lorry, ma’am. Will keep you updated and the channel is now back with us and monitoring the surveillance team.”

  Winter exits, her hands embracing the front of her hair. Her fingers clenched.

  Decision log entry 98 – 15th August 2020

  I now have a target dead in a county 126 miles from my own force area. Target shot dead by a Notts officer and they will have lead of investigation into shooting.

  I have informed our complaints department as it was a joint operation and I gave the authority to engage based on the information I was given.

  Helicopter view does not look good for officer involved as no apparent weapon was seen on helicopter camera.

  I am of the belief that DS Batford is NOT in the bag and that he is somewhere southbound on the A1 in possession of one hundred kilos of cocaine and a number of MAC-10 machine pistols.

  I cannot afford to let him out of my team’s control now they have a possible sighting of him.

  I have instructed the surveillance team to remain with the vehicle until a positive ID can be made. Motorcycle is deployed and observing southbound traffic.

  This is my operation and a spin off from the armed operation that may lead to the recovery of evidence. I have a duty to make sure that drugs and firearms do not hit the streets of the capital.

  Well that’s how I see it at this time anyway.

  Entry complete.

  25

  I’ve been made. It’s not my worst nightmare but this may get tricky. I see the first vehicle four cars back. The car is to the centre of the road and has good visual down the line of traffic behind me. I’m in lane one and have no intention of moving lanes as yet. I need to be close to my exit as this lorry is slower than their cars and the motorcycle, which has now gone past me. His job will be visual ID then they’ll know they have the right vehicle. They’ll have been shown a picture of me. That’s part of the setup we have now. They won’t do anything with me, as they know I’m a cop and their job is to observe and report back what they see. My concern is the team who will be sha
dowing them. They’re likely to be armed and will take me out with anyone, when they see fit.

  When we had money and manpower I would have known what was happening but those days are gone. My role was clear. Infiltrate and get the job done. Recover the guns and drugs. DCI Winter had been given the same task. Results mean an increase in budget and the saving of your team. No result means no future for your team and your remit gets handed on to the victor. That’s austerity for you; even in the police the rich will gain over the poor.

  The same car is four vehicles back, he’s not moving up on me. I take from this that he believes I’m on the same road for the duration of my journey south. I may have to change that course of action. I have a full tank of fuel but does he? Time will tell. I put on the radio and tune into Trent FM, the news at one breaks the cab’s silence and the monotonous road noise.

  Reports coming in of a police shooting in Gunthorpe. Early indications are that a man has been shot presumed dead outside a storage yard near the river Trent. Passers by reported hearing police shouting then shots were heard and an ambulance responded. We’ll keep you up to date as that story develops. Meanwhile a cow has blocked the A46 northbound near Newark and drivers are advised to take an alternative route.

  I flick the radio off. I have the strong compulsion to burst out laughing. If that report is accurate then there’s every likelihood the only witness to my presence at the yard is now dead. His driver having left and never returned, unlikely to speak to the old bill, as he was complicit in the murder. This day is getting better and better. It confirms in my mind that it’s Winter’s team behind me. She suspects I was at the yard but can’t prove it and has sent her team up here to evaluate. She’s now left with a crime scene on foreign soil and the rest of her team out on me. I hope she got more manpower. She’s going to need it.