by Ian Patrick
“How long will you be?”
“As long as it takes to sort out his penultimate job. You’re the last on my list.”
I tape her mouth and unchain her. She walks round to the back and sits on the flat plate that the skip lowers onto. She lies back flat and I chain her hands in a crucifix to the frame of the lorry. She’s shivering. There’s nothing I can do about it. She needs to feel the fear and decide her fate, as do I. I go through her bag and find the keys for the unit and her car. I take her phone and remove the battery. I don’t want anyone locating her here.
This unit is perfect for my next move. Hopefully, by the time I return she’ll have figured things out for herself and we can put this all to bed. I also know he won’t have gone to the trouble of tracking my lorry. He wants nothing to do with it. As far as he’s concerned it’s someone else’s load he’s grassing on and nothing to do with him. How the mighty operate. Pass on the crumbs whilst stuffing his face with the main dish.
I use a small side door to exit. Night is drawing in. I’ve convinced her Big H has told me to silence her for good. Her car and the fob works, as the lights blink in recognition. I’ve come too far now. This is my final act. No rehearsal and no understudy. By this time tomorrow I’ll be done and back to work with a nice little nest egg. I know where my money’s going and who’ll take care of its cleaning. I also know who will buy the drugs. Many years of this work has put me in touch with some like-minded dealers. Nothing big just keep a low profile and split the parcel up. It won’t be me selling it, I’ll middle the deals and give a percentage across to the ones I trust to broker it. It makes business sense and suits me.
It’s taken planning to do this. I’m no fool and no puppet of this government. You can’t expect coppers to roll over and sing for their supper when the top of the food chain is creaming off the readies on champagne lunches and second homes. I don’t even have a place to call a home. Not that I’d want one when burglary is up eight per cent because criminals aren’t coughing anymore and there aren’t enough officers to attend the scene. The damage was done for me well before I joined up. Yet another failing in the system to keep kids safe from harm.
My purpose in life is to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. Now it’s time to get stitching. I get in her car and adjust the seat. The interior smells of her and brings me comfort. I say nothing and turn my phone off. I smile into the rearview mirror. If there’s a camera in here I hope it’s got my good side. Although there won’t be much left of the car once I’m done. I start it up and head for Elephant and Castle to begin my preparation for a trip to Barnsbury and a meeting with an accountant.
I’m not doing this for Big H. None of my work has been for him, it’s all been about me. You see I never killed Hamer because he’d done Big H out of a few million. No. Big H should be more careful with who he employs. Mine was purely personal. One, I hate people who knock women about. It’s not my style and I don’t believe in it. Two, I hate nonces of which Hamer is one. How do I know? From the sat nav I saved from the Jeep in Bali. You see a little bird told me that some fat white bloke had been out to an orphanage I taught at, asking about the kids and offering money to take one of them out for the evening no questions asked. This little bird was so concerned they phoned me so I got in the cab to make some enquiries and see if they were still hanging around. I never got as far as the orphanage, as you know. But the sat nav is a wonderful piece of technology that showed me his route for that evening.
He thinks he’s clever turning up with a load of money, a wedge of Charlie and a blonde in a nice car. He looks legit. A caring sharing wealthy Yank just wanting to show an underprivileged kid a nice time. Well it’s not the nice time the kid would have been expecting so that’s where I come in. When I make a promise, I keep it. I’d promised to continue funding the place and keep the kids safe. You can’t have dirty nonces creeping around of an evening and ruining the harmony of the home. No, that’s not Balinese etiquette and not in keeping with the house rules.
I had no intention of killing him that night but things progressed. Karma, I call it. He dies and one of my old DCs who’s on night duty recognises me at the crime scene. Of course once I’m in the inner cordon my DNA is everywhere. Drifting like a magic nonce-cleansing dust. It was a game changer for me but like all things in life change is ever-present. I learnt that from the Buddhists. Education is never wasted. I’m an educator. My chosen subject is life.
Her car was easy to get shot of. I did that en route. Dropped it off at a gypsy site in Wood Green and left them with the keys. Only an insane criminal would try and recover that car from them. It hadn’t taken that long and the hours were well spent. This job will end and I need it to end on a positive note for me and my bosses. After all this crime has to pay or it will have been for nothing. Nothing is not an option my bosses will have. They too have expectation of reward.
The night bus back to Hendon was empty save for a couple of drunks and a nutter. They kept to themselves and I appreciated the privacy. Time to gather my thoughts. Ponder my next move. It’s like a game of chess. I anticipate the opponent’s move as the rules of moving drug follows a similar path. The main rule is never reaching checkmate by getting nicked by my lot. Fat chance of that in this scenario. I remind myself to keep my head in the game and not become complacent.
First light signals a new day that I want to see the end of with a shed-load of cash and my freedom intact. As for Stoner, she better have a good idea of why I shouldn’t slot her when I get back. I hate liabilities and she’s fast becoming one. What’s another death to my current tally? Policing is changing. No one has the resources or the time to invest in what will be considered a drug land killing.
They’ll find traces of cocaine in the lorry. I’ll have the ten kilos for my trouble and my lot can put it down to a killing over non-payment of debt. Sad, but that’s the drugs business for you. Pay up, on time and the full amount. Don’t pay up or fail to show up, then you’re on an owe. It’s not a payday loan. The interest calculated is based on days left to live. I’ve seen debtors renege. It’s a messy business. Messy for the mob and messy for the clean-up team.
I get off the bus at Brent Cross and carry on by foot. No one is behind me. I put the batteries back in my phone and hers. Mine is clear. Hers displays three missed calls from an unknown number. The disher of the beating, checking in. I check her phone history. Apart from the missed calls it’s clean. She knows how to keep herself safe to a point. I have to decide on the level of risk she’s taken to meet me. Is it risk or is it all in the master plan to get rid of me to the old bill like a stray to the pound?
I approach the site. It’s a storage place full of blue shipping crates. On the far side sits the lock-up. There’s no activity and only one way in and out. The old bill could be in one of the containers or in the lock-up. I’ve no way of knowing. Fuck it, I’m going in. The gate is easy to get over if you’ve got the upper body strength. The camera is still. As I move forward, sensor lights illuminate. Wherever I step lights come on. My heartbeat begins to increase. I hate the unknown, not knowing what I’m going into.
I have no other option. If I leave her here she could talk and I can’t have that. Winter has an image of her. Wouldn’t take long to identify her. If she puts the pressure on she could give me up on description and cover name. I wait by the side door and listen. No sound, just the engines of passing traffic from the A406. I put the key in the lock, take a deep breath and open the door.
Stoner is still where I left her. She appears asleep, her head drooped to the right and resting on her upper arm. Nothing else has changed inside. I tug the chain and she wakes with a start. I take off the tape around her mouth. Bad move.
“You’re not fucking gentle at all are ya? You could see I was asleep why didn’t you just brush my face rather than yank my chain! I’m not a fucking circus animal here to entertain you.” Her demeanour suggests her sleep wasn’t in REM state.
“I told you to have a think wh
ilst I was gone, not grab a quick kip. You’ve got five minutes tops to convince me you’re telling the truth. If you don’t then this is where we part company and your boss can go fuck himself.”
She tries to sit up but the chains prevent her. I do nothing. Comfort isn’t an option for her at this stage. For all I know she could be bluffing. She knows the end game. She’s been party to the pillow talk as much as the slaps. Guardino is only human. He’ll need to vent his spleen and spill his thoughts and to who better than a fuck buddy he’d happily have blown away at a phone call’s notice?
“Four minutes, lady, or the click of a trigger is the last thing you’re going to hear.”
She looks at me. Her eyes plead a lack of understanding as to our arrangement. She looks doubtful as to what she’s been told by Big H and what I’ve told her. Life is all about choices. Some choices bring benefit, other choices misery. She already knows about poor choices. She’s been making them her entire adult life. As a kid she had no choice. What child does? The only guides we have as children are the adults who care for us. The care shown is what makes us who we are today. Both myself and Stoner weren’t blessed in this area but we know about choices and self-preservation and it’s this intuition I’m counting on.
“Two minutes. Start talking or praying. I’M DONE!”
I open the lorry door and go under the passenger seat and retrieve the shooter. I flick the safety off, lean on the cab and focus on my watch. I don’t know what I’ll do if she stays silent. I haven’t got it in me to end her life, yet. I look up from my watch; she has perspiration on her brow. This isn’t from heat. It’s like a fridge in the lock-up.
“Alright, alright, put that fucking thing down.”
I do as she asks. I don’t like a weapon I haven’t looked after.
“It’s true. All I’ve told you is true; he wants you nicked or dead, he don’t care. He weren’t gonna trust someone I met in a hotel in Bali. He used you to get the filth off his back and the main parcel through customs. He’s got a couple of ports officers on his books, turn a blind eye to any motor he wants coming through. When you went to pick up that piece from the garage there was a Range Rover. That motor has the main load hidden in a false floor and in the panels. If you pierced the metal it would be like a fucking snow machine. Big H told me if I did as he asked he’d make sure I was looked after. Me own house and car and enough cash to last me a lifetime. All I had to do was make sure you drove that lorry. He knows the old bill are listening that’s why he hasn’t dropped his main number but made me change yours. He couldn’t make it look as though he knew he was being listened to. He can’t be linked to it.”
I say nothing. First rule of interviewing – if the suspect’s talking, don’t interrupt. Sit back, listen and wait. I nod to let her know she has my attention.
“Now it makes sense he’d want you to kill me. Once I’m dead and your nicked or dead then no one will know any different. So fuck him I say. If I’m gonna die at some point then I’ll make the cunt suffer. I’ve got the main driver’s number. I’ll bell him and tell him to meet me here. Change of plan. He’ll do it if I tell him but you’ve got to trust me to speak to him. Once he’s here then you can slaughter the gear and do what you want. Take the drugs and do one. I’m as good as dead but I ain’t being killed by you. You owe me a chance.”
She must be telling the truth. Why offer that if you’re not? Nothing like a woman scorned for the revenge to flow like a river.
“Call him in. Do as I tell you and you’ll have the life you were promised. Fuck with me and you’ll wish we’d never met. I take it he’s being shadowed?”
“Undo me then. I ain’t Princess Leia and you ain’t no Jabba the Hut. I want my bounty and that’s it. His shadows will do as I tell ’em. They’ll wait up in their usual dive until they’re needed. Big H has told them he’s uncontactable until the job’s done. I’m the only person in control and who he will speak to for updates. He’s on a new number now. As for you, you can go fuck yourself.”
I undo her. We shake hands; she gets the phone from her bag and puts the call in.
28
I’ve pulled all-nighters before. Tonight is no exception. I know there’s a long stretch ahead and I welcome dawn and the arrival of the sun to help me stay alert. My childhood and army days were good for some things. In childhood, my being awake prepared me for flight if he was in a really drunk state. In the army, it prepared me for death. Death of the one I was sent to kill, not for being killed. My death wasn’t an option.
The deaths I’ve caused on this job were no different. It had to be done. Kill or be killed. If I hadn’t wiped out Treacle, then he would have gone on to kill through dealing. Innocent mouths end up at the wrong dinner table, drugged so mummy and daddy can get their fix. It starts with a small dose of methadone and the next thing their baby is on a slab. The druggies call their drugs ‘food’. It’s not the type that comes with a traffic light system to inform of the nutritional benefits.
The morning scene feels fresh and alive, in complete contrast to my scene last night of acrid smoke, petrol and forensic powder. This morning’s mop up will be handled by an early team. That’s the beauty of the cuts. I don’t need to stay on and handover. That costs money and can be done by computer. The power of technology. The replacement of jobs.
Covert policing has been under the cosh for years. What was a legitimate, lucrative intelligence tool is no sharper than a child’s first food knife. The police imposed a shift system for covert officers and that’s when the intelligence dried up. No intelligence means more freedom for crooks to take advantage of un-policed streets and ports. Four years on and this is all crystal clear.
It’s made my life easier now the Ts are no longer crossed. The only crossing is done by senior management and that’s in religious symbolism in deference to not having death come back to bite them. The Range Rover will be here soon. Stoner has slept in the lorry and I babysit her phone. No other calls have come in. Big H has more important prizes to covet, as do I.
I won’t be sad to see the back of London for a while. After any big job we get a lay-down period. I take to the mattress in a different part of the world and enjoy life whilst the players carve each other up trying to work out who’s the grass amongst them. Eventually they will get to me but if I’ve done my job, then they’ll dismiss me and carry on cleansing their immediate group.
It’s a decent way of clearing out the dead and making way for new blood once the trust is broken. You never shit on your own doorstep so our lives shouldn’t cross paths again. I’d brought back some food and water after last night’s work. I decide to wake Stoner so she can freshen up before the Range Rover arrives. She needs to look the part.
I apply the gentle touch this time. Her head is near the passenger door. The fruit crate she discarded as it’s beginning to turn. I kick it away and open the door. She stirs. She’s covered in my coat and seems at peace with the world. Shame really that I have to introduce her to hell. I brush her forehead and move the hair from her face. She’s lying on her side in a foetal position.
“What fucking time do you call this? I was up half the night in chains. Got any coffee?”
She sits up, pulls down the internal visor and checks herself in the small vanity mirror. A surprising addition in a lorry. She checks each side of her face, ruffles her hair then looks at me.
“You look like shit. Where’d you sleep?”
“I didn’t. He should be here anytime now. Call him again and see how far away he is. Whilst you’re at it, tell him to bring coffee. Mine’s a straight black, double shot.”
I hand her the phone and she makes the call. Once she’s done she hands the phone back. “I need a piss and I don’t want a minder. I’ll use your spare T-shirt to wipe. You’ll be able to afford a clothing chain once he’s arrived so I’m sure you won’t mind.”
She drops down and swirls my spare top in the air as she walks off towards the corner of the lockup. I turn away. I’m a gent
leman after all. She returns empty-handed. “It was piss by the way. Hate to create more of a smell than there is already.”
We both hear an engine at the same time and look towards the open lock-up door. Stoner goes towards the camera and the gate button. “He’ll want to see me before he comes through. We call him Barclay. He does banks when he’s not driving.”
Game on.
The Range Rover’s three-litre engine breaks the familiarity of our voices as it comes to a stop next to the truck. A white guy, early fifties with swept-back grey hair and a tanned face looks my way. He’s doing what any good criminal would in the same situation. Assess the environment and the stranger before deciding on getting out, tooled up or not.
The door opens and a brown polished brogue exits the vehicle. He’s a guy who keeps fit and wears his clothes well. He kisses Stoner on each cheek and squeezes her arse. She playfully grabs his face as she sticks her tongue down his throat. There’s history there that Big H wouldn’t approve of. No wonder he trusted her on the phone.
“Who’s this?”
He’s nodding in my direction.
“Sky. He’s taking the risk from here, lover. Can’t have you going away if it all comes on top. What would I do with myself?”
He relaxes. She’s doing a good job. He throws me the keys to the Range Rover. I throw him the keys to the lorry. Stoner is in control here. An uncomfortable feeling for me.
“Right, strip off you two, we’ve not got much time”
Barclay looks at her then at me. I start first. His clothes will fit me. We throw each other’s clothes at one another. He sniffs my T-shirt. “Have you heard of deodorant?”
I smile and say nothing. The less I say the less he can ask. His suit fits me well, even the brown Loake Brogues. Stoner looks over and whilst Barclay looks down to pull on the Timberland work boots she looks me up and down and winks. I feel and smell fresher. Barclay loves his cologne. I never wear it. Scent is a big factor in recognition. As much as a face. You’d know if Barclay had left a room. If I’d left a room you’d be looking for a farmer. He throws me the keys and I do the same.
