Breaking Out

by Janice Nix

  ‘Well, maybe so, but …’

  ‘Check these dealers, Pep. Look how they are with their customers. You ring them. You say you want to buy. They say they’re coming round in ten minutes. You wait an hour, then you ring again. And you get the attitude thing – like they’re doing something for free.’

  She was laughing reluctantly, and shaking her head.

  ‘It’s true, Janice. Them dealers always take the piss.’

  ‘They keep you waiting on purpose. They know what they’re doing. It’s a mind game.’

  ‘God, Jan, you’re right.’

  ‘So – we’ll treat our customers much better.’

  She started to smile.

  ‘Our customers?’

  ‘Yes, Pepper. It’d be – market forces. Like she says – the Prime Minister. Maggie T. Leave it up to the markets.’

  ‘Be serious! It’s risky!’

  ‘I am serious. We’ll start off really small. Just locally. Business will come if we’re reliable.’

  I could see that she was starting to think about it.

  ‘Word spreads quickly when you have good gear,’ I went on. ‘We’ll turn up on time, not mess customers around. Give them what they want to buy.’

  Pepper grinned.

  ‘Just like Mrs Thatcher says!’

  ‘Yeah – like Maggie!’

  ‘You wanna lead like the Iron Lady?’

  I threw my head back and laughed.

  But Pepper looked suddenly uneasy.

  ‘But look,’ she said, ‘you’re going too fast. How do we store these drugs? How do we keep the money safe? How do we bank it? My God, Janice, no. No, we can’t do this.’

  ‘It’s cool, Pepper. It’s cool. I’ve thought about that too. I could ask Ida – you know, Emmanuel’s mum. She holds the money for the pardners. She once told me I could ask her if I ever needed help. One really good thing about Mums – no matter what, she’s not talking.’

  ‘Well now, Mama J – I am impressed. You have thought this out!’

  Mama J. I liked how that name sounded.

  ‘By the time we’re fifty,’ I told her, ‘we’ll be driving Rolls-Royces!’

  Pepper looked like she was making up her mind. She just had one more question.

  ‘But would you really feel safe?’ she asked me. ‘As a woman – out there selling, driving round at night with the work?’

  ‘Our Prime Minister’s a woman,’ I said to her, ‘and she can run the whole damn country. Why can’t we do this?’

  7

  Murder on New Bond Street

  NOVEMBER 2016

  IT WASN’T LATE, BUT already winter darkness had fallen. Inside the probation office, there was the usual deeply misleading silence.

  Upstairs, most of the team sat at their desks in a hush of concentration, tackling the constant backlog of form-filling and report-writing which followed our appointments with clients. Downstairs, although many of the interview rooms were occupied, the maze of quiet corridors made the place feel empty. Each room was well sound-proofed and equipped with CCTV. But we couldn’t be sure that the monitors were always watched, so we also carried personal panic alarms, just in case an incident kicked off and someone needed assistance fast. Like the rest of my colleagues, I felt vulnerable working at times. If an angry client decided to take his frustration out on me, help would come – but possibly not quickly enough.

  I was waiting for Nathan, my 4.30 appointment. It was only the second time I’d seen him since a colleague had asked me to step in. His process of engagement wasn’t working. He was missing appointments, and when he showed up he was hostile and withdrawn, refusing to respond no matter what was said. The call came through and I made my way down to the waiting room to fetch him.

  The waiting room opened off the street, and when clients came in, they reported to the reception desk then waited for their officer to meet them. The receptionist sat behind a window made of toughened glass. All our security could make the place forbidding. I was very much aware of this, and also of the message of suspicion and distrust it sent out. But there was no other choice. Service users could be troubled and angry. All of them were under heavy stress. Aggression could flare up, and mental health issues meant that people’s reactions could sometimes be extreme. When I met a client, I always did a quick evaluation – a chat as we walked to the interview room, trying to work out how this person was doing and how the session was likely to go. But my instincts couldn’t always be accurate. However off-putting, the security equipment was vital for protection.

  For Nathan, I could see that the location was part of the problem. He bitterly resented these appointments. They offended his dignity. He felt monitored, controlled, and he hated that feeling. I’d looked through his notes with a real pang of sadness – 22 years old and already a veteran of prison with time served in Belmarsh and Brixton. Three weeks before, he’d been released on licence. At our first meeting, I hadn’t pushed too hard. I could see he wasn’t ready to talk. My questions about his private life came across to him as interfering and intrusive. By showing him that I was there to listen and giving him time to get to know me, I hoped we might get past this and make progress.

  His first two sentences had been for possession of drugs with intent to supply. Intent can be a tricky thing to prove. Up to seven grams of weed is regarded as being for personal usage – unless it’s divided into bags for sale which makes clear that the owner is dealing. Of course, a person who had a smaller block might be dealing too – but if they were employed, the usual rule was to treat their drugs as personal use too. When someone with no job has a block of weed in their pocket, however, it’s probably their income. Prosecution is likely to follow.

  But Nathan’s third offence was motoring-related. If he liked cars, perhaps we could use his interest to help him to engage. I could be a source of guidance for clients like him to whom the whole system seemed remote and bureaucratic. I wanted to take their side, sharing their frustration at how hard it could be to get a quick response. But for Nathan right now, it seemed as though the world was against him. Nobody cared. I was just another face of an authority he hated and despised.

  ‘Hey, Nathan. Nice to see you. Come this way.’

  He clearly didn’t think that it was nice to see me. I led him in silence through the corridors, down to the interview room I’d booked for our meeting. The room seemed smaller after dark than in daylight. Its windows were barred. It was sparsely furnished, with just a table and two chairs.

  I asked him how things were at home. He was living at his mother’s. She had three other much younger children. His notes were full of complaints about the lack of privacy, noise and disruption caused by his sisters and brother. But he’d lost his own flat due to being in prison for more than twelve weeks. After that, his housing benefit had ceased and he had been evicted for arrears whilst he was still inside.

  Nathan didn’t answer. He was sitting on the edge of his seat, drumming his fingers on the table. There was a thin line of sweat across his upper lip. I noticed the tension in his body.

  ‘Why do I have to come here?’ he demanded abruptly.

  He was looking for conflict. I understood his anger, but right now there was a process that he must follow or face the consequences. My goal was to help him to co-operate and move forward.

  ‘These appointments are the terms of your probation, Nathan. They are instead of prison. I hope you will find that when you come here, we can help you and support you.’

  ‘Support me? You mean lecture me?’

  ‘I don’t think I’m lecturing you. I’d like you to tell me how your week has gone.’

  ‘I don’t get help here,’ he muttered. ‘This is just a threat. I do this or it’s prison.’

  He was breathing heavily, close to losing his temper. I started to feel uneasy.

  ‘You people, all up in my business, not doing shit to help me.’

  I turned my panic button over in my fingers.

  ‘Please don�
��t swear, Nathan. I’d like to find a way to work with you.’

  As I said the words, I knew my hands were tied. There was much more that I would like to do for him – so little that I actually could.

  Suddenly he jumped to his feet and leaned right across towards me, thrusting his face up close to mine. I felt flecks of his saliva spatter on my skin. He banged his hand down hard on the table.

  ‘Why d’you think you can tell me what to do, you stupid bitch?’

  ‘Nathan,’ I said, ‘this isn’t working. I need you to stay calm. If you are abusive, I will have to terminate –’

  ‘Terminate the meeting! That’s what I mean about your lot! Nathan do this. Nathan do that. I’m stressed out! No job! No home! Trying to keep my mental health in check!’

  ‘Nathan, I will have to report your abusive language and end this meeting.’

  ‘Report me, then! See if I care!’

  It sounded like something you might hear in a playground. See if I care! Underneath his crackling rage, I saw a frightened, vulnerable boy. His impulsive burst of anger and his pale, sweaty face were probably signs of substance abuse. He banged the wall with the flat of his hand, then looked around at me with loathing.

  It was impossible to continue. Nathan wasn’t able to engage – to talk or to listen.

  ‘Young man, I wish you well,’ I said. ‘I am terminating this meeting. I will escort you from the building.’

  I knew what he needed. Someone to listen, someone with the time to help him work through the causes of anger and distress in his life. Somewhere decent to live and the chance of a job that he enjoyed. What I could offer wasn’t nothing – still, I knew just how limited it was. But Nathan couldn’t even accept the little that that I was trying to do for him.

  Until he was ready, there would only be more angry refusals to engage. That would be followed by more consequences, and then by even more anger. Until he could begin to take some responsibility for change, his life would go on spiralling down.

  MARCH 1982

  One ounce: twenty-eight grams. I would buy for £1,000, divide the ounce and sell each gram for £50, turning £400 profit. We worked on Pepper’s kitchen table, weighing the white powder on jewellers’ scales. We cut squares of white paper and folded them into little envelopes, each containing one gram of powder.

  By day, we continued with our dipping. In the evenings, we were out seeing clients, growing our new business, but only until 9 p.m. I wasn’t interested in being on the road half the night and getting robbed in some crack house at three o’clock in the morning. Pepper and I were working mums. Tomorrow I would have to be up early to give Nadia her breakfast.

  We used Bagga’s dealer to begin with. We bought what we were sure we could sell and no more. Out on the road, I did the driving. I turned up on time, offered a fair price and gave no one any hassle. I built up some good word on the street. I made some money.

  But not enough. It was going to take a while to really build my profits up. I was in business, and looking to expand.

  12 August 1983, Greenwich Magistrates’ Court.

  Shoplifting. Fined £40.00.

  ‘So – what’s in here that you want?’ As usual, Pepper was straight down to business as we stepped into Crocodile, a luxury clothes and leather goods store not far from Oxford Street.

  I took a look around. And then I saw it. A Louis Vuitton black leather attaché case. An absolute beauty in delicious black leather, the letters ‘LV’ and ‘Made in France’ discreetly inscribed on its heavy gold clasp.

  ‘I like that guy’s briefcase,’ I said.

  Pepper turned her head slightly for a look.

  ‘Ooooh. Nice.’

  ‘It’s more than just nice.’

  ‘Okay – it’s very nice. And you’re going to be a magician today, are you?’

  ‘You think I can’t get it?’

  ‘I know you can’t!’

  It sounded like a dare.

  ‘Janice,’ she went on, ‘it’s too difficult!’

  The owner had put the attaché case down. He was standing at a glass-topped counter in conversation with a sales assistant. But I could see he was still watchful – a good slice of his attention was always on his case.

  I felt a stir of excitement. There’s something valuable in there.

  ‘I think I can see a way to do this,’ I told her. ‘Are you up for it?’

  She pulled a face, but she trusted my judgement. She nodded. The take was on.

  I stood just behind the mark, turned slightly away from him, making sure he never saw my face directly. Then I chatted energetically to Pepper. As we talked, I gently reached out with my foot. Taking my time, I nudged the briefcase towards me inch by inch. When I’d got it where I wanted it, I stopped and walked away.

  I knew that this would make the mark relax. There was no one close to him, or getting in his face. He was engrossed in conversation with the assistant. Nothing around to make him uneasy or suspicious. The lift was set. And if he glanced to check, his briefcase would be plainly in view – not so close to him as it was before, but I thought he was unlikely to notice its position had changed.

  Half a minute later, Pepper and I strolled back across the store together. We paused, and Pepper casually placed herself between the mark and the target. Then she started searching in her handbag. While she provided the distraction, I bent down and swiftly crotched the case.

  I walked straight out of the shop, crossed the road and hailed a taxi. If Pepper couldn’t make her escape, the plan was to wait for her at Victoria. But seconds later, she was safely outside too and we were both in the back of the cab. As the tension broke, we burst out laughing.

  The case had a combination lock. Pepper nicked a screwdriver from Woolworth’s just opposite Victoria station, then we headed to the Shakespeare. The pub was quiet in the mid afternoon and we sat there unobserved. I started to jimmy the lock apart. The metal resisted and I had to apply more pressure.

  ‘Dammit!’ I grumbled under my breath.

  Pepper glanced around. The only other drinkers were a couple at a table, their backs turned to us.

  ‘This is an awful lot of bother, Lamp-post.’

  ‘Don’t worry – it’ll be worth it.’

  I still had a very good feeling. Finally, I prised the lock apart. Inside, the lining was the softest golden-brown leather. I leaned forward to inhale its wonderful, luxurious smell. There was just one tiny little stain inside the lid, shaped like a heart – it looked like it might have been black ink. But even with the stain, this case was still a beauty.

  But the contents were a big disappointment – only paperwork and one or two pens. A gold Cartier and a Montblanc – very nice – but still, after all the trouble …

  ‘So much for your hot move!’ muttered Pepper. ‘We’ve run all the way from bloody Bond Street and there’s nothing in it!’

  She slammed the lid of the attaché case down. As it snapped shut, I heard a thud. Inside the case, something had shifted.

  ‘Wait a minute …’

  I opened the case a second time. A secret compartment inside the lid had been released. It stuck out like a little shelf. And on the shelf I saw my prize – a neat row of plastic bags, each one packed full of notes. I counted. We’d just taken £10,000 in cash.

  ‘We got money!’ Pepper whispered excitedly.

  ‘I think you’ll find that I’ve got money,’ I told her with a grin. ‘You done nuthin’ but cuss me from mornin’!’

  3 October 1983, Croydon Magistrates’ Court.

  Handling stolen goods. Probation order – two years concurrent.

  My new business was starting to make some real money. I couldn’t pay it into my bank account, but I needed to keep it somewhere safe. I thought of what Ida had once told me.

  ‘Remember – if you ever need some help, don’t talk to Emmanuel. Come and talk to me.’

  I went round to see her one afternoon with Nadia. My little girl was three by now, and an energetic cli
mber. She always loved to play in Nanny’s garden.

  ‘Mums,’ I said, as we sat watching Nadia running round and tripping over on the grass. ‘Could I ask you the biggest favour ever?’

  ‘Well, I wonder what is this now?’

  ‘I have some money. And I was wondering if you could maybe help me. If you’d keep it in your house, like the pardners do, I’d know it would be safe.’

  ‘Money? What kind of money?’

  ‘Ah – some cash I made. From selling things. Most people pay in cash, you see, and …’

  ‘How much money, Janice?’

  ‘It’s packaged already. It won’t take up much space.’

  ‘I didn’t ask you how much space. I asked you how much money.’

  I knew exactly how much. By now it was nearly twenty grand.

  ‘Maybe I should fetch it,’ I said hastily. ‘I’ve got it in the car.’

  I’d packed the money in a handbag. When I passed it to Ida, she slipped the catch apart and looked inside. For a moment, she didn’t say a word.

  ‘Janice – where did you get this?’

  ‘Mums – if it’s a problem then just tell me.’

  ‘I didn’t say it was a problem. But I want to know where you got this money from.’

  ‘Mums – I can’t tell you all of that.’

  ‘Then I can’t store this money in my house.’

  Whatever secrets were hidden in Emmanuel’s past, Ida was aware of them all. This woman was no fool.

  ‘I’m selling furs,’ I told her.

  ‘Selling furs?’

  ‘Yes. For a business in Knightsbridge.’

  ‘In Knightsbridge?’

  ‘End of season stock. Stuff that won’t fit on the rails. So sometimes – it falls off the rails. You know.’

  ‘I do know, Janice. And I want you to be careful.’

  ‘I’m always careful, Mums.’

  ‘Alright then. I will help you. It’s money from your business. That’s what you told me. I believe you. You will never tell me any more than that.’

  ‘Okay. So …. Mums? There’s something else as well.’