“Not a good idea, pal.” I looked at the kid with the pencil case.
He sneered. “What are you, a cop or something?”
Oh, the cocksure flippancy of youth. The two girls and the other boy laughed. He was impressing his audience with his insouciance, or as much as someone only five foot eight with freckles and curly ginger hair could do.
I could almost see his point. Wearing a black leather jacket, black Levi’s, an open-collared blue shirt and trainers, and with Smitherman’s dictum that I badly needed a haircut ringing in my ears, I probably didn’t look like their idea of police. I flashed my ID close enough to his face so he could see the words Metropolitan Police. I flashed it between all four of them.
“Actually, yes, well spotted.” I smiled.
All four of them immediately stopped laughing.
“I’m an undercover detective sergeant, but it looks like I’ll have to update my disguise.”
“Oh God.” The boy holding the pencil case immediately froze to the spot, eyes glued to my badge. He looked terrified, like a rabbit caught in oncoming headlights, as did his three friends. His eyes drained of any colour. The dark-haired girl put her hands to her mouth, dropped her bag and emitted a dull moan, like she was in pain. The other boy gawped at me like a fish on dry land, whilst the other girl attempted to appear calm, like this was no big deal.
“All four of you, bags on the floor and put your backs up against that glass, do it now.” They all complied instantly, backing up against the bus shelter glass wall.
I put my ID away and looked at them. They were just four fresh-faced kids on the very cusp of adult life, and I could see looking at their eyes they were all very frightened, even the girl attempting to appear calm. This wasn’t part of how they’d thought their evening was going to pan out. The dark-haired girl looked like she was trying not to cry. They all knew I held their immediate future in my hands.
“Gimme the pencil case,” I said calmly. He did. The case was still open and there was no mistaking the pungent smell of marijuana. I’d been on enough drugs awareness training courses, and arrested enough dealers, to recognise the smell, and it smelt like top-grade stuff. Eduardo obviously dealt in good stuff. However, selling to adults was one thing, but this bastard was selling to schoolkids, which made him a dog turd in my eyes. His name was going to be dropped into the ear of a friend in the drugs squad.
I guessed the weight, maybe a couple of ounces. All four pairs of eyes were focusing intently on me, wondering what was coming next. I let the tension build for several more seconds.
“Marijuana and psychoactive substances, legal highs to you,” I began. “Both controlled substances, you aware of that?”
The question was rhetorical. No one spoke.
“There’s quite likely enough in here to put you all inside, you know that? Plus, you,” I said with a smile, nodding at the ringleader, “were offering them to your friends. That makes you a dealer, which means you get the longer sentence.”
“Oh God,” the boy repeated, swallowing hard. He was petrified. “You’re not gonna tell my parents, are you? They’ll kill me.” His voice was strained, his face a picture of silent torment, and he sounded close to tears.
There was silence for nine more seconds. I was scaring them, which was my intent.
“So, what happens now?” the fair-haired girl asked, trying to sound like she was in control.
“What happens now?” I took out my police radio. “I call for back-up, and you four get to ride in a police car and spend the next few hours of your life being questioned at Lavender Hill.” I waited a few more seconds. “Oh, sorry, did I forget to mention Lavender Hill’s the police station nearest to here?” I grinned.
“And then,” I continued, “as you all look under eighteen to me, your parents’ll have to be informed so they can come bail you out, but only after I’ve had a long chat with each of them about what their offspring get up to outside school hours, and you’ve all been charged with possession, and him” – I nodded at the ringleader – “with dealing. You think that’ll make their Friday night special for them?”
I said nothing for a few seconds.
“Anyway, that’s what should happen.”
“Should happen?” the same girl asked, nervously.
“Yeah, should happen. But you know what?” I paused for a moment, putting my police radio away. “Today’s probably the luckiest day of your lives. It’s now the weekend, I’m just off to my girlfriend’s place and I really don’t wanna spend my Friday evening tied up questioning you guys and then writing up statements. So I’m not gonna call back-up.”
All four pairs of eyes opened wide.
“But here’s what is gonna happen.”
I took all the joints from the case, plus the small package of legal highs wrapped in cellophane, and gave it back to him empty.
“I’m gonna report this find,” I said, “but I’m not gonna name you four. My report’ll say I took these off a couple of dealers over there in the park. I’m not even gonna take your names, but I know your school, and your faces,” – I paused again, looking between them all – “and I’ll easily find you if I need to. I’m not even gonna ask you who Eduardo is. Again, I’ll find him if I have to.”
A few eyebrows suddenly went up on hearing Eduardo’s name.
“And I’m also gonna tell you something else you should listen to very carefully, and take in.” I paused. “I’m now around this patch regularly, and I’ve clocked every one of you, so you’d better hope I don’t catch you with any more of this crap” – I held up what I was holding – “because next time, your luck may not be so good. So I’m giving you guys a break, you follow?”
They all nodded vigorously in agreement. “Yes, yes,” they said almost in unison, looking contrite.
I waited a few more seconds.
“Right, all of you, get out of here before I change my mind,” I said firmly, suppressing a wry smile.
Looking as though they’d been reprieved from a death sentence, and to a four-part chorus of thank you, officer, they all retrieved their bags, turned and walked away fast. I heard the dark-haired girl nervously saying, “He was on the bus just now, you think he’s following us?” She looked behind apprehensively as they all turned the corner. Paranoia strikes deep.
Procedurally this was the wrong thing to do, but I’d seen no point in criminalising four teenagers over such a miniscule amount. The scare of prison usually does the trick. The joints and the legal highs? I crushed them all and dropped them into the nearest bin.
N I N E
Saturday
TAYLOR HAD SAID last evening her paycheque plus a small bonus was now in the bank and she wanted to spend today undergoing retail therapy, and I wanted to spend the day with her, so, after a lie-in and a leisurely breakfast, at eleven we’d started her therapy by getting the bus to Kensington High Street and looking around the street market. We’d then traipsed around several women’s clothes shops and major department stores, and she’d asked my opinion about matters I didn’t think I was qualified to give answers to: You think this colour goes with my other jacket? Oh, I love the design of this top, it’s gorgeous, isn’t it? What do you think about the colour of this blouse, McGraw: not too loud, is it? Oh, that’s beautiful, isn’t it? I’d got to watch her modelling eleven pairs of jeans in five different shops, two pairs of which I thought she looked absolutely world-class in, but she’d put them all back saying, “Let’s see what they’ve got in the next shop.”
After a cappuccino by Notting Hill tube, we were now being jostled by the tourists and day trippers crowding into and flocking along Portobello Road market in the bright autumnal sunshine. So far she’d bought three blouses, two pairs of trousers, some underwear and socks, two sweaters, a few more scarves and a couple of knick-knacks from a market stall, as well as some sensuous-smelling cosmetics and shower stuff from the Body Shop and Lush. She’d also finally bought a pair of jeans, the twelfth pair she’d tried on, and
she now wanted to look at shoes. It was clear from her face she was really enjoying her day, though I’m not sure her bank account was, and, immersed in the spirit of masochism, I was happy carrying her growing collection of bags whilst she browsed around.
“Enjoying yourself?” she asked brightly as we moved along from one stall to another.
“Yeah. Yeah, this is fun, I like it.” I can be a really good liar, so I hoped I sounded convincing.
“This is one of the reasons I love hanging around with you, McGraw,” she said, smiling. “You get it that women love to shop. So many guys just haven’t a clue.” She gave me a quick peck on the cheek before stopping to look at the jackets on a clothing stall.
Au contraire, my dear, I didn’t get it at all. Trying on eleven pairs of jeans and not buying any? As a guy, I’d have bought the first pair I liked that fitted. Job done, now where’s the nearest pub? But this was one of those all-too-rare times when we were both off work on the same day, and I’d wanted to spend my day with Taylor, so, if being dragged around several women’s clothes shops was what it would take to achieve this, I was game.
Three shoe shops later I was stifling a yawn, standing just inside the doors of yet another shoe shop, watching her trying on some highly expensive and wholly impractical pairs of shoes, when I spotted a familiar face striding purposefully through the crowds along the other side of the road. What would he be doing in Portobello Road market on a Saturday afternoon? I was extremely curious as I knew he didn’t live in this area. He was off the beaten track and was about as much a natural shopper as I was.
“Just going outside for a moment,” I told Taylor, keeping an eye on this guy.
“Okay, hun,” she said, looking at shoe prices.
I put the bags down alongside Taylor’s jacket and went outside. I saw the man I was interested in, mooching his way through the shoppers and looking around as if he was trying to get his bearings. He looked like a man on a mission. I followed him for a few moments whilst he moved through the crowds. He stopped outside a Pret a Manger and looked at his watch, like he was waiting for someone. I stood back against an antiques stall. I took out my iPhone and surreptitiously snapped him several times when there was a clear shot through the crowds. I then sent Taylor a quick text, saying I may be a few minutes. She replied with still looking at shoes.
Another man approached him from the opposite direction, stopped close by and they started talking. It looked like quite a heated discussion. Through the crowds I couldn’t make out whom the first guy was talking to, quite animatedly it would seem from the strident hand gestures, but when the newcomer turned around and I saw who it was, I was stunned. I hadn’t known they knew each other, so I snapped him as well, individually, and then took a few shots of the two guys talking together. They stood close to each other and, at this distance, I couldn’t tell if they’d just shaken hands or if one had passed something on to the other.
The two men talked for nearly five minutes, then they went off in opposite directions, with the first man walking back the way he’d come. He passed within six feet of where I was standing, backed up by the side of an antiques stall. He then disappeared into the crowd. I didn’t follow him. I had the evidence he’d been here on my iPhone, and him talking to this other person had given me something to think about.
I strolled back to meet Taylor. She was still looking at shoes and deciding she wasn’t too keen on what was on offer. I grabbed the bags and we set off to look at a couple more shops. I was trying to concentrate on shopping with Taylor, but I was now distracted and intensely curious.
I was wondering why the hell Drake Mahoney was meeting with DI Paul Glett in Portobello Road market.
T E N
Sunday
TAYLOR AND I went out for breakfast, and then, at nine, she caught the bus to West London to spend the morning with her sister, who was still having issues relating to her husband’s lack of fidelity, and I set off for work.
Smitherman brought me up to speed. There’d been no new developments since Friday. Ehmat’s house was being watched and, when he left, he was being followed. So far, all he’d done was go out for dinner with his family. He’d had no visitors, apart from someone to play with his son. Despite an intensive search, there’d still been no sign of the Kirkwall/Francis family. The house in Kidbrooke was being watched but no one had returned to it.
For the moment I decided not to tell him I’d seen Glett with Drake Mahoney. There could be a valid reason why they’d met, but if there was I couldn’t think of it. But what I did think of was going to see Mahoney. I wanted to know what his connection to DI Glett was.
Camden Town again. I parked in Pratt Street, right next to a residents only sign. I knocked on the door and it soon opened. A woman, maybe fifty, answered. I said I was looking for Drake Mahoney, and she said he’d just left to go to the market, down by Camden Lock.
I’d strolled around the market once when I spotted Mahoney, outside a bookstall talking to two guys around his own age. I wanted to get closer but he’d recognise me, so that was out. I followed him for a few minutes and watched him buy a drink from a tea stall. He slid his wallet into his back pocket, and I then had an idea. I made a local call on my phone.
Ten minutes later I was sipping a disgusting cup of tea when Andy Harris strolled up. At one time he’d been the scruffiest, most dishevelled individual I knew, but he was now looking spruced up, wearing clean clothes and looking like he even washed daily, after he’d begun a relationship with a woman who, for whatever reason, had seen partner material in him. Love truly is blind, though he still wore the flat cap to cover his balding head.
“’allo, Mr Jack.” This was what he called me when we talked. “What you doing around these parts on a Sunday?”
“Working, Andy, which is what I want you to do.”
“Huh? What you mean?”
I explained to him what I wanted him to do, and I nodded at whom to do it to. He said he’d try. I told him to do better than that. He grinned and set off.
Forty minutes of aimlessly strolling round the market later, trying not to be spotted by Mahoney, Harris returned with a shit-eating grin on his face.
“I did it, Mr Jack,” he said excitedly, “piece of cake. I’ve taken all the dosh, though, is that all right?”
“Harris, you’re a bloody star, mate.” I didn’t care about the money. I didn’t even ask how much. I took £100 from my wallet and gave it to him.
“Bloody ’ell, Mr Jack.” He looked at the money like it was an eighteen-carat diamond.
“You’ve earned it. Now get out before he sees you.”
Harris left, smiling inanely and chuffed with his bounty. I retired to a nearby café on the main road to examine my new present: Drake Mahoney’s wallet.
Harris, despite his social inadequacy, was a master pickpocket. He was lightning quick; he could have a wallet or purse out of someone’s bag or back pocket with the most amazing dexterity and be well away before the victim even realised it’d gone. He’d richly deserved what I’d just given him.
I was hoping Mahoney was the kind of person who still wrote down phone numbers and addresses on scraps of paper and put them in their wallet. I still did, despite having an iPhone I could store such things on.
I opened the wallet and found a Nationwide direct debit card, a Visa card, a Camden public library card, which staggered me, and, tucked into one of the plastic sleeves, a list of mobile and landline numbers. I took it out and unfolded it. There were several phone numbers, but I didn’t recognise any of them, so I copied them onto my iPhone and, finding nothing else, put everything back where I’d found it.
Outside the café I saw two young police officers, a male and female, by the market entrance.
“Excuse me, officers, I found this wallet in the road over there.” I nodded towards the café.
“Very public-spirited of you, sir,” she said as I handed it to her. “We’ll enter it into lost property, see if we can trace the owner.” T
hey asked if I wanted to leave a name and address in case the owner wanted to offer a reward, but I said no.
They thanked me and I walked away, wondering how much Harris had lifted from the wallet. He was having a good day, at least. I didn’t think Mahoney was.
I strolled around the market again. After a few minutes I saw Mahoney. He was looking agitated and clearly upset. I waited around whilst he finished complaining about something to the two men he was with, then he left.
I followed him back along the high street. I knew his destination, so I hung well back, though I kept him in sight. Once he was inside his flat I waited thirty seconds, then rang his bell. He answered.
“Oh, fucking great, that’s just what I need, another visit from the secret police.” He sounded very unhappy. “First my wallet, now this.”
“Nothing secret about me, Drake, I’m right here.” I nodded towards his flat. “Let’s talk.”
I followed him into his flat. It was actually a large bedsit, maybe thirty feet square, with a small bathroom attached, and was very untidy. There were clothes strewn across chairs and unwashed crockery on the small draining board. The room had the musty smell of a mattress a wet dog had slept on, and the air in the room was stale from an overflowing ashtray and a lack of fresh air. The curtains were pulled and the room was bright in the morning sunshine, illuminating the dust motes floating around. He slumped down in the armchair. I decided to stand, primarily because every seat was piled high with something.
“Your cleaning lady doesn’t do a very good job, does she? I’d sack her, I was you.”
He ignored me. I looked around. I’d seen landfills which looked tidier.
“What do you mean, your wallet?” I asked.
“Had my fucking wallet nicked in the market, didn’t I?” he said angrily.
“Oh, that’s unfortunate, but you might have just dropped it. Talk to the police, someone might have given it in.”
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