Operative 66 : A Novel

by McDermott, Andy

Various options were mooted, none met – or even proposed – with particular optimism. ‘He definitely has no personal contacts here?’ asked Locke.

  ‘None we’re aware of,’ Maxwell replied. ‘The boss had Five and GCHQ check back through all his old logs. Phone and internet, bank records, whatever they had. Which I assume was a lot, since they never really delete anything. Whatever the law says. But they didn’t find anyone of consequence connected to him in London.’

  ‘Then he may indeed be coming after you.’

  ‘It’s a strong possibility. Which gives us three days before he’ll have the opportunity.’

  ‘I’m not going to sit around on my arse waiting for him to pop up,’ said Stone.

  Maxwell raised an eyebrow. ‘You’ve got another idea?’

  ‘Yeah. If I call my old mates in the Met—’

  ‘You know you can’t do that,’ snapped Blake.

  Locke’s response dripped with acidic sarcasm. ‘It does rather defeat the point of adopting a brand-new identity.’

  ‘They don’t know I’m someone else now, do they?’ Stone shot back. ‘Far as they know, I just got a new job.’

  ‘I doubt that’s the official story,’ said Locke. ‘It certainly wasn’t for me.’

  Maxwell nodded. ‘Officially, we all left service under a cloud. That way, the country’s protected if anyone connects you to your past. You can be written off as “disgruntled”, “embittered”, or whatever.’

  ‘Yeah, I know that,’ Stone complained, scowling. ‘But I haven’t been caught by the fucking FSB or FBI. I’m just calling in a favour. And it might get us something that official reports don’t.’

  ‘If you say the wrong thing, you could expose SC9,’ protested Flynn. ‘And there’s a good chance of that, ’cause you’re a fucking gobshite.’

  Maxwell waved her to silence. ‘No, Mark might have a point.’

  ‘Reeve’s more likely to expose SC9 than Stone,’ Parker noted. ‘What if he goes to the media with his story?’

  ‘Another very good point.’ Maxwell didn’t like Stone’s proposal, but Parker was right. If Reeve went public in a bid to get protection . . . ‘Okay, Mark, do it. But . . . be subtle.’ He tossed Stone his phone.

  The big man caught it, smiling smugly. ‘You know me, guv.’ He dialled a number from memory. ‘Richy!’ he cried when someone answered. ‘It’s me, Caggy! Nigel Cagg. How’re you doing, mate? Long time-o, no speak-o.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Flynn muttered. ‘I preferred him as a miserable arsehole.’

  Stone finally got down to business. ‘Yeah, I’m in private security now. Trying to track someone down. Nasty little fucker. Can you do me a favour and keep an ear out? Yeah?’ He gave his observers a triumphant smile. ‘Fuckin’ fantastic, mate. You got a pen handy? Okay, his name’s Alex Reeve.’ He gave a description. ‘Now, he’s had a gunshot wound to the left arm. No, I didn’t shoot him,’ he added with a laugh. ‘If I had, he wouldn’t still be fucking running around. Thing is, he’s not going to check into any hospital. He knows the police’d get involved. So I’m thinking he’ll go underground. He’ll need a pro who can patch him up. Now, people like that aren’t exactly ten a penny. I’m sure you know some prospects. If you can put the word around, see if anyone’s helped Reeve out? Nice one. I’m getting a new phone, so I’ll text you the number soon as I can. I owe you, mate. Yeah, we’ll have to catch up.’ He disconnected. ‘See? A word with the right people does wonders.’

  ‘Just don’t make a habit of it,’ Maxwell cautioned.

  ‘And nice work telling us all your real name,’ added Flynn. ‘Nigel.’

  ‘The replacement is a considerable improvement,’ said Locke. Stone irritably mouthed fuck off at them.

  Maxwell returned to the map. ‘That’s one avenue of investigation, then. But we can’t rely on it. We’ve got to keep looking ourselves.’

  ‘You think we’ll find him?’ asked Parker.

  Maxwell fixed him with a gaze of steel. ‘We’re SC9. We’ll find him.’

  CHAPTER 20

  Reeve kept his word, resting in Connie’s flat for the remainder of the day. Eventually he fell asleep. She returned after midnight; he snapped awake. A moment of alarm, then he relaxed. He returned to sleep within minutes.

  He woke the following morning to find her already in the kitchen. ‘Morning,’ she said brightly.

  After ten, according to his watch. Mild annoyance at himself. Even if he was recovering from an injury, he still felt himself to be slacking. ‘Morning,’ he replied, standing and stretching. His arm felt better than the previous day. It was still far from healed, though.

  ‘I got you some clothes,’ she said, gesturing at a bag. ‘No Armani, just Primark, I’m afraid. But that jumper didn’t suit you. Even without the bloodstain.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, surprised. A quick look revealed cheap but serviceable outfits. ‘For everything. I’ll leave today.’

  She shook her head. ‘You’re still not recovered. Look, stay until I’m sure the infection’s cleared up, okay? Please? At least that way I won’t worry about you keeling over.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said, with reluctance. ‘I’ll get changed, then.’ He picked up the bag. ‘Oh, and . . . is it okay if I have a shower?’

  ‘Of course it’s okay. Try not to get the bandage wet.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’ He went to the bathroom.

  He cleaned himself with military quickness, careful to keep the bandage dry. Once finished, he donned the new clothes. They fitted well enough, even if he would get no points for style. Still, that had never been a concern of his. He bundled his old clothes and emerged. Connie was near the front door, putting money on a small shelf.

  ‘The rent,’ she explained. ‘I don’t like the guy who collects it. I make sure the money’s right here when he arrives. The faster I can get rid of him, the better.’

  ‘He’s trouble?’

  ‘Just a creep.’ She looked him up and down. ‘Well, everything fits. That’s a relief. I had to guess your sizes.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Reeve said again. He went to put his dirty clothes in the kitchen bin.

  Someone knocked at the door. Connie opened it just wide enough to look through. The sudden tension in her shoulders told Reeve the caller was who she had expected. ‘Oh. Hi.’

  ‘Hi, Connie,’ came the reply. ‘I’ve come for the rent.’ Male voice, London accent. Reeve could tell from his tone the man was giving Connie a lascivious smile.

  He could also tell she wasn’t returning it. ‘Yeah, here,’ she said, collecting the money. ‘And I’d like a receipt as usual, please.’

  ‘Sure, sure.’ A hand came through the gap to take the money. Reeve frowned as the fingers deliberately closed on Connie’s. ‘Let me get my book. Oh,’ the unseen smirk widened, ‘I forgot my pen. You got one?’

  Connie looked back at Reeve in exasperation. ‘Yes. Wait there.’

  She went to a chest of drawers. The door swung wider as the man nudged it with his foot. He leered at Connie’s backside as she bent forward.

  Reeve stepped into his sightline. ‘Morning,’ he said. He took in the rent collector. Caucasian, mid-twenties, black hair, shaved sides below a longer styled sweep. Carefully trimmed beard. Heavy eyelids gave him a look of lazy arrogance. Expensive watch. He fancied himself – both as a womaniser and a tough guy. Reeve knew the type. He already disliked him.

  The man reacted with surprise, then annoyance, that she wasn’t alone. ‘Huh. Got company?’

  ‘Yes,’ Connie replied pointedly.

  ‘Better not be having any wild parties. It’d violate the lease.’ A mocking smile as she returned with a pen.

  ‘Highly unlikely,’ she told him.

  ‘Maybe you should come to my place. I have ’em all the time.’ She held out the pen at arm’s length. He stepped closer to take it. />
  ‘No, thanks. I work nights.’

  ‘I’m flexible.’ Another leering smile. She remained stone-faced. He scribbled in a notebook. ‘There’s your receipt.’

  ‘Thanks. My pen?’ He returned it. ‘Bye.’

  His lips curled, but the smile lacked any humour. ‘See you next Thursday.’ Connie closed the door on him. She didn’t seem to realise he had just insulted her. See – C. You – U. Next – N. Thursday – T. Reeve decided she would be happier not knowing.

  She returned the pen to the drawer. ‘Ugh,’ she said, shuddering. ‘Horrible guy.’

  Reeve glanced towards the door. Footsteps outside; he was going to the flat below. ‘He like that all the time?’

  ‘Worse, usually. You put him off. His name’s Jammer. Well, that’s what he calls himself. Don’t know his real name, and don’t want to either. It’s why I started demanding receipts. He’s tried to sleaze sex out of me in exchange for rent. I’m certain he’s tried it with Jaz as well.’

  ‘You should complain to the landlord.’

  A resigned shrug. ‘I have done. The house is owned by some company. They don’t care – even though I’m sure he’s also dealing drugs here.’

  Reeve’s dislike of Jammer grew still further. ‘How?’

  ‘The flat downstairs. A man called Mr Brownlow lives there.’

  ‘I saw him yesterday.’

  ‘Poor guy. He seems like a nice, harmless man – who’s been forced into some bad things. He’s been “cuckooed” – his flat’s being used by drug dealers to do their business.’ Reeve knew what ‘cuckooing’ was, but let her continue. ‘People come and go all the time, but Jammer’s a regular. I think he’s forcing Mr Brownlow to do it. He’s probably too scared to ask for help.’

  ‘If he won’t report him, maybe someone else should.’

  ‘Like me? Believe me, I would love to see that horrible creep be arrested. But,’ resignation entered her voice, ‘I work at a hospital. I’ve seen too many people who tried to stand up to the local dealers. They end up being stabbed – or worse. And Jammer,’ she said with a sigh, ‘knows exactly where I live.

  ‘Scum,’ said Reeve, with a vehemence that surprised her. ‘I really hate dealers.’

  ‘That . . . sounds personal.’

  ‘I grew up somewhere with lots of drugs going around.’

  Before she could respond, they heard a crash from below. The sound was followed by a plaintive cry. A man – Brownlow, Reeve assumed – protested fearfully. Someone else laughed mockingly. He recognised the voice: Jammer. More from the younger man he couldn’t make out – then crockery smashed. Brownlow cried out again in dismay. Whatever had just broken had more meaning than mere plates and bowls.

  ‘This needs to stop.’ Reeve strode towards the door.

  ‘Wait, wait,’ Connie said, following. ‘You got into one fight yesterday, and now you want another?’

  ‘I just want to talk to him. If he knows there’s a witness, he’ll leave Mr Brownlow alone.’

  The lower flat’s door was ajar. The voices became clearer as he descended the stairs. ‘I really don’t give a fuck,’ said Jammer, condescendingly. ‘My customers are more important to me than you. You don’t get to choose when they call, okay?’

  ‘But – it was the middle of the night,’ Brownlow objected. He sounded on the verge of tears. ‘We had an agreement. You can’t—’

  Something else burst apart on the floor. ‘You do what I fucking tell you!’ growled Jammer. ‘That’s the agreement.’

  Reeve pushed the door wider. ‘Do you need any help, Mr Brownlow?’

  The two men inside turned in surprise. Brownlow was afraid of the newcomer – or possibly for him, glancing in fear at Jammer. Jammer himself, though, immediately became aggressive. ‘No, he doesn’t. This is private property. So if you don’t mind – fuck off.’

  Reeve looked past Jammer. A portable television lay broken near a door to the rear garden. Closer by were the smashed remains of crockery. The pieces of a large plate appeared to form a picture; crude, colourful, childlike. He guessed that was what Brownlow was upset about – something personal.

  He locked his eyes upon Jammer, hiding his loathing. The dealer was just like any other, callously destroying things precious to others for greed. ‘I don’t want trouble,’ he said, tone calm. ‘I just don’t want anyone to get hurt.’

  One of Jammer’s hands clenched tighter. There was something in it. A key, Reeve realised, the blade jutting out between his first and second fingers. An improvised knife. It could slash his face, even blind him.

  Jammer’s intentions were clear. He masked his own, waiting to see how the situation developed.

  Connie came down the stairs behind him. ‘Yes, yeah,’ she added on seeing the tableau. ‘We just want to make sure everyone’s okay.’

  ‘Everything’s fine,’ Jammer scoffed. He started towards Reeve. ‘Just a disagreement with a tenant. There won’t be any problems. Will there, Mr Brownlow?’

  The older man retreated towards the garden door, cowering. ‘No, no.’

  ‘Good.’ Jammer was almost within arm’s reach of Reeve. ‘See? So now you can just—’

  The metal spike in his clenched fist lanced at Reeve’s face.

  CHAPTER 21

  Reeve was ready for it.

  He swept sideways and whipped up his right arm to deflect the blow. Forearm under Jammer’s elbow, he clamped his hand around his wrist. Lean forward, rotate arm – and his opponent howled as his elbow bent the wrong way.

  He kept hold, twisting to force Jammer to the floor. The other man lashed out with his free hand. Reeve instinctively blocked it with his left arm. His wounded biceps burned as if he had been branded. A flare of anger, and he sent his fist at Jammer’s face—

  He arrested the blow just before impact, remembering his words to Connie. Instead he opened his hand. A loud clap echoed through the room as he slapped Jammer’s cheek. The younger man flinched at the stinging pain. Reeve held him down. Jammer’s eyes widened in fury at the humiliating strike.

  The entire exchange took barely two seconds. Connie stared in shock.

  ‘I think you should leave,’ Reeve told Jammer. ‘Like I said, I don’t want anyone to get hurt.’

  ‘Fuck you!’ Jammer roared. ‘I’ll fucking kill you!’ He tried to move, but was still pinned.

  Reeve slapped him again, then emptied the downed man’s pockets. A top-end smartphone in a waterproof case. Keyring, the electronic key fob for a Mercedes attached. Another set of car keys, unmarked. A roll of twenty-pound notes—

  Wallet. He quickly searched it. More money, several hundred pounds in mixed denominations. Credit cards in the name Jahmir Haxhi. That explained where ‘Jammer’ came from. The surname; Albanian?

  Driving licence. A beardless, monochrome Jahmir Haxhi stared insouciantly from it. Reeve memorised the address. This is becoming a habit. He stood. ‘Jahmir Haxhi?’ The dealer glared up at him. ‘I know where you live – so I know how to find you.’ He dropped the licence on his chest and withdrew. ‘Get a new job. Something honest. I’m giving you a chance to walk away, so don’t come back.’

  Jammer was about to snarl a reply, but thought better of it. Warily watching Reeve, he struggled upright. He put a hand to his reddened cheek. ‘You fucking piece of shit. I’ll—’

  Reeve stepped closer. Jammer flinched away. ‘Leave. Now.’

  The dealer retrieved his things, then went to the rear door. He gave Brownlow a poisonous look as he passed, then back at Reeve. ‘You’re a fucking dead man,’ he growled. Reeve took another step. Jammer hurried out into the garden.

  Reeve went to the door to make sure he had gone, then turned. Brownlow regarded him owlishly. ‘Are you okay?’ Reeve asked.

  ‘Uh – yes, I’m fine.’ Reeve got his first proper look at Connie’s downstairs neighbour.
In his forties, he guessed, but stress had aged his face. The meek, hangdog appearance of someone dealt a bad hand by life.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Connie asked.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Brownlow. ‘Thank you. Thank you both.’

  She regarded the debris. ‘Oh, my gosh. Let me help you clean this up.’

  Reeve joined in, picking up the television. ‘Afraid this is broken.’

  ‘I . . . didn’t watch it much anyway,’ Brownlow replied, with a resigned sigh. He crouched to assist Connie, looking sadly at the broken crockery. The picture on the jagged jigsaw was a house, childish stick figures outside.

  ‘Was it something special?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘My son made it.’ A glance at several framed pictures on one wall. A happier Brownlow with a boy, growing from a baby to about ten. They were well travelled; backgrounds included Paris, San Francisco and snowy mountains. Another sigh, then he started to collect the pieces. Connie and Reeve helped.

  ‘I didn’t know you had a son,’ she said.

  ‘He stayed with my wife – my ex-wife.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  He gave them a glum look – then turned at a knock. Jaz, carrying her baby, was at the door. ‘Is everyone okay?’

  ‘We’re all fine,’ Connie assured her.

  ‘I heard all the noise.’ She took in the room. ‘Oh, my God. What a mess.’

  ‘Not as big a mess as Jammer,’ said Brownlow. There was a hint of glee behind his gloom. He turned back to Reeve. ‘You – you really sorted him out. Thanks. Thank you so much. By the way, I’m Philip. Philip Brownlow.’

  ‘Alex Reeve.’ They shook hands.

  ‘We’ll help you tidy up,’ said Connie.

  Between them, the task did not take long. ‘Why did Jammer smash your place up?’ Jaz asked.

  Brownlow drew in a deep, unhappy breath. ‘I didn’t want to be his mug any more.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘After the divorce, I had to find a new place to live. This was all I could manage. And then,’ another sigh, ‘I lost my job. No job, no rent money. I didn’t know what to do. But then Jammer told me he had a deal with the previous tenant. I could continue it.’