by Jeff Gulvin
Behind him he had lain the ancient overalls he had stolen from the wash bins that tonight would be his bed. He looked once more at his gear: shoot this lot up and he was down to nothing again. He would have to steal a car and get it back to London. His gaze carried once more to the dockside. Yarmouth in the season, plenty of nice motors around just waiting for tricky fingers like his. He thought about that and it pleased him. One thing he did well. There was nothing he could not get into.
He got up and moved to the door. He could hear water slapping the side of the dock. He glanced up and down the quayside: open here, no fences or security men or dogs. He went back to where he had lain his coat and sat down. Rolling up his sleeve, he checked the inside of his left arm and made a face. Pulling the sleeve down again, he pushed up the other. Not quite as bad but almost. He flicked at the vein with his fingernail. Nothing. No life. No pigging blood in him. Shot to fuck, John, he told himself. You’re all shot to fuck.
Still, he took up the rubber hose and twisted it into a tourniquet above his elbow. He bent the arm, so the pressure built and slowly his hand went numb. Again he swatted the skin, trying to lift a vein. He slapped it, flicked it, harder and harder until a vein finally lifted. He tightened the hose with his teeth and picked up the brimming syringe. He could hardly see. He did not want any air in it. Now that would be a waste.
And lying back with the needle lost to the floor and the fuzzing in his head and his arm limp beside him and the warehouse high overhead as slowly the darkness descended.
Mickey Blondhair left Archway Tube with his mate. They swaggered into the sunlight and stood for a moment on the street. Mickey wore a long-sleeved sweat top which gathered almost to his knees. His hair was cropped to the neck, yet long and dangling in front. Beside him his mate stood in his T-shirt, his hands stuffed into baggy jeans. The laces of his boots dragged on the pavement.
Mickey moved along the street, swinging his shoulders and eyeballing the shoppers who passed him.
‘Cashpoint?’ his mate said.
Mickey nodded. He could feel the edge of the blade against his backside as he walked. Two banks on the street. But he knew there was a third, round the corner on the edge of the industrial estate. It was where all the Paki shopkeepers paid in their daily takings. A panda car drove slowly past with two white-shirted coppers in the front seats. They glanced at him and he glanced back. They turned left at the lights.
They stood beside the benches. Behind them the cashpoint. Mickey rested one foot on the bench and watched as a young mother pushed her twins up to it in a double buggy. She got a few quid, stuffed it hurriedly into her purse and moved on. Mickey’s mate looked at him. Mickey looked away.
A few minutes later a car drew up. Big car. German. Mickey looked more closely. A tall, thin man got out, wearing a two-piece suit and a tie tight at the neck. He left the car door open, and walked up to the cashpoint. Mickey looked to his mate and nodded. He felt the adrenalin rise, the slow rushing of blood that gathered pace in his head until it thumped against his temples. The man was keying in his number. He stood back for a moment. Mickey moved off the bench.
At the wall the man waited for his money. His card returned to him and he pocketed it. Then the jaws of the machine opened and ten crisp twenties rolled out to him. And then he was down, his legs gone from under him. He still held the cash, but the next moment it was snatched from his hand. He half-cried out, half-looked round and glimpsed two figures running away from him. A coloured woman came round the corner. They almost knocked her over. He tried to get up, but his legs would not work. Sweat, heavy on his brow. He propped himself on an elbow. Blood spewed from his knees.
‘Help me.’ Small voice, very unlike his own. ‘Please. Somebody help me.’
He stood on the corner, watching as the cab waited for the lights to go green. Vanner on the Drug Squad and Ringo May wanting back in the game. He tapped his polished shoe against the kerb and put out his hand as the cab approached. The cab pulled over and he climbed into the back. ‘Covent Garden,’ he said to the driver.
The street heaved with people. Piccadilly at night. He walked round the cab and paid the driver. He did not wait for his change. Crossing the road, he paused under the Sanyo sign and looked back at the statue of Eros. Finding a phone box he dialled.
‘Wasp, it’s me. I told you Ringo May was back on the street.’
‘I ain’t working tonight, man. I’m going out.’
‘Contact Ringo. Tell him he’s still in the game.’
‘Not tonight, man. I’m out tonight.’
‘Tonight, Wasp. One phone call. It’ll only take you a minute. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.’ He hung up. The whine in the Wasp’s voice. He would make the call. He always did. Ringo May could deal. He would deliver in a couple of days and then maybe they would see.
The power. He sauntered up the road and dwelt for a moment on the power. Hard to keep the smile from his lips. People hugged the street, great weighty bunches of them: English and Chinese and German and French and black and white and yellow. London. Turning up Windmill Street, he came to the intersection with Brewer. Soho at night: fat old men huddling round the windows of video shops and music thumping from peep-shows.
He stood across the road from the gay bar on Old Compton Street and watched the shaven-headed men in the window. They looked back at him. Pretty, no doubt, they thought. The black girl beyond the counter of the strip joint opposite, called out to him. ‘Want to see a live show, Sir?’
He turned to her, chocolate-coloured breasts thrusting at the neck of her top. ‘Later, maybe.’ He crossed the street once again.
Covent Garden. He wanted to see wankers in suits popping Denny E’s in a wine bar. The buzz almost gave him a hard on. Blake’s Bar on Long Acre. That’s where Maguire had his pitch. 3527—Maguire. A number on a computer screen. A name on a post office box and money in brown padded envelopes.
Blake’s was thick with drinkers. He had to carve a path to the bar and when he got there he could hardly turn round. He bought a beer and carried it to an alcove where a group of people rested glasses on a chest-high table. He could smell the perfume, the aftershave as part of the atmosphere. Silk shirts, baggy turned-up trousers. Resting his back against the wall, he sipped beer from the neck of the bottle and watched them. He stayed an hour. No sign of Maguire. Too early in the week for him. One time on a Friday he had been in here and Maguire had offered him his own stuff without knowing it. The kick, like a drug in itself pumping around in his veins. Still he looked about him. What he wanted was some jerk in a £500 suit, popping a Denny Ecstasy tablet. But tonight he was disappointed. He stayed another half-hour, then he shrugged his shoulders and left.
Ryan climbed between the sheets and smelled the warmth of his wife. Naked, back to him, he rested his palm in the cup of her side. She stirred, dragging one leg up the bed, foot against his shin. He brushed her neck with his lips. The mobile rang by the bed. He cursed and picked it up.
‘Mr Ryan. It’s Milo.’
Ryan sighed. ‘What d’you want, Milo?’
‘They buzzed me. Bleeped me on my watch.’
‘Who?’
‘Them.’
‘Who’s them?’
‘I don’t know. The ones who contact me.’
‘What did they say?’
‘They’ve told me I can deal. They’ll deliver in two or three days.’
Ryan sat up straighter. ‘Good boy. Give me the number they asked you to call.’ Milo told him and he wrote it down. ‘When the gear comes in you call me. You understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘You can’t deal, Milo. You deal and we nick you again. That’s how it goes.’
‘I understand.’
‘Good. Bell me and we’ll sort it from there.’ Ryan switched off the phone. His wife’s breathing was even beside him. He looked at her and sighed. ‘I suppose a fuck’s out of the question?’
Five
VANNER SAT WITH RYAN in his office. ‘We can’
t justify a body behind the counter, Sid. We’ll just have to trust that the teller’s on the case.’
Ryan looked doubtful. ‘This is the same post office that can’t tell us how many boxes have two cards. Right?’
‘They don’t have a separate register.’ Vanner made a face. ‘Why should they? You told me yourself you’d never come across it before.’
‘We could ask them to count them.’
‘What, all the boxes in London? There must be thousands.’ Vanner stood up. ‘Right now we have one box. We’ll watch it.’
For three days they watched. Ryan outside with China, sitting in a car down a side road near Wembley Central Post Office. Others took turns inside. Anne and McCleod and Ellis. At the end of the third day Ellis challenged Vanner. ‘I know this is half a sheet, Guv. But can we justify the manpower?’
Vanner looked at him. ‘The artwork is new, Paul. Like you said—half a sheet. That means he’s close. The distribution is flat.’ He glanced at Ryan. ‘Am I right?’
Ryan lit a Camel and nodded.
Vanner looked back at Ellis.
‘Okay.’ Ellis held up his hands. ‘But how long’re we going to keep it up.’
‘As long as it takes. There’s fifteen hundred quid in that box. Nobody’s just going to leave it.’
He stood in the bus shelter and studied the blue Vauxhall Astra parked in the side road. Two men in it. Putting the headphones in his ears, he wandered into the post office and bought a book of stamps. He glanced about the hall. A woman in the far corner, half-reading a V10 form. He made his way up to the counter where the post office boxes were kept and saw a buck-toothed man checking forms.
He went home and put on a suit. At lunchtime he went back and posted a letter. The man behind the counter had been replaced by a girl. In the hall the same woman was there. He smiled to himself and left.
Later, darkness had fallen outside, he sat before the computer and scrolled. Jackson. Damien Jackson. He phoned him from the box at the top of the road. He dialled the number of his watch and then walked to the box at the tube station. He got there as the phone started ringing.
‘You call me?’ A hushed voice in his ear.
‘Sorry it’s too late.’
‘No problem. What is it?’
‘Tomorrow. You’re scheduled to make the Wembley pickup.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Old Bill’s watching the box.’
Silence on the end of the phone. ‘I’ll give it a miss then.’
‘No you won’t. My money’s there.’
‘Look, I ain’t about to get nicked.’
‘You’ll be fine. Go at lunchtime. Between twelve and one. The regular guy isn’t there then. Just some little pretty with a space between her ears.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Ride a pushbike. Steal one if you have to. Wear the gear, helmet and mask. No one will see you.’
Again hesitation.
‘Trust me. They won’t pick you up. There’s an Astra parked down a side road. It might be a different car but it’ll be there. Check it out before you go in. There’ll be two coppers in it. You know what they look like—stick out a mile. When you come out you’ll lose them in the traffic.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You can do it. They won’t pull you outside. They’ll want to see where you go. Lose the bike. Lose the gear and walk away. Piece of piss.’
Again a strained silence.
‘There’s money in it for you. Bonus.’ His voice chilled then. ‘It’s that or you’re out of the game.’
The following afternoon at five o’clock they were gathered back at Campbell Row. Ellis looked sourly at Vanner and Vanner held his eye. ‘At least we know he showed.’
‘Right. But we don’t know who he is.’
He had collected at lunchtime. The girl was on the counter. Two other people to serve. Boyfriend trouble the night before. She was in tears when Vanner had questioned her about it. He had come in and gone again without them even knowing until the main clerk got back from lunch. Ryan moved off the desk. ‘So it’s a mistake. It happens. She’ll get her arse kicked. At least she remembers him.’
‘Hardly a description,’ Ellis said. ‘Cyclist with smog mask and helmet.’
Ryan glanced at Vanner. ‘That fits the one Milo gave us. Whichever way you look at it we’re getting somewhere.’
Vanner stepped into the middle of the room. ‘At least we know they don’t suspect anything. We know when gear is delivered. Next time we’ll try and get someone behind the counter.’
Jimmy Crack drank coffee at Euston Station with the Regional plant from the nightclub.
‘Who’s the snappy dresser with Bobby?’
‘Businessman. Name’s Michael Terry.’
‘We know him?’
‘Some. Fraud Squad nicked him five years ago. Property dividend scam.’
‘What does he do now?’
‘Imports plant at Dartford.’
‘So what’s the connection with Gallyon?’
‘Don’t know. I think he’s just there for the Tom.’
‘Lisa?’
The bouncer nodded. ‘Seems to like them expensive.’ Jimmy sat back. ‘You know I don’t think Gallyon’s into crack.’
‘He’s into coke. Why not the lowlife?’ Jimmy stirred his coffee.
‘Too much trouble.’
‘We know he’s got outlets with spades.’ Jimmy shook his head. ‘Doesn’t feel right. I’ve got other things to do. Maybe you could tell your Guv’nor.’
Two weeks after they had lost the plot at the post office Vanner sat in his office, leafing through a sheaf of reports from the B team. Ryan poked his head round the door. ‘Got a call from Milo, Guv.’
‘About time. They delivering again?’
‘Next week.’
‘Good. Maybe we’ll get it right this time.’
Ryan scratched his head. ‘Milo reckons there’s a consignment of Denny E’s being traded at a minicab office on Kilburn High Road.’
Vanner looked at him. ‘How does he know that?’
‘Whisper from the contact.’
‘Why would he tell Milo?’
‘He’s talkative, Guv. Milo reckons he’s let things slip before.’
‘How many E’s?’
‘Couple of thousand.’
Vanner raised an eyebrow. ‘New player?’
‘Maybe he does more than just boxes.’
‘When’s it coming in?’
‘Tomorrow night.’
‘Do we know this minicab outfit?’
Ryan nodded. ‘I had a chat with Jimmy. The place is a crack house. Kilburn want it closed down.’
Vanner looked at him. ‘What’re E’s doing at a crack house? Crack’s predominantly black.’
‘Yeah.’
‘And E’s are raves and suits and white kids.’ Vanner pushed his foot against the desk. ‘Doesn’t that strike you as odd?’
Ryan grinned. ‘It’s all gear, Guv’nor. Markets cross all the time. Jimmy reckons this place is a bit of a centre. Sort of midnight supermarket for lowlife.’ He paused. ‘We can’t let it go.’
Vanner sat forward. ‘Let me have a word with Jimmy.’
He sat in his swivel chair and rocked himself from side to side. Oasis played through his headphones. Before him the screen flickered as it went through its pre-boot checks. He bobbed his head to the music. In his hand he held Sammy Johnson’s pager watch, thoughtful of the Wasp to get it back when they broke his arms.
The power. Better than the drugs themselves. Silly boy Sammy, swapping the bail hostel for hospital. It would be a lesson for others. The word would spread: Neasden, Archway, Chalk Farm and the rest. Ninja’s reputation went before him. Nobody else would cross him.
The screen popped up the menu and he keyed in his password, then waited until the codes played through and the log lifted before his eyes. He scrolled with rubber fingers until he came to Sammy’s details and he hesitated as he counted the numbe
rs. Pity he got so greedy. Sammy had been productive. But supply was supply and the demands of the market were great. What he didn’t take others would and he could not have people holding out on him. They got him cash. He supplied them with their kicks. That was the deal. Nobody held out on him. He looked at Sammy’s name and then pressed the Delete button on the keyboard.
In the training room at Kilburn Police Station Ryan was joking with the boys from the TSG. Jimmy Crack stood with Vanner. ‘What time’s your snout reckon then, Guv?’
‘Pickup’s supposed to be at ten. He’s going to phone.’
‘And the spotters are over the pub?’
Vanner nodded.
‘We’ll wait for the sniffer, then Slippery and me can brief them.’
They went over to the canteen where the two handlers were sitting with their dog leads tied across their shoulders like bandoliers.
‘So what’re you working on with the Regional?’ Vanner asked him.
‘Bobby Gallyon.’
Vanner lifted his eyebrows. ‘Big-time.’
‘Old family, Guv.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘Regi’s had a U.C. in there for three months. Doorman. Took them forever to get him in.’
‘Miracle they did. That family’s been tight as a drum for years. What’s the deal—Gallyon importing coke?’
‘So we think. Colombia. His couriers take a few hits now and then. Couple the other day with solution in rum bottles. But we never get near him.’
‘So what’s your angle?’
‘Regi think Gallyon might be trying to spread crack to the white community. Sort of thing the Americans warned us about when the squad was set up.’
‘So you’re watching him.’
‘I go in as a punter now and then, see if I can spot any faces. I think they’ve got it wrong though. I’ve told them but you know how it is.’
Vanner nodded. ‘You know much about this place tonight?’