WHO THE F*CK AM I?
BOOK ONE steve regan undercover cop series
Stephen Bentley
Copyright © 2017 by Stephen Bentley
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.
www.stephenbentley.info
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination save where indicated in the foreword. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Cover art by Anna at annoulacovers.com
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Who The F*ck Am I? (Steve Regan Undercover Cop, #1)
Foreword
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
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Also By Stephen Bentley
About the Author
Foreword
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Foreword
PROLOGUES, I AM TOLD, have become outdated. That may be the case, but for you, the reader, I do feel it is essential you are aware of something of the background to this story. That background is set out here in the foreword and prologue.
I penned a bestselling memoir, ‘Undercover: Operation Julie - The Inside Story.’ It tells the tale of my role as one of only four undercover detectives on what is still one of the world’s largest drug busts. It was pioneering work and is still a point of reference today for all British covert policing and training of undercover operatives.
In that book, I write about uncovering a huge plot to import massive quantities of cocaine into Britain from Bolivia via Miami back in the 1970s. The two people involved in that conspiracy were known to me as Bill and Blue. They were never arrested by the British police. But, I was told by my former operational boss, Dick Lee, that they had been arrested by the Drug Enforcement Agency (DEA), a branch of American federal law enforcement. I was further informed they ended up doing serious time in a federal penitentiary.
I always had my doubts about who Bill and Blue really were. Were they “bad guys” or something completely different? It is that question that inspired me to write this book. Please remember, what you are about to read is fiction. None of the characters are real. The question has been in my mind for many years. What follows is a figment of my imagination with one proviso - the episode you will read, about what happened in Liverpool and the journey back to Wales is real, save for some adaption and minor changes for literary reasons. I transplanted it from my memoir as it serves a useful introduction to all the main characters including undercover cop, Steve Regan.
The first three chapters take place in September 1976. The chapters following that take place before and after that time. I have indicated the timeline at the start of a chapter where I felt it would help you, the reader, to follow the timeline.
Steve Regan is not me! Red is not my undercover buddy on Operation Julie. I have not got a clue who the real Bill and Blue were; they are not the characters of the same name in this novel. Caroline Sewell and Callum Colhoun are fictitious and bear no resemblance to any of the barristers I knew during my days at London’s Criminal Bar - well, only small bits.
Before I start my story, please allow me to say this: As far as I am aware this book is unique in British literature. It is the first work of crime fiction about an undercover cop written by a former undercover cop. Please correct me if I am wrong.
Prologue
THE FOLLOWING STORY is set in 1976. Back then, few people knew of the existence of GCHQ. Perhaps some vaguely knew it had connections to Bletchley Park and the cracking of the Enigma Code during World War Two. The end of that war saw the beginnings of the Cold War. It is then that the work of GCHQ expanded.
GCHQ, as the Government Communications Headquarters is better known, is housed in Cheltenham, Gloucestershire, England. Most people know it as the eyes and ears of the United Kingdom government. Some know it as “spooksville,” using the Americanism of “spook” rather than the British “spy.” It employs “spies in the sky” as well as other sophisticated eavesdropping devices to monitor activities deemed to be injurious to the state or its allies. Its work, of necessity, is shrouded in secrecy.
What is not generally known is this organisation is also tasked with assisting in intelligence gathering to combat serious organised crime. Just like invisible eyes and ears, it oversees many law enforcement activities including police and Customs undercover operations. It oversees in the sense it watches and listens, and gathers intelligence. To be precise, one department holds this brief – the Composite Signals Organisation (CSO).
The employees at GCHQ may as well have no name. They are faceless civil servants, UK government employees. They are not spies nor are they law enforcement officers. Some, like an anonymous middle-aged man I will call Jack, are frustrated cops. They see and hear of the exciting adrenaline fuelled lives of the men and women in the field. They marvel at the skills deployed by the undercover operatives living duplicitous lives and the inherent danger they place themselves in. Jack was fascinated by all of that. Jack knew he was good at his job within CSO and was content to play a role in the fight against crime and terrorism; a desk bound role that fulfilled him until he heard some terrible news from an old friend .
Chapter One
LIVERPOOL, ENGLAND, September 1976
REGAN HAD DOZED ON the long journey to Liverpool. He snoozed, no more than a cat nap. Who the fuck am I? was the theme of his dream fuelled by identity confusion. He also had a fear of talking in his sl
eep. Undercover cop Steve Regan trusted his partner with his life and was further relaxed knowing Red knew how to drive well – funny how good drivers have a sixth sense. Knowing he was safe with him, Regan dozed. He dreamed. Regan dreamed of people in his secret real world. He dreamed about his sick mother and his wife and daughter.
There was one other man in the vehicle besides Regan and Red. He was called Blue. He looked like a hippie and wore a leather Stetson hat. Little did Regan know how things would turn out at the end of this journey. He had no idea that in just a few hours a cold-eyed mobster would threaten his life. Regan possessed a quickness of thoughts and an uncanny ability to smell trouble. This time, Regan’s sixth sense did not see the threat coming.
The noise of a car horn woke Regan. Through half-closed eyes he saw the Jaguar overtake the van. What a beautiful machine! Sleek, powerful and sexy! My police pay could never afford one of those. Those kind of thoughts were a recurring theme for him. Steve Regan was not his real name. That was the name on his fake driving licence, a part of his legend, or backstory. Red drove an old blue van, also part of the legend with a ghost registration.
The Jaguar pulled into a gravelled drive and crunched to a halt outside a large, white two-storey detached house. As they drove by, Regan noticed long slender legs swing out from the driver’s side. She had beautiful blonde hair blowing in the breeze. He felt envious. I bet her old man is a drug dealer. Why can’t I meet a rich, good-looking blonde? Fleeting thoughts, and he fell asleep again. He dreamed of money, and fears of turning into a dishonest rogue cop if offered the right drugs deal. As soon as he went through that nightmare scene, he relaxed knowing it could never happen with Red by his side, dependable, solid Red.
Regan loved the thrill of undercover work. It freed him from the tedious paperwork of ordinary police activity. It also distanced him from the petty bureaucracy of the ordinary police world, a world of ‘everything in triplicate.’ It was also a world of not ‘bucking the system.’ He had grown weary of asking why certain things were done that way. He grew even more weary of the answer, “Because we have always done it that way.” Those irritations maddened Regan and other free spirits like him. Regan detested ‘playing the game.’ Particularly when the game was self-defeating. As a young detective, he could not fathom the sense in ‘cuffing crime.’ He soon learned to ‘cuff a crime’ was to fail to record it because it screwed up the detection rate stats. Regan could not see the sense in that. They were overworked as detectives and needed manpower. Why manipulate the figures to show less crime? Less crime meant fewer detectives. Regan soon found it was better to use his intellect fighting crime rather than the status quo. Regan also did not love the feeling of being undervalued and underpaid.
Red didn’t think about such matters. He may as well have had no first or last name as part of his legend because everyone knew him as Red owing to his long red hair and beard. He could have been an extra in a movie about raping and pillaging Vikings! Red the Viking!
Red stopped the van somewhere outside Birkenhead. Regan woke up, startled. He had one of those Where the fuck am I? Who the fuck am I? moments, a mild panic until he recognized his surroundings and snapped into his faux identity. There was the familiar sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach in those moments. The feeling translated into a question in his head - Did I talk in my sleep? There was always a moment of panic, then relief as his secret was still safe. His sleeping lips had stayed immobile. Only he knew the answer to ‘Who the fuck am I?’
The sight of Blue in the van also jolted him back to reality; that and the sound of Red’s voice. They had met Blue about six months earlier . Blue was a part of the ‘hippie scene’ in mid-Wales where Regan and Red had established themselves to infiltrate an LSD drugs gang, a police investigation known as Operation Perfume. Both men were undercover for twelve months, a year of ‘living a lie’ as infiltrators. The first few months had been spent living in the van. It was an old Ford Transit with faded, blistered, pale blue paint, its panels decorated with many scratches and streaks of surface rust. But it had been home for the two undercover cops, evidenced by the mattresses, sleeping bags and detritus that had gathered over time in the back of the van.
“Steve, shift yer arse. It’s your turn to drive. We’ll be at the Mersey Tunnel in a few minutes,” rang out the unmistakable West Country tones of Red.
That was the arrangement. Regan knew Liverpool and reckoned he could find the hotel in Mount Pleasant, where Blue had arranged to meet his Canadian friend, Bill. The two undercover cops had agreed to drive Blue to Liverpool to meet the Canadian. Blue had said enough to whet their appetite. Bill sounded like a ‘player’ in the drugs world.
The hotel had seen better days. The disinterested receptionist told all three men to go to Room 207. Bill let them into the room. Blue and Bill chatted and caught up on old times. Regan and his partner drank the whiskey that Bill poured, and listened. An hour passed before Bill wanted a change of scenery .
“Pint of Guinness for me,” Regan said, as all four men walked into the American Bar in Lime Street. Blue went to the bar and ordered the drinks. In fact, he had bought most of the drinks on the way to Liverpool from Wales as his way of saying thanks for the ride. But on this occasion Bill handed him a fistful of £20 notes before Blue left the table. They settled into a dark corner of the bar, seated at a dirty greasy table that had seen gallons of beer spills in its lifetime. The beer mats stuck to the veneered top. They made a ‘glooping’ sound as Regan tried to reposition one.
“These are the two guys I was telling you about,” Blue said.
Bill sort of grunted. They carried on sitting at the dirty table, Blue now doing most of the talking. Regan weighed Bill up, taking a good look at his face and the eyes in particular. Cold grey eyes like a dead fish. But they were fish eyes set in a bloated face. Regan could not see any glint, soul, or expression in them. Just dead. On occasions Bill would turn his gaze in turn to either Red or Regan. Sinister, Regan thought and believed he was a serious ‘player.’
The chat, mainly by Blue, carried on for about an hour. During that time the cops learned that Bill, although a Canadian, spent most of his time in Miami, Florida. Bill also confirmed that he had been searching for a fast motorboat. The search had taken him not only to the Isle of Man but also to Panama and the South of France. Regan drank his beer throughout. Time flew, and he started to think ahead about where they could carry on drinking. It was getting towards that time when it would be too late to wander into a pub unless you were in the know and could find a ‘lock-in.’
Regan had been away from Liverpool for too long to have that intimate knowledge. And besides, he would not want to risk his cover by walking into a boozer he knew well. More to the point, where the clientele knew him, the real ‘him’, well. The pub idea faded. They decided to eat, and Regan knew an Indian restaurant in nearby Bold Street.
The drinking and conversation carried on throughout the curry meal. Bill had now regained the lead role in the talking stakes. He was telling Blue how much he needed to find a fast eighty-foot boat. Bill spoke to the undercover cops directly for the first time.
“Listen I’ve got an operation going over in BC involving snow, not any old shit, got my markets, nothing over here. Coke is pure, straight from Bolivia. Retails at $24,000 a pound. If you guys are into that sort of bread, then I may be your man. What do you say to that?”
Blue pushed back his Stetson and said, “Listen, Bill, these two guys are my friends, now we’re out for the night let’s not talk about this.”
“Excuse me, excuse me, Blue, Blue, Blue - let the guys think about it and sleep on it.”
There was no more conversation about cocaine in the restaurant. But they spoke with a friendly waiter. He gave them a quick guide to clubs to go to, hookers and prices and he mentioned the She Club. Regan knew it and they decided to go there. The waiter arranged for a taxi to take them. The only problem Regan foresaw was getting past security, as it was late. They weren’t mem
bers nor did a member accompany them to sign in at the door. Also, they had to factor in that Red, Blue and Regan, looked like members of a rock band. Some may have said they all looked like hippies with their long hair, beards and denims. Similar but different - Red with his wild red hair and ginger beard, Blue wearing his Stetson, and Regan’s tall lean build, wearing his favourite Aviators even at night.
But there are always ‘ways and means’. Regan did the talking as he had the local dialect, a dialect distinctive throughout Britain, an accent difficult to understand to the first time listener. In his pre-undercover days, a sight of a warrant card would have guaranteed entry. But that was the old Steve - he had kept his real first name. His pleas did not impress the security gorillas. But then he glimpsed a fist reaching across towards the chief gorilla. The fist belonged to Bill. It contained at least three £20 notes, maybe a week’s wages for these guys. No one spoke another word. In place of words there was a sweeping gesture by the chief gorilla pointing towards the entrance.
Once inside, two things happened Regan would never forget. He started dancing but kicked off his shoes on the wooden dance floor. He had always wanted to dance bare-footed and now granted himself that wish! It helped that he was now inebriated. He had no sooner got on the dance floor and started to sway solo to the rhythms when he saw a good looking, vivacious young woman. She was a brunette, slim and wearing a pencil skirt showing off her hips and legs. She joined him on the dance floor and smiled.
She laughed a lot. He liked that. He liked her. She reminded him of a woman he once knew – his deceased wife. The brunette’s constant glances at his feet made him feel a little uncomfortable; he believed he had the ugliest feet in the world. But she simply said, “I have always wanted to dance with a guy who kicks off his shoes and dances barefoot.” He liked her even more.
They danced for a while, and when the slow stuff came on, got cheek to cheek. She smelled good, too. He could feel her hips push into his groin and his ‘other brain’ reacted, pushing hard against his denim jeans. She liked that. She started to thrust and grind her hips to the beat of the music, a slow and sensuous rhythm. He found out she was a nurse at a local hospital and clubbing with her friend, also a nurse, on their night off. She had all night free and threw in for good measure that she wasn’t in any rush in the morning either! Regan could not believe his luck.
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