“How is Lady C these days?” inquired Dash. He was the drug dealer Caroline had passed on to Callum.
“Good as always but never mind her. I have customers waiting. Where is my order for the half kilo?”
“Man, don’t be so impatient. You only ordered the product three days ago. I’ll meet you in the usual place. Tuesday at 4 pm. Okay?”
“Right. Be there.”
“I will... one thing... do you want a new girl? Pretty young Thai thing.”
“Yeah. A change is as good as a rest. So yeah. Tell her to come to my room, ten tonight.”
“Usual room? Same hotel?”
“Yes,” Callum replied then replaced the handset on his phone in the Sheffield hotel room. This was his ‘home from home.’ He spent half of his working year there following his chosen line of work; defending killers and rapists as a fearless London barrister. Callum upset the local cosy arrangements between judiciary and local counsel, the latter always mindful of reputation. Callum wanted money, not the reputation.
Callum was content for Dash to deliver the cocaine the following week because he was under no pressure from barristers who had placed orders for the coke. He had enough for his personal use to last him until then so all was good. He decided to stay in the hotel that evening and have dinner courtesy of room service while he worked on some witness statements preparing to cross-examine a prosecution witness the following day.
The chicken cordon bleu remained half-eaten on the table in the centre of Callum’s hotel room. There were also several empty cans of strong lager. The bottle of malt whiskey was on the table but as yet intact. Callum glanced at his watch when he heard the faint knock on the door. It was exactly 10 pm. Dressed only in black boxer shorts and navy blue tee, he opened the door to see Mai standing there, smiling.
“Dash sent me,” Mai said.
Callum did not answer. He held out his hand to Mai and gently pulled her inside his room. Callum discovered Mai was nineteen years old and had arrived in the UK from Thailand last month, ostensibly to work in a restaurant. They talked for a while, drank whiskey together then snorted a few lines of cocaine.
Four Sheffield detectives hauled Callum from his hotel bed. They saw the battered face and body of Mai slumped on the hotel room’s carpeted floor. The hotel staff had heard the screams at 4 am so called the police. They summoned an ambulance to tend to the severe facial injuries Callum had inflicted on his victim. They also handcuffed Callum and took him to the police station.
At 8 pm the same day the police released Callum on bail to return to the police station so they could gather medical evidence to substantiate Mai’s allegations of rape and causing grievous bodily harm. They imposed a condition of his bail that he was to return to London and come nowhere near Sheffield until his next appointment with the Sheffield detectives. Callum Colhoun’s problems were intensifying; tax problems; professional discipline problems; the prospect of many years imprisonment for raping and inflicting grievous bodily harm on a pretty Thai call girl. Dash was furious when he heard of it. He believed Callum Colhoun was totally out of control. He had gone too far this time.
Chapter Eight
TINTAGEL HOUSE, LONDON, August 1976
BILL’S THOUGHTS ABOUT Caroline stopped and his concentration returned when Dennis Marks’ phone rang. It was a short and sharp conversation and before his boss could replace the handset in the cradle Bill said, “You didn’t ask me to come here to talk about my suit. What’s all this about Wales?”
“You know about Operation Perfume?”
“Yes, it’s the police looking at the source of all the acid, the LSD, the whole hippie-dippy festival thing. What’s that got to do with us?”
“Green has two men deep undercover in Wales. They have been there some time and Green wants to know if they have gone rogue.”
“Fuck! I hate these jobs. Can’t you give it to someone else? Why can’t a police rubber-heel squad do it?”
“No, not really. There is an agent I had in mind, codename Blue, but he’s not ready to go solo. He hasn’t got the experience, at least not with us. He’s out in Wales shacked up with a woman. Besides, it’s a favour to Green. He’s terrified of the Met getting wind of what he’s up to so turned to me.”
“I hear you. Blue... is he one of those secret squirrel guys who used to be part of the Met’s SDS infiltration mob?”
“Afraid so.”
“Shit! I hate those guys and what they do. End up living with innocent women. Have kids with them and all to bolster a back story. It’s crap.”
“Ours is not to wonder why, Bill ...”
“Ours is but to do and die ... yeah, I know,” Bill retorted with a shrug of his broad shoulders.
Bill looked at his boss. He knew it was pointless discussing things any further. When Dennis Marks affected the straight face look, you accepted whatever he was suggesting. Marks was a calm man with innards of steel. Besides, Bill prided himself on his ability to read people and situations. It was what he did. It was also convenient to placate his boss. It prevented Marks looking too closely at Bill’s activities.
“Okay, Dennis. Get Blue to call me and we will crank it up.”
“Good man. Thanks, Bill.”
Bill Morris was not in a good mood. He did not relish the prospect of working with agent Blue, no matter what he was like. Bill found the Met’s secret activities abominable, an affront to decency. Nevertheless, he was a professional and placed the call to Blue’s department head. They met the following week.
MEMBURY MOTORWAY SERVICE Area, August 1976
“So what you got in mind, Bill?”
Blue was loud in every conceivable way. Bill wondered how on earth this man in front of him could have buried himself deep undercover for so long. His voice was loud and so were his clothes. Blue wore a faded leather Stetson with a blue feather tucked inside the hat band. He was a big guy but looked larger in the Afghan coat he wore. Then Bill saw the cowboy boots with three inch heels making Blue even taller than his six feet two inches.
Blue spoke in a mid-Atlantic drawl turned up to high volume. It was as well this meeting took place in Bill’s car. But it did not belong to Bill - it was a Customs pool car. A nondescript Ford saloon. There were no markings and no tell-tale add-ons. It was ‘as-is’ straight out of the Dagenham factory except for the discreet microphones located in the front and rear of the car. Every word would be recorded and sent via a secreted aerial direct to GCHQ in Cheltenham for decoding. This was hi-tech kit the police only dreamed about and was another source of animosity between Customs and police. The cops always viewed Customs as better funded by government. Cynics would not find that surprising. Revenue to any government takes precedence over crime.
The meeting took place in the car park of the Membury Services on the M4 Motorway between London and Bristol. Bill chose a secluded quiet area to park, on the far side of the huge car park. Blue’s description had been given to Bill so the sudden appearance of a six-footer resplendent in a leather Stetson and beard flowing down to his chest held no surprises. Blue sat in the front passenger seat and turned towards Bill.
“You must be Bill. The code is Tuesday.”
The loud voice was a surprise. Bill was told about this but was still surprised.
“For fuck’s sake, do you have to fucking shout?”
“I’m not. Am I?” Blue was taken aback at Bill’s directness.
Bill instantly disliked Blue but thought, Stay cool. I have to work with this chump.
Blue lowered the tone and mock-whispered, “Is this better?”
Bill’s hand grasped Blue’s throat and squeezed – hard.
“Tuesday is the correct password and that’s why I’m not gonna kill you here and now. Now I’m telling you for the record (Bill nodded in the direction of the hidden microphone) – you do everything I tell you, understood?”
With that Bill released his captive’s throat. Blue managed a hoarse, “capiche.” There was now an understanding who
was boss. Or so Bill thought.
Blue had other ideas such as, No one does that to me and gets away with it. Blue had a wild side to his personality. He decided to join the Metropolitan Police Service at nineteen. His reasoning was that if he didn’t he would end up in jail. He had always loved a fight. Blue was unconventional in his ways for a copper. It was what attracted the interest of the bosses at the Special Demonstration Squad. In no time at all he was recruited and indoctrinated into that unit’s way of ‘doing business’ – ‘by any means necessary’ was its motto. Blue infiltrated a racist group and led their violent protests in South London. He was not averse to beating up on his own colleagues in furtherance of his cover. It ingratiated himself with the others in the group. He spent most of his time with them and that is where he met his partner, Rachael. At first, she was a convenience, a part of his cover story. The longer they spent together, the more he liked her until they fell in love and had a child together.
“Okay, down to business. What do you know about Operation Perfume?”
“The acid thing? Right?”
“Yeah but what else do you know?”
“Nothing much except I heard there were big acid dealers near where I live and a rumour about an LSD factory making millions of microdots.”
“Here’s the thing. The police have two undercovers operating near you, called Regan and a guy known as Red.”
“Yeah, I know them. In fact, I met them in the pub a few months back. They’re good. I didn’t know they were undercover.”
“Right, that makes things even easier. I want you to pal up to them. Get them to meet me in Liverpool.”
“Why Liverpool?”
“All part of the cover story and if you stop interrupting I’ll get round to the whole story.”
“Okay,” Blue purred in a mock whisper.
Bill smiled, “Better. Have you checked in yet?”
Blue nodded and said, “Yeah. We’re in the Three Swans in Hungerford. I left Rachael and our baby there to come see you.”
“Good to know you can follow instructions.”
“Yeah boss. Yessir, Boss,” mocked Blue in a deep American drawl.
Bill turned the ignition key and drove off to the hotel. Blue showed him up to the room in the old coaching house hotel and knocked three times on the room door. Rachael opened it and let them in.
Bill was unable to take his eyes off her. He undressed her with his eyes and Rachael knew it. Rachael Owens was twenty-five years old, petite and five feet two inches tall. She had black hair tied up at the back and was wearing a floral patterned dress that came to just above her knees, revealing well-shaped legs. Bill also noticed the outline of her small but pert breasts under the dress.
“Hi baby, this is Bill. Bill, Rachael,” said Blue.
“Hi, honey,” replied Bill. Rachael nodded in acknowledgment but didn’t speak.
Bill tossed the car keys across to Blue who caught them. “Hey, Blue! Do me a favour. Go get a bottle of Four Roses, my favourite bourbon. The briefing will take a while and we may as well have something decent to drink.”
Blue replied, “Not sure if they have that in Hungerford.”
“That’s what the car keys are for. Go to Marlborough or Newbury, anywhere, even Kentucky, as long as you find it,” laughed Bill.
“Can’t we just ...” Blue was cut off in mid-sentence.
“Blue, just do as you’re told,” grunted Bill.
Blue left the room, slamming the door behind him. Fucking arsehole! he thought.
The hotel room was small. There was little room around the double bed and on one side there was even less room. It was taken up with a cot. Fannie, Blue and Rachael’s daughter was asleep.
“Hey Rach, what about a blow job?” Bill smirked. “No one will know except us two.”
“One, my name is Rachael not Rach. Two, how can I put this delicately .... Go fuck yourself!”
Bill rose from the solitary chair in the room and grabbed Rachael’s shoulders from behind. He didn’t speak. He used one hand to lift up her dress and slid his hand all the way to her left breast. In seconds Rachael was spun about and now on her back on the bed. She looked at her baby and made a decision. Whatever happened she was not going to wake up her baby.
Rachael soon found out what was about to happen. She bit her lip until she felt the warm blood. It distracted her as Bill pulled up her dress, ripped off her panties, and pulled her towards him by the hips like a rag doll. He pulled again but this time so he could raise her legs upwards then pushed them outwards. Rachael’s knees were apart but close to her head as Bill thrust deep inside her. She bit deeper into her own flesh. It took seconds for Bill to groan and deposit his seed inside her.
Bill’s trousers were still down by his ankles as he sought the chair. He pulled them up, zipped and buckled his belt. He sat in the chair in silence, listening to his breath return to normal and his pulse to stop racing. What the fuck did I do that for? was Bill’s only thought. No thoughts at all for Rachael. She raised herself from the bed, smoothed down her dress, and ran into the bathroom clutching her torn panties. Bill heard the shower running.
When Blue returned with a bottle of bourbon, he found Rachael sitting on the bed holding their baby. Bill was on the single chair watching BBC news on the TV. No one spoke except Blue. “I’ll get glasses from the bathroom.” Still no one spoke.
“Rachael, go take the baby for a walk. Bill and I need to talk.”
Rachael looked at Blue in puzzlement tinged with fear but knew it was best not to say anything. Within seconds she had dressed the baby and picked up the folded stroller. Blue opened the door and they left.
The next hour was taken up with Bill giving Blue chapter and verse about the cover story and the ultimate goal – to see if Regan and Red had gone rogue.
Chapter Nine
EARLY SEPTEMBER 1976
SOME WEEKS LATER BILL Morris checked in to the Feathers Hotel in Liverpool and was given the key to Room 207. One flight of stairs took you to the first floor and room 207 was down the corridor. Bill thought, What a dump. He also thought, Why 207? It should be 107. This isn’t the States. Then he recalled the city’s history built on sea trade with America. Once the home port of many fine ships, the docks were now home to museums and cafes. Must have done it to keep the Yanks happy, I guess, Bill mused and smiled at the irony. He also thought about his Canadian connections and how his mother had crossed the Atlantic in a Cunard liner sailing from Liverpool to New York. She planned a new life in America but Bill had been raised mainly in Canada. Morris was not his birth family name. It was a Sicilian name. His mother’s maiden name was Di Maria. That was the name he was given at birth. He never knew his father.
A few days earlier Blue had left his stone cottage in rural mid-Wales after his goodbye to Rachael and his baby daughter Fannie. His daughter was the apple of his eye and often made him rue keeping Rachael in the dark about his true identity. It’s the price I have to pay, was his means of justification. Although unmarried, Blue and Rachael were a team. She cooked for him, cleaned for him, doted on him and asked no questions.
Blue, no one except Rachael knew his name and even that wasn’t his real name, was embedded in Wales originally by the Metropolitan Police SDS, Special Demonstrations Squad, and its predecessor the Special Operations Squad, targeting and infiltrating the Free Wales Army. Those individuals had fire-bombed many Welsh homes owned by English folks, usually as a second home away from London. They had links to the IRA and Basque terrorist groups and so were deemed worthy of infiltration by the Special Branch. The SDS was spawned by Special Branch. It was the dirty tricks department and did stuff Special Branch dare not do. The SDS was so secretive not even the Met Commissioner knew what it was up to. Its motto – ‘By Any Means Necessary.’
Rachael never told Blue what had happened in the Hungerford hotel room. There was no need. Blue just knew. He swore to get even one day, by any means necessary!
REGAN AND RED WERE often to b
e found in a Tregaron pub in mid-Wales. It was there Blue reacquainted himself with the two Operation Perfume undercover cops.
Blue, as ever larger than life, boomed, “Hey, rascals! What you drinking?”
“Seeing it’s you, a large Scotch. Oh, and a beer,” laughed Regan.
“Okay, what about you, Red?”
“Pint of beer will be fine,” Red smiled.
“Okay boys, you got it.”
A heavy drinking session followed with a few games of pool and a number of joints. Blue could hold both his liquor and weed. Later in the session they were joined by Yosser. Everyone knew him as Yosser. The day wore on. Yosser suggested a game of cards back at his place. All agreed and the small band of hippies walked to Yosser’s home, a small stone cottage decked out as some kind of Hindu shrine.
The cards were secondary to the booze, weed and laughter. The music lurked in the background but was never going to drown out the chat and laughter between these guys. Not one of them seemed to have a job. There was an implicit understanding they all wheeled and dealed in some product or another. No questions asked. This was mid-Wales where people came to escape the busy city, escape nosy neighbours and twitching curtains. This part of the United Kingdom promised the alternative lifestyle with a capital ‘A.’
Who the F*ck Am I? Page 4