Bill and Regan scrutinised each other’s face, each wondering what the other was thinking, what would happen next. Blue hadn’t said a word. He sat as instructed with his arms outstretched, palms facing down. His head was slumped on the table as if asleep. He was listening to every word.
Regan had placed the gun on the table within easy reach. His fingers were moments away from the trigger. The safety was still in the ‘off’ position. During this lull of introspection and analysis, Bill, without thinking, moved one hand to his face. Regan reacted.
“Put your hands back where they were. Both of them.”
“Needed to scratch my nose, is all.”
“Do it again and you’ll have no nose to scratch.”
“Got it. Now you know the whole story, what happens next?”
“Next? Let me see... who the fuck is Caroline?”
“She’s a London barrister. I suppose you could describe us as an item. I spend time at her place when I’m in London.”
“Does she know any of this?”
“Fuck no! She knows I dabble in a bit of coke and she knows I work for Customs. That’s how we met.”
“Tell me more, especially the bit about dabbling in coke.”
“She is fond of it. The coke I mean. One of my oldest friends is a hostess for Air Canada. She regularly flies into London and mails me some of Marvin’s product.”
“I don’t believe this. Mails it to you!”
“To a poste restante address and I collect it from the Post Office. Fake name and I show fake ID to match.”
Blue raised his head and spoke without emotion, “Bill, tell me this.”
Bill looked at Regan and the gun but answered Blue, “What?”
Blue said without emotion, “Why did you rape Rachael?”
The pine kitchen table was heavy but Blue heaved it up and over, taking the chance that if he was quick enough in moving his arms the element of surprise would prevent Regan clasping his gun. He was right. In the next thirty seconds a lot of things happened and the tables were turned in more than one sense.
Regan’s gun clattered to the granite floor of the kitchen. Regan had leaned back in a reflex action at the sight of the table veering towards him. His chair toppled back and he cracked the back of his head on the solid floor. Blue swung a mighty punch at Bill and landed square on Bill’s jaw. Bill fell sideways to the floor with Blue almost astride him. Both men started punching each other with Regan concussed and prone on the opposite side of the kitchen. Blue had the upper hand until Bill felt Regan’s gun on the floor. He grasped it and whipped it around the side of Blue’s head three times. Blue stopped punching. Bill was the first to his feet and he was still holding Regan’s .38 revolver, a snub-nosed Smith & Wesson Detective Special.
Chapter Sixteen
REGAN’S HEAD WAS HURTING like hell. He fingered the back of his head and felt the matted hair. Looking at his hand, he saw the blood. Then he looked up to see Bill standing over him holding a gun. My gun, he thought. Turning his neck brought more pain so he was careful not to rush things. Regan turned far enough to see Blue motionless on the kitchen floor alongside the upturned table. Bill had pistol-whipped Blue some more, for good measure.
Bill spoke first, “Now it’s your turn to do as you’re told but I won’t hesitate to shoot you if I need to.”
“You won’t get away with this, Bill.”
“I have so far and I don’t plan on that changing anytime soon.”
“So what happens now?”
“That depends on you.”
“How so?”
“Go along with the Miami plan. Say nothing about it to anyone and let’s all make some money.”
“Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. Tell me more about this Caroline. How did you meet?”
“What the fuck do you want to know that for? You make me laugh, Steve. Here I am holding a gun and you want to know about my love life.”
“Yeah, weird isn’t it? I’m a bit kinky that way. Same as you, Bill, raping your mate’s missus and all that.”
“He’s no mate. Blue’s an arsehole. His whore girlfriend was begging for it.”
“You’re a prize cunt!”
“Who’s the cunt? I have the gun. I have the product, the money, the connections. My bosses haven’t got a fucking clue what I’m up to. I have a smart classy woman who knows all about me and knows how to keep her mouth firmly shut... You know...”
“Caroline knows all about you? I think you left that out of your tragic tale.”
“Seeing it’s decision time for you, you may as well know the lot. Yeah, she knows all about me. What I do, the whole shooting match, no pun intended.”
“And... tell me again - how did you meet such a classy bit of skirt?”
“Promise not to laugh?”
“As long as it’s not funny, I promise, scout’s honour, dib dib dob.”
“I told you. She was prosecuting a big drug importation case at the Bailey. I was the Customs liaison man. We just clicked.”
Regan laughed as loud as his throbbing head would allow, “Oh! Stop! My head’s hurting when I laugh. That is so fucking funny it’s untrue!”
“It is true,” Bill replied without sensing the irony in Regan’s mocking tone, “Enough of question time. Except for the big one, what are you going to do? Are you in or out?”
“If I say ‘out’ what will you do?”
“Kill you.”
“Guess you will have to kill me then. But I doubt you have the balls to pull the trigger.”
Regan saw movement in his peripheral vision. It could only be one thing. Play for time, Regan thought.
Bill said, “You may find out soon enough.”
“Nope. You haven’t got the balls. Any man who rapes his mate’s missus is scum in my book. Cowardly fucking scum!”
Bill lost the calm façade. He raved, “You have no idea what I’m capable of. I fucked her, yeah. Raped her if you like. She loved it. Begging for it. Great tight little pussy too. Waste of pussy on that fucking wan ...”
Blue was on his feet. He did not speak. He roared. It was an unnatural sound. Like a wounded animal he rushed at Bill. The gun spun around following Bill’s arc. Crack! It landed square on Blue’s temple and felled him like a stunned animal at a slaughterhouse. Once more, Blue lay lifeless.
This has really gone pear-shaped, thought Regan, Red, where are you when I need you mate. His mind was a mass of confusion. Deep undercover work had turned him into someone else. Most of the time it was easy to deal with. Just play along and act the part. But he knew to do that well, he also had to be the part. There was a fine dividing line between right and wrong. That line was not drawn in the sand. It wasn’t easy to see. Even when it was visible there were always ancillary questions. What ifs, as Regan called them. He was, of necessity, an officer of the law but also a law breaker. He had standards, but when it suited his role, he was devoid of standards. He was both moral and immoral, honest and dishonest. Many times Regan had thought, who the fuck am I?
At no time in his undercover career had Regan believed he was in serious danger. Not even in the Miami pool. He didn’t see that coming so there was no sense of imminent danger. This was different. Bill was a rogue Customs undercover agent who was deep, very deep into a world unknown to most people. It was a dangerous world inhabited by dangerous people. No matter what Bill Morris said about how he became embroiled in it, he was also dangerous. And he now held a gun pointing straight at Regan.
Bill again asked, “What’s it to be? In... or out?”
Regan’s mind returned to Lourdes and to an image of his mother. He stood motionless for what seemed an age. It was seconds. But that was all it took for him to finally make up his mind. Can I go rogue? He knew the answer.
The words came easily to him as did the images of his mother interposed with the Virgin. Regan said out loud, “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mar
y, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of death. Amen.”
Regan heard no words. He heard a loud bang. He fell back holding his torso. His hands clutched at his belly. He felt a warm pain in the middle of his back. I think I’ve been shot, Ma, was his last thought.
Bill looked down at the two prone bodies. He bent down and placed the gun in Blue’s open palm before closing Blue’s fingers around the gun and one finger on the trigger. Before he left the cottage, Bill used his foot to roll over Regan. There was no sign of life. He stared at the large pool of dark blood staining the kitchen floor and oozing from Regan’s back.
The Customs man started the engine of the car parked outside Blue’s cottage and drove back to London and Caroline Sewell.
Chapter Seventeen
BLUE TOOK IN THE SCENE in his kitchen. It was one of chaos. There was an upturned pine table and three chairs on their sides. There were remnants of smashed crockery and glass splinters spread out in every direction on the cold granite floor slabs. Blue placed Regan’s gun on the stainless steel kitchen drainer when he saw the pool of blood. Then he saw Regan. Blue dropped to one knee and felt the side of Regan’s neck searching for a pulse. Nothing!
Blue packed a small bag with a few belongings, remembering to throw Regan’s gun in there. He walked five hundred yards to the nearest phone box. He cursed living in a remote rural community. Inside the red phone box, he made three calls. The first was ‘999.’
“Which service do you require?”
“Ambulance.”
The second call was to Rachael’s mother’s home.
“Hi Rachael. Look baby, don’t ask me anything but pack a bag. I’ll be there tomorrow. We’re going somewhere warm.”
The third call was to a number only known to three men. The call was answered deep inside Tintagel House.
“It’s me, guvnor. Bill told me you want to speak with me.”
Dennis Marks said, “Don’t call me guvnor. I’m not a cockney cab driver and you are no longer in the Met. Yes, I do. Rick Green from Operation Perfume has been in touch with me. They are about to launch massive raids so get out of there, you understand?”
“I’m already gone, guvnor .... Sorry, Sir!”
Blue settled his family into a two bedroom rented villa in Northern Cyprus. It was Turkish territory and somewhat safe from the dangers of extradition. Once Blue had ensured his family was safe, he bade them adieu to return to England for one final mission.
IT WAS LATE FRIDAY evening when Bill Morris parked the car outside Caroline Sewell’s flat in Chelsea. It had been a long, tiring drive from Wales. Bill keyed in the numbers into the security keypad, once to get in through the communal front door and then again with a different combination to let himself into Caroline’s flat. I must remember to get Caroline to change the number. Bill made a mental note thinking of security for her and him. There was a note from Caroline on the kitchen worktop. It read –
See you in The Witness Box if you get back early enough. If not SEE you in BED!
Tired as he felt, Bill decided on a shower, change of clothes and to make the effort to join up with Caroline and her barrister friends. He undressed in the bathroom, folded his clothes up in a neat bundle and threw all of them and his shoes and socks into a black plastic bin bag. He knew the routines of this building. Bill knew if he threw the bag into the communal rubbish chute it would be collected the next morning. By two in the afternoon the same day it would be bulldozed into and under tons of household garbage on some London land fill site and would disappear forever.
It was now ten in the evening and Bill decided to walk to Chelsea Embankment to hail a passing black London taxi. He was in luck as no sooner had he reached the corner of Embankment Gardens and the main road straddling the river, he spotted the tell-tale ‘for hire’ roof top light of a cab. A quick wave of the arm and the cab driver swung in and stopped.
“Yes guvnor, where to?”
“Tudor Street, EC4.”
The driver looked at Bill in the rear view mirror and asked, “Lawyer, are we?”
Bill grunted, “No.”
The driver interpreted that abruptness as a fare who didn’t care much for conversation and drove in silence for the remainder of the journey.
The taxi made progress along a quiet Grosvenor Road and Millbank then in to Parliament Square heading for Westminster Bridge. The driver slipped on to Victoria Embankment and Bill watched the flickering lights of the bridges across the Thames out of the right hand side of the taxi. As the cab drove under Waterloo Bridge, Bill said, “Drop me in Temple Place.”
The driver held up one hand in acknowledgement but determined not to speak. As the driver went past Temple Tube Station, he slowed to walking pace waiting for Bill to speak again. “Just here,” Bill said handing the driver the fare indicated on the tariff meter plus a small tip. “Keep the change,” Bill said, but still no response from the driver, not even a wave of his hand.
Bill took in the fresh night air as he made the five minute walk through Middle and Inner Temple, exiting the grounds of the Inns in Tudor Street. There on the corner stood the Witness Box pub. It was a pub frequented by barristers and the odd hack. The hacks usually congregated in the Olde Cheshire Cheese close to the Daily Express offices in Fleet Street. On occasion, the crime reporters would wander down to pubs like the Witness Box if they needed some inside information on ‘the trial of the moment.’ Bill walked down the stairs to the lower ground floor as he knew that was where Caroline and her cronies would be merry making after a hard week’s work.
Bill spotted Caroline as he reached the foot of the stairs. She was sitting with two women dressed in the same outfit as Caroline, the black jacket and black skirt look that defined their profession. There were also four male barristers dressed in dark suits, wearing collar and ties. All were seated at the large pine table nearest the stairs. The alcohol fuelled laughter was raucous. Caroline looked up and called, “Hi Bill! Over here,” then turned to the bar counter and shouted at the barmaid behind the bar, “Pint of best bitter.” The bar maid glared back at the source of the commanding voice without a trace of civility in the tenor of the request.
“Get my note?” inquired Caroline.
“Yes, thanks.”
“And you couldn’t wait to see me, is that it?”
“Yes and no. I also needed a drink.”
“Baby, what’s the matter? You look stressed.”
“Later, Caroline. I’ll tell you when we get home. Right now I need a drink and to listen to all the boring barrister ‘war’ stories.”
Caroline laughed. She knew Bill had been in this type of company so many times she was sure he knew all the standard barrister jokes. That view was strengthened when she heard Bill utter the time honoured barrister punch line to the question always put to defence counsel, “How is your case going?” Bill, without thinking came straight out with it, “It was going fine until my client started to give evidence.” This got more of a laugh amongst the gathered legal types because it had been answered by an outsider.
Bill remained immersed in thought for the rest of the evening. The group split up shortly after eleven and wandered their separate ways towards Fleet Street to catch a bus or hail a taxi. Caroline and Bill sat in the back of a London taxi cab with Caroline regaling Bill about her day in court.
Caroline punched the keypads. Once more Bill omitted to remind her about changing the code to her flat. He had other things on his mind.
On entering Caroline’s flat, she said, “You seem edgy tonight.”
Bill replied, “Pour me a glass of that wine, please, baby.”
She poured one for Bill and one for herself then sat down on sofa. Bill said, “Turn the music up a little, please.” Caroline had tuned in to her favourite FM station. He added, “Look, Caroline, we have no secrets, right?”
She answered, “Now you’re scaring me.”
“I shot a man dead today.”
“Oh, baby! That must be awfu
l. But surely the Customs investigation will exonerate you. It was justified, right?”
“I wish it was as simple as that. I killed a cop. An undercover cop.”
Caroline Sewell froze, then reacted, “What? Nothing, I mean nothing, can be allowed to link this fuck up with me. It would ruin my career. You have gone too far this time, Bill, too far. I need to think on all of this. Maybe put some distance between you and me.”
Bill queried, “Are you saying that’s us finished?”
“I am saying just that. I’ve shunted the whole coke scenario off to Callum. I’m out of that scene. I will not allow anything to stop my career. You understand?”
Bill grabbed the barrister’s throat and squeezed, realised what he was doing and released his grip.
Caroline shouted, “Fuck off out of here now! I mean it, fuck off! You are so fucked up, Bill. Playing your games of deceit isn’t enough. You have to go kill a cop! You need treatment. You need help for heaven's sake. Go tell them all about it or I will.”
Bill said, “Go fuck yourself! You have no fucking idea.”
Caroline yelled back, “Fuck off!”
Bill picked up his coat and left the flat. He took a taxi to his flat in Finchley.
Bill Morris brooded all night. He was unable to sleep. Caroline’s words “Go tell them all about it or I will,” whirled constantly in his head. His only thoughts were, I can’t take any chances. How do I solve the problem of Caroline?
Chapter Eighteen
BEING SHOT ISN’T LUCKY. But there were elements of luck involved in the shooting of Regan. He was taken to Aberystwyth hospital where a surgeon performed a six-hour procedure that probably saved his life. The luck was the surgeon had learned his skills with gunshot wounds in Northern Ireland before transferring to his native Wales. It was also lucky that the .38 calibre bullet had pierced his side but owing to the angle of entry it had exited almost as soon as it had entered. It was a messy wound but could have been far worse. If Bill’s aim had been true it would have penetrated and the bullet remained in Regan’s torso, damaging either the liver, kidney or intestines. Instead, once the bullet exited it ricocheted off the granite floor and embedded itself in a wooden kitchen door below the sink. Owing to the surgeon’s skill, he had stemmed the bleeding and sewn Regan’s side back together. Infection was now the major concern.
Who the F*ck Am I? Page 8