by Alfie Robins
‘Close the blinds will you, John?’ Once the blinds had been pulled down, Bob proceeded to turn on the flat screen television and then inserted a DVD into the player. ‘This is what will be broadcast on national television this evening, starting with the Six O’Clock News. The relevant television news departments will provide dialogue from a prepared statement they will be issued with.’
John reclaimed his position on the desk edge. Warren turned his chair and watched the screen with interest.
The silent footage started almost immediately. A police patrol vehicle could be seen, turned at right angles blocking the road, a non-descript black Ford Transit van, the type used for the discreet transportation of prisoners lay on its side, the back doors lay wide open. Armed police officers could be seen securing the area.
‘As far as the public will be concerned they will be told the escape happened quite by chance after a collision with a builder’s skip lorry. Whilst on the other hand, it will be leaked to the criminal fraternity it was a hit. The hit organised and pre-planned and Raymond Cole made a successful escape.’
‘And me, what’s my next move?’ asked Warren.
‘You, my old chum, you go into hiding in a safe place. Keep your head down for a couple of days. Grow a beard; get to smell a bit and then you resurface. This is it, Greg, this is what it’s all about. So go home, grab your bag, turn off the gas and give you parents a call saying you are going away for a while and the mobile coverage may not be so good. You know the type of stuff. Get back here ASAP before someone recognises you from the news and reports you to the police – now that would be ironic.’
‘What about my car?’
‘Leave it in the compound, we’ll have it moved somewhere safe for the duration.’
Warren returned to his home on Delapole Avenue, packed a bag and made sure the services were turned off. The duty call to his mum was duly made and that he’d be in touch when he could.
An hour and a half later, Warren was tucked away in a first floor flat above a ladies’ hairdressing salon along Beverley Road, a main road in and out of the city. Access to the flat was by a metal staircase in the rear parking area. Over recent years Beverley Road had been taken over by Eastern European supermarkets, Polish bakers, Lithuanian booze shops and the area was home to speakers of all ethnic communities. The nearer you were to the city the denser the population. The furnished flat was taken on a short term lease, hardly a home from home but adequate for the needs of the operation.
‘The fridge is stocked, tea, coffee in the cupboard and there’s a bottle of Cole’s favourite tipple,’ John told him.
Warren picked up the bottle. ‘Tequila? I hate tequila,’ he put the bottle down on the kitchen table.
‘Well you’d better get to like it,’ Bob told him, ‘your namesake loves the stuff.’ He opened his briefcase and took out a familiar looking folder. ‘This is your last chance to brush-up; I suggest you take advantage and have one last read through.’
He dropped the folder on the table.
‘And take it easy with the tequila, we’ll see you in the morning.’ John added as they headed for the door.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Warren as he was left alone.
Chapter 4
Warren walked over to the window and pulled the net curtains aside and watched John and Bob drive away. He let the curtain fall back into place and picked up the bottle of tequila. ‘In for a penny in for a pound,’ he said out loud as he poured himself a generous shot and grimaced at the taste of the fiery liquid. ‘Well, this is what you wanted,’ he said. ‘God knows what sort of mess you’ve got yourself into,’ he sipped again. He sat down on the sofa, glass in hand and clicked the television remote. The early evening news was due to start. He didn’t have to wait very long before watching his “own” escape from prison.
“Earlier today a vehicle transporting a prisoner to court was involved in a collision with a skip lorry. Although no one was injured in the incident, the accident resulted in the prisoner Raymond Cole absconding from the scene.”
The screen flashed between the damaged vehicles and the surrounding area being searched by uniformed police officers. Then Cole’s mugshot flashed up on the screen.
“Raymond Cole was being held on remand in Her Majesties Prison Belmarsh, awaiting trial. The reason for his detention has not been disclosed. A Police spokesman urged members of the public not to approach Cole. If anyone should see the fugitive they are to contact the Police immediately. It is believed Cole may be heading for London, and again we stress that under no circumstances should he be approached.”
“Short and sweet”. He picked up the tequila and sipped, ‘Sod this,’ he said, put down the glass and went in search of a can of lager. He turned off the television, sat back on the sofa and spent the rest of the evening concentrating on his “homework” – Raymond Cole. With his iPod on he listened to police interviews that had taken place with Cole. As a child Warren had been good mimicking people’s voices, and it wasn’t long before he could imitate Cole good enough to fool his casual acquaintances. Warren checked his watch, it was close on 1.30am, he yawned, suddenly feeling tired, everything hit him at once, it had been a long day. The lager and the tequila hadn’t helped. The time had come; he could barely keep his eyes focused on the words in the transcripts. ‘Enough,’ he said and headed for the bathroom then his bed.
At 8.30am next morning Warren was roused from his sleep by a banging on the door. He glanced at his watch on the bedside table, he couldn’t believe he’d actually slept in. ‘Yeah, yeah, alright I’m coming.’ He yelled as he pulled on a pair of jogging pants and stumbled groggily from the bedroom and looked through the door spy-viewer. John and Bob stood on the other side, Bob carrying his briefcase and a loaded paper bag.
John pushed his way past as the door was opened.
‘Rough night was it?’ He asked when he saw the lager cans on the table.
‘If only, I spent most of the night reading up on Cole – again,’ Warren said between yawns.
‘Glad to hear it. Breakfast,’ said Bob, dropping the bag of bacon sandwiches next to the beer cans and placed his briefcase on the floor and took a seat in a well-worn armchair. John sat on the sofa.
‘Give me a few minutes while I get a shower will you?’ asked Warren.
‘Don’t bother with the shower or a shave. You’re on the run remember?’
‘You have a point there,’ he replied and went through to the kitchen and filled and turned on the kettle. ‘Tea or coffee?’ He called from the kitchen; coffee was the order of the morning. ‘So, what’s the next move?’ He asked as he returned carrying three mugs of coffee placing them on a cheap plastic topped coffee table, helped himself to a bacon roll and sat next to John.
John placed a piece of paper next to the coffees.
‘Give it a couple of hours and ring this number,’ he took a mobile from the briefcase and put it next to the number. ‘You make all calls with this phone; someone will be listening in at all times.’
Warren picked up the paper.
‘Whose number is it?’
‘The number belongs to Mick Conway, he’s someone who Cole would be able to rely on in this type of situation. He was in your brief, you should know everything about him.’
‘Michael Conway, age thirty-eight, overweight, scar below his chin from an incident when he was a kid. His main occupations are drugs and smuggling and robbery – amongst other things. Served eighteen months in Leeds nick, nothing on record for the past five years,’ Warren responded, confidently.
Bob raised an eyebrow. ‘Excellent. I’m impressed.’
‘Do we have an address for him?’
‘He has various properties over the city, but resides in a 1920’s three-storey town house down the Boulevard.’
‘How close are they – Cole and Conway?’
‘Business acquaintances in the main, not so much socially. There’s virtually no chance you’ll be rumbled. If you pull this off you will be home
and dry. You report everything, whether you think it’s relevant or not.’ Warren doubted very much if it was going to be as easy as it sounded. ‘They know each other well enough for him to recognise your voice and not think twice about helping. You tell him what’s happened and that you’ll be in Hull tomorrow, and that you need somewhere to lay low until you can get things sorted.’
‘Just like that,’ said Warren.
‘Just like that. Your cover story will stand up to any scrutiny – as long as you’re convincing. You’ll need some expenses,’ John reached into the briefcase once again and produced a large paper envelope and tipped the contents onto the coffee table with the cans and rolls. Six thousand pounds in used notes of various denominations. ‘And this should help break the ice.’ He handed over a bulging clear plastic bag containing 500 grams of heroin, with a street value of approximately five thousand pounds.
‘Bloody hell, where did that come from?’ asked Warren.
‘Easy come, easy go, confiscated in some drug raid or another.’ John made it sound as easy to come by as buying a packet of sweets. ‘And there’s this,’ again reaching into the briefcase. ‘Just for insurance.’
It was the very same Sig 17 that Warren had used during his firearms training. Complete with a discreet soft leather shoulder holster. Warren wasn’t surprised. He knew it was only a matter of time before he was issued with a firearm.
‘This flat is your place of refuge, your sanctuary. Any problem that you can’t handle, or you think you’ve been rumbled, you get out and come here. Ok?’ Warren nodded. ‘As I said, you only use the mobile you’ve been issued with, speed dial one and you check-in at least once every twenty-four hours. If by any chance you can’t do either, turn yourself in to the nearest police station, give them your real name and rank and say “Suits and Bullets”, nothing else, keep your mouth well and truly shut.
‘Suits and Bullets?’
‘It’s just a name thrown up by the computer, but all the same don’t knock it,’ Bob replied, ‘if you have to use it, it will bring a fast response from the people who matter.’
‘And who’s that?’
‘Us.’
Warren’s guests stood up to leave. ‘Good luck and we’ll speak in twenty-four hours.’ Both men held out their hands, Warren shook each man’s hand in turn. ‘From now on you are Cole, don’t forget it,’ John said as they parted at the flat door.
Warren closed and locked the door behind them. ‘Jesus,’ he said out loud, ‘this is it then.’ He picked up the money from the table. I could always fuck off out of it, head for Spain or somewhere hot, he thought to himself as he put down the cash. Next was the Sig, he ran his fingers over the cold metal and picked it up, the weapon now felt different – deadly.
Chapter 5
The time had now arrived for Warren to assume the role of Raymond Cole. He stood in front of the bathroom mirror. ‘I am Cole, escaped prisoner and an overall badass – badass? What the hell am I talking about?’ He laughed out loud at the image in the mirror. Next he picked up the soft leather shoulder holster, slipped it over his shoulders. It felt surprisingly comfortable, this changed when the weight of the Sig was added. He took off the new addition to his wardrobe, walked through to the small lounge and laid it on the coffee table.
It was time to make the phone call. He picked up the mobile and dialled the number written on the paper. His heart pumping adrenaline around his body, excitement – fear? He wasn’t sure but every nerve in his body tingled, he felt alive.
Then the phone was picked up at the other end.
‘Yeah?’
‘Remember me?’ he said into the phone.
‘Who the fuck should I be remembering?’ The voice at the other end demanded to know.
‘Cole, Ray Cole…’ I am Cole, he kept telling himself.
‘Fucking hell, you’re a quick worker, I was only watching you on the news last night. Where are you?’
‘Still down south,’ he lied, ‘got my head down, but I need to move pretty soon, I fancied coming up north for a while and wondered if you could oblige?’ He tried to sound a bit cocky.
‘I’m sure it could be arranged… but it won’t come cheap,’ Conway was quick to add.
‘I didn’t think it would, I’ve got to make a bit of a detour and pick up a package. I can be in Hull tomorrow. Can you sort it?’
‘No problem pal, give me a ring when you’re near the city. It’ll be good to get reacquainted.’ He ended the call.
‘Well that wasn’t so bad,’ he told himself. His mouth was so dry, nerves, his lips stuck to his teeth. He went into the kitchen, turned on the tap and filled himself a large glass of water and swilled the cold water around his dry mouth. There wasn’t much more he could do but wait it out. He still had plenty of food in the fridge and there was the tequila bottle to keep him company. The rest of the day was spent clock watching, watching those crap daytime Australian soaps and the evening thinking, thinking of what might lie ahead of him. He didn’t go mad with the tequila, for no better reason than he didn’t like the taste and kept with the lager.
Sleep didn’t come, it was a night of tossing and turning beneath the duvet, and when he did drift off he’d wake minutes later lathered in a cold sweat. The next morning he was up early feeling totally knackered and longing for a refreshing bath or shower.
He was starting to ming a bit.
Reluctantly, he dressed in the same clothes he’d been wearing for the previous two days. The tension of what lay ahead made his stomach turn somersaults, he hoped a breakfast of toast and coffee would settle the turmoil he felt inside. Then he was back to the clock watching.
At 10am he decided he’d waited long enough. Mobile in one hand, a mug of coffee in the other Warren made the call. ‘Me again,’ he said into the handset.
‘Where are you?’ Conway asked.
‘Just coming into the city,’ he lied.
‘How you travelling?’
‘I wangled some wheels. Just at the petrol station on the A63, not far from the Humber Bridge.’
Lying was starting to come easy.
‘Ok, here are the directions...’
‘I’ll be ok, been up here a few time just give me an address,’ he asked, confidently.
The location he was given wasn’t the one he had been expecting. The address Conway gave was for a block of flats on great Thornton Street, not far from the city centre. Warren bided his time and checked his belongings and sorted himself with the essentials a man on the run from the law would have. He also stuffed some cash from the “float” he’d been given in his jacket pocket along with the “sweetener”. Apprehensively, he finished off with the soft leather shoulder holster, complete with Sig. The holster no longer felt comfortable, it felt foreign wrapped around his shoulder. It seemed awkward and uncomfortable, but he had the feeling he would soon get used to the feel of the bulge underneath his jacket.
Then he was ready.
Warren had been supplied with a clapped-out looking, green Ford Fiesta, but in reality it was Formula One under the bonnet. Great Thornton Street was on the edge of the city centre, only a ten minute drive away from his safe place. He drove down Beverley Road towards the city centre, a right turn onto Springbank and then a left down Park Street. The road he wanted was directly opposite at the other side of the Anlaby Road junction, Ice House Road. The neighbourhood looked depressed and sorry for itself. The local pub was closed down and boarded up, the shops that were still trading all had metal shutters covering the windows to prevent ram raiding and everywhere was covered in graffiti. The whole place was shabby, it was a shame how it had gone down the nick.
Warren drove down Ice House Road and pulled into the kerb side, took a few deep breaths to compose himself, then put the car into gear and drove the 100 metres to his final destination. He pulled up in a concrete parking area of a thirteen-storey block of council flats bearing the grand name of Hawthorn House. The place was littered with beer cans, takeaway wrappers. A group of du
bious looking youths stood by the entrance door drinking cans of strong cider and passing around what looked like a spliff. He double-checked the car was locked and confidently strode towards the group, no one approached or said anything, just gave him the evil eye as he passed. He was glad the car wasn’t much to look at; there was less chance of it getting nicked.
The flat Warren wanted was on the third floor, which was just as well as the lift had a sign stuck to the doors ‘Out of Order’. He trundled up the concrete stairwell stepping over more takeaway wrappers and beer cans, the whole place smelled of piss. Warren was looking for number fifteen; he found it directly opposite the stairwell. The door of number fifteen was reinforced with a sheet of battle scarred steel plate, a spyhole at head height looked straight out into the hallway. He stood for a moment checking down the corridor, looking both ways, then banged on the metal with his fist, he had a feeling he was being scrutinised through the spyhole. Click – click, scuff, the locks were unlocked and the deadlocks grated as they were slid free. The door was opened by a scruffy-looking youth wearing combat trousers, a well-worn hoody and his face covered in tats and piercings, a face that only a drunken mother could love. He stood to one side to let Warren pass. He nodded to the youth and walked down the long hallway towards the open door at the far end. His first impression was one of surprise, it looked ok – clean and tidy, not the doss house he was expecting.
‘Man, it’s good to see your black arse again,’ Conway said as he eased his large frame out of a leather armchair and walked across the room towards Warren, arm outstretched and pumped Warren’s hand in a vice like grip.
Warren’s Mum was as white as driven snow with blonde hair and blue eyes and came from North London, his Dad was West Indian from Jamaica, and as black as night. Warren – he was somewhere in between, edging more towards the darker side, a strange combination if you took into account his pale blue eyes.