by Roger Busby
crumbling concrete walkways and patches of muddy earth where a few blades of grass struggled to survive. Trouble had flared when a pair of PCSOs on a routine walk through had strayed into a face off between the posse and the crew over a drugs dispute and had hit the panic button calling in the cavalry. The first vans on the scene were quickly overwhelmed as the rivals joined forces to combat a common enemy and pretty soon there were running skirmishes all over the estate. A couple of police cars were trashed and Transits bombed from the overhead galleries; a PC who became separated from his team had his Tazer snatched and fired into him, fortunately the barbs didn’t penetrate his stab proof vest and as reinforcements arrived, so the level of violence escalated as police fought a desperate rearguard action to avoid being overwhelmed. It all happened so quickly that when Jacko reached The Farm with a command and control unit there was nothing for it but to retreat or take casualties. As the senior officer on scene he gave the order to withdraw.
“As I said, gentlemen, “ The Hammer continued, “excellence is SOP on my watch so we need to reassert ourselves on this Brunswick Farm Estate before the vermin get it into their heads that they have scored some kind of victory over the Metropolitan Police..”
Harry Jackson cleared his throat again and The Hammer looked across at him. “Yes, Harry, you were there last night so I imagine you’re keen as mustard to get back in and show them who’s boss.”
“Well, sir,” Jackson began, choosing his words with care, “I suggest we lay off for a while, let everything calm down, get some surveillance in and when we’ve got sufficient evidence pick off the ringleaders with a surgical operation.”
“Softly softly eh?”
“Sir, we know its all drugs related so there’s more than one way to skin a cat. If we can get enough to put the major players in the dock on conspiracy to supply class A drugs…”
The Hammer cut him off with a short bark of a laugh. “Well, well, looks like I’ve seriously misjudged you, Harry, I see from your docket that you were a military man, Royal Marines wasn’t it?”
“Sir, I don’t see….”
“Lost your bottle, eh mister? Well let me tell you this, there will be no hole and corner snooping while I’m running this Borough. There will be no more retreating when some rabble takes it into their heads to have a go. You think yourself lucky I haven’t given you an official reprimand for that cowardly decision to pull back last night.”
The Hammer glowered around the table. “Anybody else got an opinion? Call a community meeting perhaps, beer and sandwiches, tea and cakes?”
Nobody spoke.
“I thought not,” McGee said. “So listen up ladies, its up to me to sort out this imbroglio, and that I aim to do. Rank hath its privilege and its responsibility, so from here on in you will observe the chain of command and you will follow my orders to the letter, is that understood, to the letter.” He reached into his brief case and produced a sheaf of papers which he passed around the table.
Jacko felt the tick of anger scratch in his throat as he looked at the front page of an Operational Order: The title read Operation Iron Fist.
Jackson was back in The Gym pumping iron to work off his angst when Doyle caught up with him.
“Two days running, Harry,” Doyle raised an eyebrow, “You’re going to do yourself a mischief.”
“No more than I already have,” Jackson replied, “did you read that Op Order I slipped you?”
Doyle’s expression changed to one of disbelief. “It’s a joke, right?”
Jacko shook his head as he dropped the weights for the last time. “I went back to see him after morning prayers, thought I could talk some sense into him mano-a-mano, after all I am supposed to be his deputy.”
“So you put him straight on The Farm eh? He goes ahead with this nonsense it’ll blow up in his face; the riots will seem like a picnic.”
“Not exactly,” Jackson winced, “I’d hardly got a word out when he tore me off another strip for insubordination. I swear I would have put one on him only he had that admin tart in the office…”
“Joyce, you mean, his PA?”
“No Joyce is on annual. He’s got a temp in from Admin, Christine Bailey, and he was playing up to her like some Lothario, all I got for my trouble was another tongue lashing.”
They went around to the gym’s coffee alcove where Jackson decided to
re-boot with a double espresso.
“You go on like this, Jacko, you’re going to blow a fuse,” Doyle said, getting himself a latte, “we’re both too long in the tooth to do this roller coaster thing.” He looked over the rim of his cup. “Chris Bailey eh? Well I never.”
“She was one of yours, as I recall,” Jackson said.
“Oh yes, “ Doyle said, “She was one of ours all right, came onto CID as an aide and then got made up to DC. Sexy as all hell, liked to put it about a bit, too. We used her on a few honey-trap jobs, all on the QT of course. Trouble was she got a taste for it, and got caught by the DI accommodating a couple of the lads in the back of the squad’s Transit when they were supposed to be on obo. They all got busted back to plod.” Doyle grinned at the memory. “So she ended up in Admin eh.”
“Apparently his nibs took a shine to her, and the minute Joyce was out of the door he had Maurice send her up for the duration.”
“Well, well,” Doyle’s grin widened, “Strathclyde said he was a bit of a swordsman on the side, so maybe he’s not such a bible thumper after all.”
“She was putting on a show for him, that’s for sure, mini skirt up to her bottom leaving nothing to the imagination. Nice legs though.” Jackson hit the espresso. “I had a word with Maurice afterwards and he said he was glad to get her out of his hair. She keeps pestering him to get back onto CID.”
Doyle put his cup down. “So what are we going to do about this Iron Fist fiasco?”
“Hey, keep it under your hat, Peter, it’s need to know only. The word gets out we’ll have a mutiny on our hands.”
“I’m told he sent the Federation rep packing with a flea in his ear on day one when they were sounding him out on OT, so the canteen mafia’s already riled up. And after last night..” Doyle shrugged. “We go back in there mob handed, kicking down doors at three in the morning like he’s planning, the whole thing’s going to spiral out of control and we’re going to fill the hurt locker… you know The Farm, Harry, they don’t take prisoners, someone’s going to get killed.”
Jacko felt the caffeine blast pinwheel behind his eyes. “How well do you know the girlie, Peter?” he asked Doyle speculatively.
“Well enough,” Doyle said, “She worked under me, so to speak, on the old Peckham robbery squad; had all the makings of a good D too if she hadn’t been so randy.”
“Maurice owes me a couple of favours,” Jackson reflected, piecing it together in his mind, “so why don’t you chat her up, let her know if she wants CID I can make it happen.”
“What would she have to do in return?”
Jacko told him.
Doyle nodded, letting it sink in. Then he said: “How long have we got?”
Jacko thought about it for a moment. “Well,” he said, “not even this maniac would attempt to bulldoze The Farm off his own bat. We’ve only got a dozen or so public order trained across the Borough, so he’s going to have to take it to The Yard and run it by the old man to get the numbers made up before it’s a realistic proposition.”
“You think the Commissioner will buy it. Harry?”
“Racing cert,” Jackson said, “for one thing McGee’s his appointee, his protégé, so I reckon he’ll back him, and for another ‘we never surrender the streets’ is one of his own campaign slogans.”
“So come on, how long have we actually got?” Doyle asked again.
“Unless I miss my guess he’ll hot foot it up to The Yard pronto. The old man will want to run it though the meat grinder before he gives him a green light, few days at most, so the sooner the better.”
D
oyle got to his feet. “Then I’d better get weaving,” he said.
“Semper fi,” Jackson said.
True to Jacko’s prediction, The Hammer was already at The Yard making his pitch to the Met Police Commissioner. Suave and urbane, the Commissioner regarded his newly minted Borough Commander with some satisfaction. It had been a torrid time for the Met what with phone hacking, allegations of institutional racism, cosy trysts with the fourth estate and the Home Office getting hot under the collar. And with a 50,000 strong police force rife with factional friction under his wing, it was getting almost impossible to juggle all the issues without dropping the ball. The Commissioner was a creature of the Met, steeped in the culture, a political animal par excellence well accustomed to manipulating the levers of power. What he needed was a “copper’s copper” to relieve the pressure; a no nonsense hard hitting crime fighter to keep the show on the road. Of the candidates vying for the job he’d chosen Robert Douglas McGee, straightest of the straight arrows, untainted by any hint of scandal, to start pulling chestnuts out of the fire. And here they were, God and Little God taking the first righteous steps to reclaiming the pride of the Met.
“Well Robert, “ the Commissioner steepled his fingers, “How are you finding old London town?”
“Well enough, sir, “ The Hammer replied, “I’ll soon have the Borough knocked into shape, seems to me local criminality have had it far too easy for too long while