by Alfie Robins
‘I’ll make sure you get well paid. Have I ever let you down?’
Conway raised his eyebrows. ‘Don’t even go there, Ray …’
‘Look, all we want is for you to put the word out, anybody new on the scene, anybody dealing who shouldn’t be dealing, offer a cash incentive for information, I’ll make sure you’re reimbursed - you know the game. Got anything stronger?’ Warren asked, holding the can up.
‘Yep, but you’re leaving soon.’
‘You will ask around?’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Thanks, Pat, I appreciate the help.’ Warren stood up ready to leave.
‘Whoa, not so quick, fella, there is a little something you can help me with in the meantime.’
‘You never change, do you?’ Warren sat down again. ‘What is this little something you want me to help with?’ Hoping he wasn’t going to get drawn into deep trouble - again.
‘First off, you sure you’re not still wanted by the law, right?’
‘In a manner of speaking I suppose I am, but I honestly don’t think they’re putting much effort into it. According to my passport, birth certificate and driving licence I’m someone else. I’ve been coming in and out of the UK every few weeks or so from the Costa del Crime, never had any problems since we parted ways.’
‘So, you reckon that there’s no chance of you getting picked up then?’
Warren wondered where the conversation was going. ‘Nope, not a cat in Hell’s chance, unless someone grasses me up.’ The emphasis just brought a scowl to Conway’s face. He was many things, but not a grass where people like Raymond Cole were concerned.
‘I need someone I can trust.’
‘Here we go, tell you what forget it, I don’t want to get mixed up in any of your business.’ He was about to stand up, calling Conway’s bluff.
‘Calm down, Ray, it's kosher, I just need a favour.’
‘I thought you were all out of favours?’
‘I just need someone to collect my daughter off the London train in the morning. It gets in around 10am.’
‘Bloody hell, I never knew you had a kid?’ Warren was genuinely surprised.
‘Long story,’ he took out his wallet and removed a photograph and passed it over. ‘She’s seventeen and lives with her mother, over in Toronto, Canada. Me and Maggie - well, you don’t really want to know, but me and her mother, we’ve been getting on quite well recently, been Skyping and stuff.’
Warren gave a laugh. ‘Skyping?’
‘What’s so funny? I’m not a complete moron you know, I can use a computer.’
‘Sorry, mate, never took you for the techie type.’
Conway ignored the jibe. ‘As I was saying, the problem is Rachell seems to be going through a rebellious stage, a bit more than that she’s driving her mother barmy. You know what teenagers can be like?’
Indeed, Warren did know, he’d put his parents through hell before finding his vocation in the Police Force.
‘We thought it would be good for her to come over here and visit for a while. She’s been staying with some relation or other of her mother’s down in London.’
‘She’s a good looking young woman,’ Warren said, looking at the photograph of the slim girl with an oval face, long blond hair and piercing green eyes.
‘That’s why I need someone I can trust. You know the type of people I employ, deadheads, druggies and wankers. There isn’t one of ‘em I’d trust to keep their hands off me granny, never mind my seventeen-year-old daughter.’
‘How come you aren’t picking her up yourself?’
‘I’ve got a meeting with the Inland Revenue, I’ve managed to swerve it twice. My accountant says if I try to put the meeting off again I’ll be right up shit creek. Bastards.’
‘You turned legit?’
‘Hardly, but some things have to look to be done by the book, keep things sweet.’
‘And that’s it? You just want me to meet her off the train and bring her - to where?’ he said looking around. ‘Not here surely?’
‘My home, you div, you don’t think I’d want her to know this place exists, never mind see it.’
Conway’s official residence was a smart, four bed-roomed, detached house down north Boulevard, an area once the home for the wealthy trawler owners and skippers. ‘Okay, I think I can manage that, just let the girl know it will be me collecting her. I don’t want arresting by some British Rail cop for abduction.’
‘Will do, thanks.’
‘You seen anything of Jimbo since I’ve been away?’ He had to ask, Conway would have thought it strange if he hadn’t.
‘Just the once, didn’t have much to say for himself. Didn’t expect to see him again, not after he went off with you on the great adventure.’
‘Yeah, well, it didn’t last long. We parted company after a couple of weeks.’ Some quick thinking was called for. ‘We went up north to Newcastle, as I said, I’ve still got contacts up there. He didn’t much like the company I was keeping, and after a couple weeks he’d had enough packed his bags and was away on his toes. Probably back to his old ways by now.’
‘If he is I haven’t heard about it. So, Ray, as I said, things to do people to see, so, piss off and I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘Fair enough.’ Warren stood up, shook a fat hand and left.
He felt relieved as he walked out of the flat, the first and hardest hurdle over. He took a deep breath when he heard the heavy steel plated door close behind him. He had been dubious about what kind of reception he’d receive. The meeting had gone better than he ever expected, in fact it couldn’t have gone any better. A favour for a favour, he wouldn’t have expected anything less from Conway. The Escort was still in the parking area, a big plus was it was undamaged and still had all its wheels. The local ‘boys’ probably recognised it as belonging to a pal of Conway’s.
Chapter 6
James Boland had undergone a transformation, he was back to the way he used to dress, Jimbo the scally. He was wearing denim jeans and a jacket that had seen better days, beneath the jacket he wore a faded ‘Iron Maiden’ T-shirt and generally looked as if he’d had a makeover in a charity shop - except for his favourite Doc Martin boots. Not mentioning the piercings had been reinstated in his ears and nose and finished off with a safety pin through his left eyebrow.
He walked along Springbank towards the city centre, glancing in doorways, looking for dossers he knew in his past life. Every now and then he would stop and look in a shop window, checking the reflection to see if he was being followed - a habit he’d picked up from Warren. He kept walking and watching. Not far from the city centre, he ducked down an alleyway between a betting shop and Chinese take-away, stepping over take-away cartons as he went. Around the back of the bookies, he looked over his shoulder once more, then strode over a low fence to the building next door and hammered with his fist on a rotting wooden door. The door shook in its frame, green paint flaked away from the rotting timber and floated to the ground. No answer, he banged again. He could hear movement inside the squat. The semi-derelict building had been home to several dead beats and junkies over the years. Those people who over time had escaped or evaded the system for one reason or another.
‘Yeah, who’s that?’ a rasping voice called out.
Jimbo recognised it immediately, it was Lee Etherington, a mate from way back, the man he wanted to see.
Jimbo and Lee’s friendship pre-dated the multitude of piercings and tats they both had in common, back to when they were fresh faced school boys.
‘It’s me, open up,’ he yelled back.
‘Who’s me?’ the croaky voice questioned suspiciously.
‘For fuck’s sake, Lee, it’s me, Jimbo.’
The key in the lock turned, a head poked out of the open door and scanned both directions before speaking.
‘Bloody hell, mate, haven’t seen you for a while, where you been hiding yourself?’ He growled out, his voice sounded as if his throat had been sc
raped with sandpaper. The foul smell of poverty, damp and decay invaded Jimbo’s nostrils. Lee yanked the sticking door wide to let Jimbo in.
‘Been in Wakefield,’ Jimbo lied, as he entered the filthy hallway, following Lee further amongst the grott. He tried not to breathe too deeply, the place stank of the dispossessed. He was surprised at the state Lee was in, his mate was in desperate need of a hot meal and bath – not in any particular order. His hair was lank, lifeless and he was in need of a razor. He stank of stale cider and over-rank body odour. It was obviously way too late to take better care of his personal hygiene – way too late to make a difference. On top of that the smell of Cannabis resin seemed to be oozing out of his skin.
‘What the fuck was you doing in Wakefield?’ he asked, as he shuffled his way like an old man along the torn lino into the front room, where he dropped down onto a moth eaten, manky old settee. Jimbo pulled a wobbly legged kitchen chair and sat facing his one-time best friend. As he looked around the squalid room he thought how lucky he was to have been taken under Conway’s wing. This could have easily been his life, no question about it. When his old man, suffering from the Big C had taken his own life, Conway gave him a job - even if that job involved working on the wrong side of the law, it saved him. Living in a shit hole of a squat could have easily been his misfortune.
‘Three months for possession with intent to supply,’ the comment brought a hoarse smoker's laugh from his old mate, who splat phlegm into a dirty handkerchief.
‘What did you have on you?’ Lee asked as he wiped the dribble from his mouth
‘Only 8oz of Moroccan Black, intent to supply, a measly 8oz.’ Boland could lie well when he had to. ‘The only reason I had so much on me was cos I’d come into a bit of cash. I mean, for fucks sake I was just stocking up on my stash while I could.’
‘Bastards,’ Lee could hardly get the word out without spluttering and coughing, he didn’t sound too good. Lee picked up his tobacco tin off the floor and opened it, took out the king-size cigarette paper and spread tobacco on the sheet. Then produced a small scrunched up ball of tin foil, opened it and rubbed the content between well practised fingers, spreading the Cannabis resin onto the tobacco. The result was a well rolled spiff. ‘So, you looking to score, matey?’ he asked as he hung the roach to his bottom lip.
‘Maybe, but I thought I’d call on my old mate to see what’s been going on while I was away?’
‘Fuck all to speak about. Just the same shit,’ he flicked a cheap plastic lighter and lit his smoke and took a deep draw - held it, swallowed, then coughed again as he let the smoke drift from his mouth.
Lee offered the roach to Jimbo. There was no way in the world he was putting that in his mouth.
‘I’m cool, cheers all the same. How’s Mouse doing? He still around?’ Mouse was another contact from the old days.
‘Yep, the little shit’s still causing mayhem, ducking, diving and dealing. Reckons he’s in with a ‘face’, heading for the big-time. Oh yeah, and he’s taken up with some of these skinhead types, going around saying all this racist shit.’
‘Who’s the ‘face’?
‘Won’t say, least ways not told me.’
‘If he’s dealing I might pay him a visit, I take it he is?’
‘Does a scabby dog have fleas? He reckons he’s made a fair bit of cash, or so he says.’ He put his hand down his tracky bottoms and scratched his scrotum. ‘Just told me he’s moving up in the world, goin’ places.’ Jimbo remembered Mouse as being a small-time dealer and paranoid with it. ‘Can’t see it me self.’
‘No, neither can I.’ Mouse usually pissed away any money he made up against the wall, as quick as he got his hands on. But he was curious about the ‘face’, someone had been reading a Martina Cole novel. ‘Changed my mind,’ he reached across and held his hand out for the smoke. ‘Cheers, so how come he’s in the money?’ He feigned taking a deep drag and passed back the soggy ended roach. He wanted the conversation to keep going, but it looked like Lee was near to losing the plot, his brain was too fuddled with the weed and White Lightening cider.
‘Never said.’ Lee coughed phlegm again - it dribbled down his chin, he wiped it with the sleeve of his shirt.
Jimbo thought he’d try a different tack. ‘Shame about what happened to Scabby Dave.’
‘Fucking hell, man, he got his hand blown right off.’
‘You know where he got the gun?’
‘Na, too heavy for me, man, don’t know. But it wouldn’t surprise me if Mouse doesn’t know something or other.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Dunno really, I mean it’s just a feeling, could be this geezer he keeps going on about?’ Then Lee lay back on the settee cushions and closed his eyes. It looked like this was the end of the meeting.
‘The ‘face?’’
‘Hmm, maybe.’
Jimbo stood up. ‘Ok, mate, I’m off now and you get that cough sorted,’ Jimbo stood up and was about to leave. ‘Take care of yourself.’
‘Can’t let me have few quid ‘til my social comes through can ya?’ Lee asked, his eyes still closed.
Jimbo took a twenty-pound note from his wallet and pressed it into Lee’s hand. He knew it would be spent on his next fix.
Eyes still closed and sprawled on the settee. ‘Cheers, mate. Drop the latch on your way out,’ he drawled.
What a fucking state to be in thought Jimbo, he genuinely felt sorry for Lee, he was sure it wouldn’t be long before someone found him dead.
Jimbo had been in the office an hour or so reading through Blackstone’s General Police Duties, Trish was busy with her head stuck into research on illegal weapons and Warren wasn’t expected anytime soon, the perfect opportunity to nip into the car-park for a smoke thought Jimbo. Standing in the car-park, back against the wall with his face up to the sun, and the roll-up clinging on to his bottom lip for all it was worth, he enjoyed a few minutes alone time. Then he heard it, the familiar growling engine of Warren’s Ford Escort, he heard it long before it turned the corner into the car-park.
This was the day Warren was to see Jimbo transformed to his old self - clothes wise. The transformation couldn’t be missed, unless you were as short-sighted as a mole. He had received more than a few strange looks that morning, as he punched in the security code into the keypad and walked through the station. He was half expecting to be challenged but it never happened. He stood and watched as Warren parked.
‘Jimbo, you do realise what you’re wearing is totally inappropriate clobber when you work in a police station,’ Warren said jokingly. He couldn’t help but notice the numerous facial piercings had also returned.
Jimbo totally ignored him. ‘Still got the speed machine then?’ he said, as he walked over and gave one of the front tyres a kick.
‘Yep, wouldn’t part with it.’ It may not have been much to look at but the Ford Escort with its formula 1 type engine had served them both well in the past. ‘For some reason or another nobody’s asked for it back. Someone’s obviously keeping it taxed and insured.’ The Ford was the service vehicle issued to him whilst he was in the “employ” of Gemmell Stratergies, nothing much to look at but as fast as a rat coming down a drainpipe.
Jimbo took a drag of his smoke. ‘How did you get on with Conway?’ He dropped the fag end to the floor and crushed it underfoot.
‘Surprisingly well, better than I expected - look.’ He held up his hands, palms facing Jimbo and wiggled his fingers. ‘Still got all my digits!’
On the way back to their mini squad room, if it could really be called that, they called in at the station canteen for coffee and cakes. Jimbo garnering more than a few funny looks along the way, he looked as if he should be in the cells not walking around the place with a security pass hung around his neck.
‘Excuse me, love,’ the assistant behind the counter had said, when she saw Jimbo standing in the queue, ‘are you allowed in here?’ Jimbo tutted and held his ID for her to see. ‘Sorry, love,’ she replied, �
��got to be careful.’
Warren was very close to bursting out laughing. ‘Never mind, mate,’ he said, patting Jimbo on the shoulder only to have his hand shrugged off. He was still smiling to himself as they reached the office.
‘Cakes and refreshments,’ Warren said as he kicked open the office door and placed the tray down on the desk. ‘No Bill?’
‘Nope, just me,’ Trish answered as she eyed up the cakes.
‘Help yourself.’
‘Thanks, I’m starving.’ She dived in and helped herself to the largest fresh cream bun on the plate. ‘So, how did things go with, Conway?’ She picked up a paper tissue and wiped the cream from around her mouth as she made a crumby mess on the DIs desk.
‘Better than I expected, it went very well in fact, as I’ve told Jimbo I’ve still got the use of my hands and legs, so I reckon things went okay. I spun him a story about a colleague in Newcastle, not being too pleased with the dodgy firearms that are floating about. He reckons he’d see what he can find out.’
‘Just like that?’ Jimbo asked. ‘Too easy.’
‘However’ Warren paused, ‘he does want a favour in return.’
‘I guessed as much, whose legs does he want you to break?’
‘No, nothing like that - did you know he has a daughter?’ Warren took out the photograph from his wallet and passed it across.
‘Nice looking girl,’ Trish acknowledged.
‘Heard something but never actually met her,’ said Jimbo. He looked over Trish’s shoulder at the photograph. ‘Nothing like her fat twat of a father. He sure he’s her dad?’
‘Apparently, she lives in Canada with her mother and is visiting for a while. The fat man has a meeting in the morning with the tax-man. All I have to do is meet her off the London train, keep her occupied for an hour or so, and then take her to his place, simple.’
‘And that’s it?’ asked Trish, who was by now in an even bigger mess with the cream bun. She licked her fingers, and wiped them on another paper tissue, before picking up a pen and updating the daily action log.