Grimsby was a rough town that bore the marks of a hard life, and its reputation as a hotspot for domestic abuse perpetrated by the female partner was one that Vicky hadn’t believed until she had taken the transfer. Josh’s explanation of the phenomenon as having its roots in the town’s fishing history - with the women being left to fend for themselves whilst the men were at sea for long periods of time - was curious, but perhaps true.
“They tempt the kids with the promise of massive wads of cash,” Vicky continued, “flash cars, and free drugs.”
“Don’t forget the free women.”
“Spreading the love?”
Joshua laughed. “That’s one way of putting it!”
The next hour passed without any activity of interest, and Vicky read through the notes she had taken at the briefing last week where DCI Galvin had presented the latest research into the ‘County Lines’ drug trafficking phenomena that was spreading across the country like a canker and beginning to choke its towns. There were four dedicated mobile numbers that the Humberside Police force were aware of in this town alone, probably double that in reality, and Vicky suspected that the number was low only because the gang that was exporting to the town was in a position of dominance and had a strangle-hold over the other players. It was possible that the dedicated phone lines belonged to only one drug-trafficking gang, but recent violence on the streets pointed to evidence of gang rivalry.
So far, two of the lines had been shut down, although the latest intelligence suggested that they had re-established within a matter of days, which was, in reality, probably just hours—anyone could go into a local store and buy a pay-as-you-go SIM card for as little as a quid, no questions asked. The lack of useful intelligence, and the paucity of information about the phone lines, and the adaptability of the drug pushers to link back into their communications network and continue their lines of supply almost uninterrupted, was a testament to the difficulties in ridding the town of the growing scourge. Vicky was determined to be one of the officers who closed it down and helped protect the vulnerable. By some miracle, she still retained the heady optimism - scraped away from so many of her workworn, cynical colleagues - that they could make a difference to people’s lives and was determined not to lose it.
“Did you watch the news last night?” Joshua asked.
“No. I get enough real-life news on the job, and I can’t stand watching those politicians bleating on.”
Joshua grunted in agreement. “None of them ever seem to tell the truth. Anyway, there was an interesting piece about the RAF being scrambled to intercept fighter jets in our airspace over the Channel.”
“Brinkmanship.”
“What?”
“Some foreign power giving us a poke. Russians again?”
“They were EU planes.”
Vicky huffed. “EU! The EU has planes?”
“Looks like it.”
“I never could understand why a trading bloc wanted an army. Guess I do now!”
“Why would they be giving us a poke?”
“Politicians stirring it up. We’re not playing the game anymore. The EU is pissed. We haven’t gone along with their finger-pointing at the Russians and US, and they hate that we’ve just signed the biggest trade deal in the history of the world with the South Koreans. They hate even more that we wouldn’t sign over our military.” Vicky remembered the warnings that had been posted in forums, a veterans’ group had been particularly vocal. “They wanted a single point of command—control over the British Army—well there wouldn’t have been a British Army, but we refused, pulled out in time. I guess they’re spitting out their dummies now.” She grew quiet for a moment, then added, “It doesn’t make any sense. It’s the Iranians that are the real problem right now.”
“Iranians?”
“You must have seen the news!”
“I thought you weren’t interested in the news?”
“I’m not interested in domestic stuff - you can’t believe a word of what the MSM puts out - but checking out the big players is always fascinating.”
“MSM?”
“Main Stream Media.”
“Oh! I get it.” He pondered for a moment then said, “I guess Middle Eastern politics is more interesting to you?”
She raised a brow. “Why’s that then?”
“Well ...” Joshua widened his eyes and gave a slight nod in her direction. She knew he was referring to her mixed heritage—English on her mum’s side, Saudi on her dad’s. Joshua was beginning to look uncomfortable and Vicky couldn’t resist a tweak. “What’re you trying to say, Padanowski? Born and bred in Sheffield, me!”
“Yeah, but ...” A pink blush rose on Joshua’s cheeks. “But your Dad ... wasn’t he from ... out there?”
“Saudi? Yeah, but I haven’t seen him since he buggered off back to the desert. Married again, new family. The usual story.”
“I’m sorry. I should have kept my gob shut.”
Vicky held his gaze as she replied with a stern, ‘Yep!’ then laughed as the flush rose higher on his cheeks. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Padanowski, I’m not bothered what anyone thinks.”
Joshua sagged with relief, and a smile returned to his face. “God, I’m sorry Vick.”
“Just shut up about it.”
“Sure,” he replied, then added, “So, we’re the EU’s enemy now?”
“EU? Well ... we’re definitely on their naughty list, but enemy? No, not unless I’ve missed something, which is possible, there’s always another agenda with politicians.” Ignoring Joshua’s next question, Vicky’s focus returned to the screen. A black car had turned off the main road. “Ey up! This looks interesting.”
The car slowed as it reached number twelve. Each side of the road was filled with parked cars and the gleaming black BMW rolled past the house, then slipped into an empty space two cars away from the surveillance van. Five figures stepped out, including one woman. One side of the woman’s face had a dark, bruise-like shadow. Vicky leant into the camera. “God this is frustrating. I need to see them in real life, not on this damned grainy video feed.” A large male in a heavy leather jacket with close-cropped hair, high cheekbones and strong jaw, unmistakably eastern European, perhaps even Russian, grabbed the woman’s bicep and walked her to the door of number twelve.” The woman seemed unsteady on her feet. “Looks like she’s had a battering, but I can’t tell for sure if its bruising or just a shadow.” Running fingers through her hair, Vicky stood; this part of the job always got to her. Josh pulled her back down to sit.
“We can’t go out. Orders are surveillance only.”
“Sure! But it’s so frustrating.”
“I know, but there’s nothing you can do anyway. She’s not made a complaint, and those men will be armed.”
He was right; if they didn’t have guns hidden beneath their jackets, then they were sure to be carrying knives. “The victims never do complain. They’re too damned scared to tell anyone.” She gripped her thigh, fighting the urge to run out and arrest them all. “If the CPS (Crown Prosecution Service) doesn’t put this through ...”
“It will. You heard DCI Holland, but we need to make this watertight.”
“And in the meantime, how many other women and kids are going to suffer because these scumbags are still on the streets?”
“Calm it, Al Farad! We’re playing the long game. We close down a line, they get another up and running within hours, or another gang moves in to take its place. We’re aiming for the big boys now, not just the ten-a-penny runners.”
Vicky shook her head. the frustration that twisted in her gut felt as a dull ache. “So much damage!” she muttered, her mind travelling back six months to a raid on another trap house where they had made ten arrests. Seven of the gang members had been under fifteen years old, the others under twenty. The oldest in the house, the legal tenant, was a man with learning difficulties the gang had kept shackled in an upstairs room. The memory made Vicky’s anger rile, but it had been th
e body of a young girl, one arm studded with track marks, that had tipped her over the edge. She’d kept the anger simmering until the day after the raid when, filled with images of the dead child, every cell of her body suffused with a horrified grief, she had gone through the police records, checking the logs, and discovered that there had been numerous calls from a concerned neighbour about activities at the house over the previous months. The police response had been almost nil. Sickened, she had considered leaving the force, and let her anger spew over her superior that afternoon, ignoring his repeated efforts to slow the flood of invective levelled at his management. The following month she had been assigned to the County Lines task force and then transferred to the backwater fishing town of Grimsby. Determined not to be cowed, she had taken it as a chance to fight crime at the chalk-face, and not as the demotion is was meant to be.
Joshua’s mobile vibrated as the final figure disappeared inside the house.
“That’s it then. We wait until they come out. It’s nearly the end of our shift, but I’m up for some overtime if you are?”
Staring at his mobile, Joshua replied with “Shit!” The word hung in the air as he continued to stare at the screen and Vicky waited for an explanation, sure the expletive was Josh’s way of gaining her attention, but silence followed.
“What is it?”
“We’re at war.”
“You what?” The statement was ridiculous. “Someone’s yanking your chain.”
“No, it’s true.”
“With who?”
“I just got a message from my mum.”
“Your mum? And she said we’re at war?”
“Yes!”
“Let me see!” Josh handed the mobile across to Vicky’s outstretched hand. She read, ‘Iranians have declared war on us! Attacks coming. Turn on the telly. Mum xxx’. Vicky grabbed her own mobile from her bag and stabbed ‘BBC’ into the browser, then stared incredulous at the screen as she watched the Prime Minister announce that Britain was once again at war, but this time with a pugilistic Iran threatening nuclear strikes. “It can’t be true.”
“It is.” Josh stated as he scrolled through the feed on his mobile’s screen. “They’ve closed all the ports and airports too.”
“Another lockdown!” She stared at her mobile’s screen still scrolling through the newsfeed. “Hell! The country will collapse,” she hissed as she read the panic-laden posts with increasing dread. The country had only just recovered from the viral outbreak that had spread across the globe, forcing governments to take knee-jerk and draconian safety measures that had saved some lives, but tanked economies and catapulted them into a deep recession. More financial hardship, misery and fear was the last thing they needed. The mood of the nation was already on the brink of unrest, and this news could tip it over the edge. She pushed down her fears and said, “It’s ridiculous. Nothing will come of it, you’ll see. Just a false alarm.”
CHAPTER FIVE
12 Lovett Street, Grimsby
The door of 12 Lovett Street closed with a kick as Callum followed Gregor and Shannon into the house. Jake and Aaron followed behind. Stepping past Dominic, the head of this trap house, Gregor deliberately ignored the palm held aloft in greeting, and merely grunted in reply to Dominic’s, ‘Alright, Gregor’. A flicker of anger at the insult was instantly hidden as Dominic turned his attention to Callum, but the underlying anxiety at Gregor’s arrival was obvious. Fear was an emotion that Gregor made great efforts to instil within the gang members, and he rarely failed.
“Alright, Frostie,” Dominic said, offering his palm to Callum despite Gregor’s snub. With Gregor’s back to the pair, Callum reciprocated. Gregor may be the hard man right now, but Callum was savvy enough to know that causing offence to a man like Dominic could lead to a world of trouble in the future. Gregor wasn’t getting any younger and, one day, someone stronger, someone younger, would come along. Perhaps even the much younger Dominic. Youth was strength and power in this game, and, terrifying though he was, Gregor had to be at least fifty years old, and there would come a time when his power would weaken. It wasn’t time just yet, but perhaps a few years from now someone else could be in the top spot. There were certainly several contenders, which was exactly why they were making today’s visit.
Callum had a feeling that the meeting wouldn’t end well.
Typical of most houses in the terrace, the downstairs of the two-up, two-down had been knocked through to form one large room. At the back, a single-storey extension had been added to house the kitchen along with a small bathroom. Gregor strode through to the kitchen, scanning the small space. A taint of bleach wafted on cold air through the open door. Breath billowing white, he grunted his approval, “Is clean.” Dominic visibly relaxed as Gregor turned to Shannon and demanded that she, ‘Go fetch girls, and make tea.’ The woman disappeared into the hallway and up the stairs without comment, but Callum caught the flicker of annoyance in her eyes. Despite this morning’s violence, she still wasn’t cowed.
Callum became certain that the morning wouldn’t end well.
A younger man with a mop of curling black hair, and the pasty skin and pudgy physique of a youth spent in a gaming chair, sat slouched on the corner sofa that divided the oblong room. A cloud of smoke rose from his mouth and billowed around the ornately moulded, nicotine-stained, ceiling-rose. The man coughed, taking no notice of the visitors. “Get idiot out,” Gregor demanded with a quick glance at the half-stoned man, his lips curling with disgust. “We need private talk.”
Dominic reacted instantly. “Toadie!” The youth ignored him, taking a drag on his joint. Without making another effort to call his name, Dominic strode across the room and punched Toadie’s upper arm. He flinched but only turned with slow attention to Dominic now bearing down above him. “Time to leave.” He gave a quick jerk of his head to indicate Gregor. Toadie’s heavily lidded eyes fell on the hard man, mouth opening with surprise as his jaw slackened, and then pushed himself up from the sofa with effort. He left the room as fast as his unsteady legs would carry him, pushing past Aaron and Jake in his efforts to get to the door.
Once his footsteps could be heard in an upstairs bedroom, Gregor motioned for them to sit. “Open window,” Gregor demanded as he sat at the table shoved against the boarded-up chimney breast. “Clear this shit.” The table was strewn with debris; twisted cigarette packets, an ashtray overflowing with stubbed cigarettes and roll-ups, along with crisp packets, and wrappers from a variety of sweets, and the crust from a slice of pizza.
“Sure,” Dominic said reaching for the window. A blast of freezing air blew at the cigarette ash.
“Now! Clear this shit now!”
Dominic strode to the door leading to the hallway and called upstairs. “Starlet! Get your arse down here now!”
“No!” Gregor’s tone was blunt. “You do it now. This shit is blowing on me.” He brushed at specks of ash on his jacket. “I not wait for your sket to clean.”
Another flash of anger was quickly hidden. “Sure.” Dominic re-closed the window and disappeared into the kitchen. Another icy blast blew across the floor.
“Close door!” Gregor barked. “Is cold in this shithole!”
Dominic reappeared seconds later with the bowl from the sink and a cloth. He pulled the kitchen door closed behind him and then cleaned the tabletop.
“Why it so cold here?”
“I bet there’s no insulation in the kitchen. It’ll be a single brick extension,” Callum offered. Gregor grunted.
The table cleaned, all five waited as Shannon and Starlet, Dominic’s woman, and made the tea. Gregor sat in silence and the tension in the room rose. After several minutes, the tea was served in steaming mugs. Gregor handed twenty pounds to Starlet with the order to go to the corner shop and put more credit on the gas meter and Shannon was ordered back upstairs. As the door closed behind them, Gregor said, “Now we talk.”
Leaning back in his chair to appear nonchalant, Dominic nodded.
“
There is problem with this house.”
The man’s face paled, and he scratched at the stubble on his chin, then rubbed the side of his tattooed neck. His increasing discomfort was obvious despite the steely gaze he threw back at Gregor. Up until this point, Dominic had made no effort to enquire as to why Gregor was paying him a visit although he knew it meant there was a problem. “So,” continued Gregor. “Why you not order more product from me?”
“We’ve had some trouble recently.”
“Trouble? Tell me what is this trouble that makes me poor!” Real aggression sat within Gregor’s tone, and his voice became a growl as he said, ‘makes me poor’.
With their eyes locked together, and a twitch at his eyebrow, Dominic replied, “There’s two new lines opened up. One’s running out of Liverpool. The other one’s from down London.”
Gregor’s eyes narrowed but he made no effort to respond.
Dominic swallowed. “They’ve poached some of our runners, and two of our Youngers.”
Gregor thumped a fist on the table.
Dominic shifted in his seat, sitting upright. “They’ve put the mockers on the business, Gregor. Three of our lads have been beaten up trying to make deliveries.”
Gregor’s lips thinned.
“They’re offering better rates too. Half price to new customers.”
Gregor’s face became stony. Callum recognised the signs of a simmering and explosive rage.
“And what have you done to stop this, Dominic?” The words were icy cold and laced with threat. Gregor’s eyes burned with anger.
Dark Winter Series (Book 1): Dark Winter Page 3