The Rule of Fear

by Luke Delaney

  ‘Forensics?’ Williams asked.

  ‘No forensics,’ King answered. ‘He’s real careful. Uses his hands and hands only. Never leaves any body fluids behind for DNA.’

  ‘And identification?’ Williams tried again.

  King just shook his head. ‘We have little or no chance of that. He uses the oldest disguise in the book: a baseball cap, hoodie – hood up and sunglasses. Add to that the fact that the children are usually very young and traumatized – there’s little chance of a positive identification. No. This one we’re probably going to have to catch in the act.’

  ‘Great,’ Brown shrugged and pulled a face of disgust.

  King ignored him. ‘OK, people. That’s the job, so let’s get on with it. Starting right now.’

  King walked through the estate feeling better than he had in a long time. He caught a reflection of himself in the stainless steel doors of one of the many old lifts that ferried the inhabitants skywards to their homes. It had been a long time since he’d seen himself in full uniform. There’d been no need for body armour and a belt full of equipment answering a phone on the Crime Desk. He took a second to admire his appearance – a crisp white open-neck short-sleeved shirt under the armour. Black trousers and shiny shoes with rubber soles so he could move silently. He’d also chosen to wear his peaked cap instead of the traditional helmet and had told the others to do the same. He wanted them all to look the part – to look different from other cops on foot. He wanted the locals to know they were dealing with something unlike anything they’d dealt with before. He took a deep breath and straightened his cap to perfection and let the feeling of power surge through his body. Strange how powerful a uniform could make a person feel – like wearing an impregnable shield. A jolt of pain through his shoulder reminded him it was anything but.

  His radio suddenly gave off two electronic-sounding peeps – letting him know someone was trying to contact him on one of its private channels. He checked and saw that it was Renita. He pressed the transmit button and spoke to her, knowing that only she would be able to hear him.

  ‘Go ahead, Renita.’

  ‘You still on the Grove Wood?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah. In Manor Mead. Something going on?’

  ‘I got Craig Rowsell under obs in Tabard Street checking out the parked cars,’ she told him. ‘I’ve already got enough to nick him for vehicle interference.’

  ‘No,’ King insisted. ‘If he’s that interested it’s only a matter of time before he screws one. Give him a bit of rope. I’ll make my way to you. Where are you now?’

  ‘South end of Tabard Street,’ she replied.

  ‘I’ll make my way to the north end,’ he explained. ‘You keep him under obs. If he screws one, show out and flush him towards me. I’ll stay out of sight until you give me the nod.’

  ‘Understood,’ she confirmed as he made his way quickly through the estate’s rat-runs to Tabard Street – staying out of view from anyone who might have shouted a warning to Rowsell of his impending approach. A few minutes later he’d hidden himself behind a recessed stairwell and let Renita know he was waiting to ambush their prey.

  His radio hissed into life. ‘Sarge,’ Renita began. ‘Rowsell’s getting very interested in an old BMW 3 Series. He’s been back for a couple of looks. Standby.’ His radio went dead for a few seconds before coming alive again. ‘He’s picked up a small stone,’ she continued. ‘He’s moving towards the BMW. Standby. He’s done the window – repeat – he’s done the window. Shall I move in?’

  ‘No,’ King insisted. ‘Wait till he’s stolen from the car.’

  ‘OK,’ she agreed, ‘but whatever he’s after he’s taking his time. Standby – he’s out the vehicle now – looks like he’s had the stereo away.’

  The stereo? King thought to himself. Any stereo old enough to be ripped in one unit from a car in this day and age could surely only be worth pennies. He wondered why the likes of Rowsell bothered. ‘Show out now,’ he commanded. ‘Get him running towards me.’

  ‘Already done it,’ Renita told him over the radio, her voice making it clear she was running as she spoke. ‘Stop there, Rowsell, you thieving little …’ She released her transmit button before King could hear any more.

  He peeked around the stairwell in time to see Rowsell haring towards him, stupid enough to be still clutching the old stereo, about fifty metres away, but closing fast. He waited, hidden, muttering barely audible encouragement to the advancing thief. ‘Come on. Come on.’ Only when he was sure Rowsell would neither be able to swerve past him nor turn and run in the opposite direction did he burst from his hiding place, making the thief’s eyes widen with fear and nostrils flare as he realized he’d run straight into a trap.

  King hit him hard with the palms of his outstretched arms, ploughing into Rowsell’s chest and momentarily lifting him from the floor, knocking the wind from him and making him drop the stereo. Quickly King spun him around and pushed him up against the wall, pulling his arms behind his back and expertly wrapping his quick-cuffs around Rowsell’s wrists, making him curse and complain.

  ‘Get the fuck off me,’ he demanded. ‘Ah, fuck. The cuffs are too tight, you wanker.’

  King pushed him harder into the wall to let Rowsell know who was in charge. ‘Better watch your language, Craig, or I’ll be adding violent disorder to theft from motor vehicle. Understand?’

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ Rowsell asked. ‘TSG?’ Clearly he was experienced enough to know the difference between a relatively gentle arrest at the hands of the local police and the more robust treatment he could expect from the Territorial Support Group.

  ‘Not TSG, my friend,’ King smiled. ‘Haven’t you heard? You’ve got your very own police force now. The Grove Wood Estate Policing Unit. Remember the name, you little prick, because things around here are about to change.’

  By the time King arrived home to his two-bedroom flat in Chadwell Heath, East London, his partner was already there, preparing dinner in their tiny kitchen. She kissed him on the lips and fussed around him, making him smile at the special treatment he was receiving.

  ‘Sit down, sit down,’ she insisted. ‘I want to hear all about your first day back.’

  He slumped in one of their only two kitchen chairs that lived under the small circular dining table, also used as a part-time desk, thankful to be sitting after spending the first day on his feet for more than nine months. ‘Nothing to tell,’ he lied. ‘Just a normal day at the office.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she reminded him. ‘Your first day back on the streets. Your first day as a sergeant on full duties. Your first day in charge of the Estate Policing Unit.’

  ‘OK,’ he relented, nodding his head. ‘It went well. Team seem solid, although Davey Brown wants to lock horns all the time.’

  ‘Oh, I know Davey Brown,’ she told him. ‘The ex-Marine, right?’ He just nodded. ‘You know his type. They want to be sergeants, but they don’t want to have to bother with the exams – think they’ve got a right to promotion just because they know what they’re doing on the streets. But I know you. You’ll soon have Davey Brown eating out of the palm of your hand.’

  ‘Maybe what we do on the streets for real should dictate who gets promoted and not just who can pass exams?’ he questioned.

  ‘That’s a little rich coming from someone on accelerated promotion,’ she reminded him. ‘Turkeys don’t generally vote for Christmas.’

  ‘Well, we had a decent arrest on our first day,’ he explained, letting her comment slip away. ‘Craig Rowsell for screwing a car on the estate. He nicked some ancient stereo from some clapped-out BMW. I mean, why would you bother nicking that? It wasn’t worth shit.’

  ‘Because he’s a thief,’ she reminded him. ‘What does he care? He’s not thinking about the logic of breaking a hundred-pound window to steal a ten-pound stereo. None of it’s his loss. As far as he’s concerned if he sees a ten-pence piece on the seat of a car why not smash the window to get it. At the end of the
day he’ll be 10p up.’

  King unconsciously rubbed the back of his injured shoulder. ‘I’ll never understand these people,’ he complained. ‘If you’re gonna be a thief, be a good one. Steal something that’s worth something.’

  ‘If you’re getting it for nothing, then everything’s worth something,’ she tried to explain, before noticing he was rubbing his back and grimacing slightly. ‘Giving you trouble?’ she asked.

  ‘Uh?’ he replied, momentarily confused before he realized what he was doing and self-consciously pulled his hand away. ‘I’m fine. Just a little sore, that’s all.’

  ‘Have you taken your pills?’

  ‘I took some earlier,’ he assured her. ‘Probably due some more about now,’ he added as he rose and headed to the cupboard where they kept all their medicines and first aid equipment and popped two four-hundred-milligram tablets of buprenorphine from their plastic and tinfoil homes and threw them into his mouth as he headed for the fridge and grabbed himself a beer. He used the bottle opener attached to the door to lift the lid and washed the pills down with a large swig.

  ‘I thought you were supposed to let them dissolve on your tongue before swallowing,’ Sara reminded him.

  He swallowed hard to force the pills further into his stomach before answering. ‘I know, but they taste shocking. What difference can it make anyway?’

  ‘I don’t know, but maybe you should stick to the instructions.’

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ he tried to reassure her.

  ‘And those ones are opioids,’ she warned him. ‘Perhaps you should try to come off them and use something else.’

  ‘Fine,’ he shrugged. ‘I’ll ask my GP next time I see her.’

  ‘You mean the GP you never go and see?’

  He looked her up and down with admiring eyes before taking another drink of beer and sitting on the chair in front of her. ‘Maybe all it needs is a good massage?’ he suggested.

  ‘Oh,’ she smiled, taking hold of his shoulder with both hands. ‘You reckon that’s all you need.’

  He slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her a little closer, rolling his neck as her fingers dug deep and began to relax him. ‘That feels nice,’ he told her.

  ‘Only nice?’ she teased.

  ‘It feels good,’ he improved. ‘Really good.’ He felt tired parts of his body start to awaken as he pulled her a little closer and began to unbutton the white police blouse she still wore, pulling it open and kissing her soft, pale skin, making her gasp a little before she spread her legs and sat astride him, moving her mouth onto his as his hands moved upwards to cup her breasts through the lace of her white bra.

  She whispered in his ear as she panted a little for breath. ‘Not here. Let’s go to the bedroom.’

  ‘Here’s fine,’ he argued, kissing her neck and covering her body in goose bumps, but she pulled away, smiling seductively, taking his hand and encouraging him to his feet.

  ‘The bedroom’s more comfortable,’ she told him, ‘for what I have in mind.’

  ‘And what would that be?’ he asked, his voice hoarse with desire.

  ‘Come with me and you’ll find out,’ she promised as she rose from his chair and he willingly followed her towards the bedroom.

  3

  King and Williams hid in a stairwell tower overlooking flats in Millander Walk – specifically the one belonging to the local handler, Arman Baroyan. Williams continued to explain the night’s events as King listened intently, considering their options – his eyes never leaving the flat opposite.

  ‘Two residential burglaries overnight – both on the estate, both very close together in time and location. They took so much stuff there’s no way they could have shifted it yet. I figure sooner or later they’ll bring it to Baroyan.’

  ‘What did they take?’ King asked.

  ‘Like I said – shedloads. TVs, Blu-ray players, a laptop, a disc drive, jewellery, clothes, booze – you name it.’

  ‘That’s too much to shift in the open in broad daylight,’ King argued.

  ‘Unless they’re stupid or desperate,’ Williams grinned.

  ‘I suppose we could get lucky,’ King admitted.

  ‘Or maybe they’ll bring it here bit by bit – in which case what do we do?’

  ‘If we catch them out in the open with any of the gear we’ll nick them before they even reach Baroyan’s. Remember what I told you all – we’re not after the handlers and dealers yet. Instead let’s use them as a source of arrests.’

  Williams nodded in agreement. ‘Fine by me.’

  A few seconds later a clearly empty-handed youth casually approached Baroyan’s flat, stopping and checking he wasn’t being watched before he prepared to knock on the door. Once satisfied he was unobserved, he reached through the solid-looking metal grid covering the door and pounded on the reinforced wood.

  ‘Allo,’ King whispered. ‘Who’s this then? D’you recognize him?’

  ‘I know this little slag,’ Williams told him. ‘That’s Stuart Weller. He works as a runner for Baroyan – ferrying messages backwards and forwards for him, arranging where to drop nicked gear.’

  ‘I guess Baroyan doesn’t trust phones then,’ King suggested.

  ‘Would you?’ Williams asked. King just nodded slowly as the door was answered by Baroyan, who briefly spoke to Weller before disappearing inside and closing the door. Weller quickly skulked away, still walking casually, as if it was just another normal day on the estate – and for him it was.

  ‘Come on,’ King told Williams, already running down the stairs two at a time. ‘We need to follow him. He could lead us straight to whoever screwed the flats, and the stolen gear.’

  Williams was after him now. ‘How we gonna get close enough to follow him without showing out?’

  ‘He’ll take the rat-runs as much as he can,’ he explained, ‘and so will we.’

  They tailed Weller for almost a quarter of a mile to the other side of the estate, always staying close to the building lines, looking for shadows to hide in, alcoves to conceal them, until finally they spied him climbing to the second floor of Abbey Mead – a long, low-rise block of flats with sweeping communal walkways made from dull grey bricks, where he stopped outside a flat. They hid behind a car in the building’s car park and waited, although it was already clear from the state of the front door that the flat was semi-derelict and probably being used as a squat. After a few seconds the door was opened by a white man in his mid-twenties who looked gaunt and neglected – the yellowness of his skin clear even from a distance.

  ‘D’you know him?’ King whispered.

  ‘Nah,’ Williams admitted, ‘but he looks like a scag or crack-head.’

  The gaunt figure ushered the youth inside and closed the flimsy-looking door. ‘I’m liking this more and more,’ King told him, just as they saw an equally emaciated-looking white man appear from the stairwell carrying a thin plastic bag loaded with what looked like groceries and head towards the flat. He fumbled for a key in his trouser pocket before finally opening the door and disappearing inside.

  ‘These are definitely our boys,’ King insisted. ‘Have to be.’

  ‘I agree,’ Williams whispered, ‘but we haven’t got a warrant and we haven’t seen any stolen goods yet.’

  ‘We don’t need a warrant to search the flat if they’re already under arrest,’ King reminded him.

  ‘That’s all fine if the stolen stuff’s inside,’ Williams argued. ‘If that’s the case we can make up anything we like – make the facts fit the arrest – but if it’s not, people might ask what power we had to search it in the first place. Maybe we should get a warrant.’

  ‘It’d take too long,’ King dismissed it, ‘and there’s no guarantee they’d give us one anyway. Trust me – the stuff’s inside that flat and so are the burglars.’

  ‘OK,’ Williams reluctantly agreed. ‘We’ll do it your way.’

  The single lock holding the door closed was wholly inadequate and unable to stand up t
o even one kick from Williams’ boot as he and King seemed to charge through the small space simultaneously, screaming ‘Police!’ at the tops of their voices as they ran into the sitting room with truncheons drawn, catching the two men and the youth by complete surprise as they sat on the only sofa in the flat – a filthy remnant salvaged from a skip somewhere and dragged to the squat that stank of hard drug use, human desperation and impending death. It was also now filled with the stench of human excrement as the drug users struggled to control their bowels with muscles wasted by years of abuse with serious narcotics. On the battered table in front of them lay the remains of their latest attempt to escape the awful pointlessness of their lives – a homemade glass crack-pipe stained with over-use and numerous pieces of old tinfoil riddled with the track marks of burnt heroin. The drug users’ eyes were wide open and vacant – as if they’d been hypnotized – whereas the local feral youth had the look of someone who realized they were just unlucky to have been caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  ‘Nobody fucking move,’ King screamed at them, making one of the men begin to shake uncontrollably and grimace as he tried not to foul himself. ‘You’re all under arrest for the two burglaries that happened on the estate last night. I’ll assume you all know the caution off by heart so I won’t waste my time explaining it.’

  ‘I ain’t done no fucking burglary, man,’ Weller protested his innocence.

  ‘Shut the fuck up, Stuart,’ Williams told him, prompting him to exhale in exasperation and sink further into the reeking sofa.

  ‘Get up and turn around,’ King told the silent men who obeyed like lambs heading to the slaughterhouse as they secured them with quick-cuffs and sat them back down. ‘You just stay there,’ he told Weller, who knew there would be little point in running.

  The suspects safely trussed, King and Williams began to look around the spartan flat, but it was immediately clear the drug-ravaged men hadn’t even bothered to hide their stolen booty and had merely piled it in the corner of the front room – TVs, laptops, booze, everything. Even the jewellery lay on the floor.