The Rule of Fear

by Luke Delaney

  ‘Fair enough.’ King saw his point. ‘Something else then? Something you couldn’t keep your thieving little fingers off?’

  ‘I ain’t got nothing,’ O’Neil pleaded with them, his feet tapping away agitatedly.

  ‘Best tell the truth,’ King warned him, looking around the virtually unfurnished flat. ‘Not like it’d take us long to spin this rat hole.’

  ‘I swear,’ O’Neil lied convincingly, but his startled eyes following Brown as he entered the bacterial bombsite of a kitchen betrayed him.

  ‘Fuck me,’ Brown declared. ‘You need an NBC suit before coming in here. How can you fucking live like this?’

  ‘A what?’ O’Neil asked, confused.

  ‘A nuclear, biological, chemical protection suit, you fucking moron,’ Brown explained. O’Neil just shrugged, but his eyes grew ever wider as Brown went straight to the cooker that hid under a thick layer of ancient grease and kicked open the door. ‘Well, well,’ he called into the oven loud enough for the others to hear. ‘And what do we have here?’ He reached inside and pulled out a good-quality Blu-ray player before heading back into the sitting room and placing it on the coffee table in front of O’Neil. ‘Why do you slags never think we’ll look in the oven, eh?’ he asked, smiling menacingly. ‘First place we look, Dougie. Always the first place we look.’

  ‘I didn’t know that was there,’ O’Neil tried in vain.

  ‘Save your bollocks for the interview,’ King told him, hoisting him off the sofa and pointing him towards the front door while Brown continued to open every cupboard and drawer he found – looking under everything and anything, anywhere illicit goods could be hidden, listening intently to every word being said as he did so.

  ‘Oh come on, guv’nor,’ O’Neil pleaded. ‘Don’t nick me.’

  ‘We haven’t really got a lot of choice, have we?’ King told him. ‘Possession of crack cocaine and a stolen Blu-ray. Serious offences, Dougie. Serious offences.’

  ‘Come on,’ O’Neil kept trying. ‘I only got out a few months ago. I can’t go back inside yet.’

  ‘Might clean you up,’ Brown offered as he tossed the foul cushions off the sofa to reveal even more foul things hiding under them – although nothing illegal. ‘Do you a bit of good.’

  ‘Listen,’ O’Neil offered conspiratorially. ‘Let me go and I can give you Astill. I can set him up for you. You can get him for supply – a proper result for you. Better than a fifteen-quid rock and a knocked-off Blu-ray.’

  ‘So you admit it’s nicked then?’ Brown told him.

  ‘Come on,’ O’Neil looked from King to Brown and back, desperate to see some enthusiasm for his offer. ‘I can help you make a name for yourselves.’

  ‘We don’t need your help for that,’ Brown told him.

  ‘What you thinking, Dougie?’ King stepped in.

  ‘You’re joking, right?’ Brown interrupted.

  ‘Give him a minute,’ King rebuked him. ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘I could guarantee you take him out with, what, an eighth of an ounce of crack on him,’ O’Neil talked fast. ‘That’s too much for personal. You’d have him for possession with intent, easy.’

  ‘And how would you do that?’ King asked calmly.

  ‘I could call him,’ O’Neil explained. ‘Tell him I want to score large. That I want an eighth.’

  ‘Where would you get the money for an eighth from?’ King pressed.

  ‘I’ll tell him I’ve had a top result,’ O’Neil talked even faster. ‘I’ll tell him I screwed an office and found a petty cash tin stuffed with tenners and twenties. He’ll believe me, I promise.’

  ‘All a waste of time,’ Brown intervened. ‘Astill never comes out from behind his fortifications. Not while he’s holding, anyway.’

  ‘That’s what you think,’ O’Neil smiled.

  ‘Fucking bullshit,’ Brown insisted.

  ‘To sell an eighth he’ll come out,’ O’Neil persisted. ‘Astill won’t be able to resist getting that much cash in his hands in one sale.’

  ‘Won’t he be afraid you could try and set yourself up as a dealer with that much crack?’ King asked. ‘Why would he risk having competition?’

  ‘No,’ O’Neil shook his head. ‘I couldn’t deal it because I couldn’t buy from him and match or undercut his price. He’d be selling it to me at a punter’s price – not as a dealer. I might get a bit of discount for buying in bulk, but not enough so I could sell it on and make money. And besides, he knows me, knows what sort of user I am. If I had an eighth I’d do it all myself. It wouldn’t be around long enough for me to sell. It’ll work,’ he tried to convince them. ‘Astill’s dumb and greedy. It’ll work.’

  ‘But he’s going to want to see the cash before he even shows you any drugs, right?’ King asked. ‘He’s not that stupid?’

  ‘Of course,’ O’Neil shrugged, as if it was obvious.

  ‘So where you going to get the cash from?’ King questioned.

  ‘You’ll have to give it to me,’ O’Neil answered casually, as if it was nothing.

  King and Brown looked at each other, before Brown spoke. ‘You fucking serious? Forget it, Dougie.’

  ‘No,’ King intervened. ‘Let’s hear him out.’

  ‘Bad idea,’ Brown insisted. ‘Remember? You said it yourself – bending is one thing, but something like this …’

  ‘Whatever happened to “you can’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs”? Your words, I seem to recall.’

  ‘Saying it’s one thing,’ Brown argued. ‘Giving cash to a fucking druggie to set up a dealer is another world altogether. Not somewhere we want to go. Trust me.’

  ‘I just want to hear Dougie here out,’ King smiled. ‘That’s all.’

  They looked hard at each other for a few seconds before Brown relented. ‘Fine,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘We hear him out. That’s it.’

  ‘So?’ King turned back to O’Neil. ‘How much cash would you need for an eighth of an ounce?’ he asked.

  ‘Two hundred and thirty-one or thirty-two pounds,’ O’Neil told them.

  ‘That’s a very precise number,’ Brown pointed out. ‘What’s with the pound difference?’

  ‘Profit margins are tight on the street,’ O’Neil explained. ‘Nobody’s getting rich selling this shit – except the big players.’

  ‘Big players like who?’ King pressed.

  ‘The sort of people who supply people like Astill,’ O’Neil answered vaguely.

  ‘A name?’ King tried.

  ‘No names,’ O’Neil told them. ‘Even if I knew I wouldn’t say. You don’t fuck around with people like that. They’re dangerous people. Very dangerous people.’

  ‘But you still want us to hand over two hundred and thirty-odd notes for you to go play with?’ Brown brought them back.

  ‘If you want Astill, yes,’ O’Neil insisted.

  ‘You must be fucking joking,’ Brown told him.

  ‘But I thought we were making a deal,’ O’Neil complained.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ King explained. ‘Nice try, Dougie. And by the way – you’re under arrest for possession of a class A drug and suspected theft of a Blu-ray player. You know the caution.’

  ‘Come on, guv’nor,’ O’Neil pleaded. ‘I’m more use to you out here than banged up. Let me go and I’ll work for you, I swear on me mother’s life.’

  ‘Your mother’s already dead,’ Brown reminded him.

  ‘Yeah well,’ he replied weakly.

  ‘Nice try,’ King told him. ‘Better luck next time, Dougie. Now move.’

  King was standing next to the photocopier in the custody suite making clones of the paperwork he’d need to put together the file on O’Neil when Marino drifted alongside him.

  ‘Another good arrest, I hear,’ Marino told him. King briefly glanced sideways before returning to the copying.

  ‘Thanks,’ he replied.

  ‘I see old Dougie had a rock on him,’ Marino pried. ‘Any idea who supplied it to him?’ />
  ‘No,’ King lied. ‘We just saw him coming along the walkway and took a chance he’d be holding. Davey Brown got him in a stranglehold and he coughed the rock.’

  ‘Stroke of luck,’ Marino said.

  ‘I guess,’ King answered without looking at him. There was a few seconds’ silence before Marino spoke again.

  ‘Any luck with the Blu-ray player?’ he asked.

  ‘It was stolen yesterday,’ King explained, ‘in a burglary on a flat on the estate. SOCO says they found plenty of fingerprints at the scene. Only a crack-head like O’Neil would be so careless. We’ll charge him with the drugs and bail him on the burglary while fingerprints try and match his prints to the scene.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan.’ Marino suddenly sighed before speaking again. ‘On the not-such-good-news side of things, while you’ve been tucked up in here dealing with O’Neil, there’s been another child sexually assaulted on the estate.’

  King stiffened. ‘Serious?’

  ‘It’s always serious with kids, Jack,’ Marino answered, ‘but no – we’re still at the lower end of the scale. For now.’

  ‘Any leads? Forensics? ID?’

  ‘No. Sticking to his MO this one. No fluids exchanged. Usual disguise. Girl’s too young and too petrified to be able to ID him anyway. Sorry, Jack.’ King just shook his head. ‘You and your team are really ripping it up down there,’ Marino continued after a couple of seconds, trying to lift the despondent mood. ‘Keep going like this and you’re going to run out of people to arrest.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ King forced a smile. ‘There’s plenty more where O’Neil came from.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Marino agreed. ‘I suppose there is. Well, if you ever need any help just let me know and I’ll do what I can do – lend you the Crime Squad for surveillance or something.’

  ‘I will,’ King assured him. ‘I appreciate it. Anyway, much to do and all that.’

  ‘Of course. See you around.’

  King headed across the custody area and tapped the security code into the pad that unlocked the main door leading into the rest of the relatively small station. As he was making his way to the Unit’s office, Renita intercepted him, her face a picture of seriousness.

  ‘Sarge,’ she began, steering him out of the way of the passing human traffic.

  ‘Something up?’ he asked.

  ‘Just had a call from one of my friendlies on the estate,’ she explained, impressing him with the fact she already had informants in place, even if they weren’t official or registered. ‘They’re saying there’s an older man hanging around with a group of young kids.’

  ‘This happening right now?’ he checked.

  ‘Yeah,’ she confirmed, ‘a guy called Alan Swinton, male, IC1. I ran an intelligence check on him and he comes back no convictions for anything, but lots of suspicion around possible sexual involvement with minors.’

  ‘Well if it’s happening right now,’ King nodded thoughtfully, ‘then I guess we’d better check him out.’

  Kelly Royston stood outside her maisonette on the walkway of Millander Walk enjoying the sun on her face, her eyes closed as she smoked a cigarette, her mind wandering wherever it wished – far from where she stood. Such moments of simple pleasure came rarely on the estate. Her finely tuned survival instincts alerted her to people approaching and her eyes fired open, but her manner remained relaxed as she scanned the two figures, a bounce in their step that told everyone they considered themselves players. Kelly groaned inside as she recognized Tommy Morrison and Justin Harris striding quickly towards her, as if they had a real purpose, although she knew they almost certainly didn’t. Both had made it plainly clear to her in the past that they desired her, albeit only in the crudest of physical senses, and neither ever missed an opportunity to reinforce their intentions towards her. She always acted bored by their lewd, clumsy advances, but she enjoyed the attention.

  Morrison, the more dominant of the two feral youths, sprang up to her, moving deep within her personal space. ‘All right, Kel?’ he asked, quickly glancing at Harris for moral support and grinning. ‘Fancy sucking my cock yet?’

  ‘Fuck off, Tommy,’ she told him, pushing him away with a two-handed shove in his chest. ‘I wouldn’t suck it if it was the last cock on earth.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Morrison asked, half smiling, half snarling.

  ‘Yeah,’ she made it clear, leaning into his face for emphasis.

  ‘Then what about sucking his cock,’ he continued, motioning towards the grinning Harris, ‘while I fuck you from behind.’

  ‘Fuck off, Tommy,’ she repeated. ‘You wouldn’t know how.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ he smirked as he took a few steps backwards and began to unzip his dirty jeans.

  ‘Jesus, Tommy,’ she shook her head as if he was nothing more than a disappointing child. ‘You’re wasting your time. I wouldn’t fuck you even if you were a millionaire and, anyway, how come you two haven’t been nicked by these new cops yet?’ Her words turned their faces to stony seriousness. ‘You’ve heard about them, int’ya?’

  ‘Yeah, we’ve heard about them,’ Morrison told her.

  ‘Got most of the villains on the estate scared of their own shadows, I heard,’ Kelly baited them.

  ‘Yeah well, not us,’ Harris bluffed. ‘Old Bill. Fuck the Old Bill.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Morrison pumped himself up. ‘We’re too fly and sly for any copper.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Kelly smiled in her special way – a mix of flirtation and condescension. ‘Well I suppose we’ll see,’ she mocked them. ‘Find out if you’re as fly and sly as you think you are.’

  ‘Fuck you, Kel,’ Morrison snarled, aggrieved at her apparent admiration for the Unit. ‘You need to remember where you’re from.’

  ‘What?’ she asked indignant. ‘I’m supposed to have some sense of loyalty to this …’ she rolled her head and eyes at her surroundings, ‘toilet – just because I’m unlucky enough to have to live here. You know what the difference between me and you is?’ she continued. ‘This is as good as it’s ever going to get for you. But I’m getting out of here. One way or the other, sooner or later – I’m getting out of here. You won’t see me pushing a screaming baby round before my eighteenth birthday. I know where I’m headed, but you’re never gonna escape.’

  ‘You ain’t that special,’ Morrison spat. ‘See you round, Kel.’ He motioned with his chin to Harris that it was time to leave, their legs springing to life as they scampered off along the walkway, moving at an almost frenzied pace like the habitual thieves they were – heads and eyes darting every which way, always on the look out for a window left open, a door left unlocked.

  ‘See you round too,’ Kelly whispered to herself. ‘If you last that long.’

  King and Renita walked through an ancient railway arch built by the Victorians in the early years of steam trains. Although a road still ran through it, it was rarely used by traffic and endless fly-tipping had all but blocked it. The graffiti daubed on the dirty bricks made it clear the favoured football team in the area was West Ham, while other tags, both new and old, some crossed out and replaced with others, enhanced with threats of death and acts of sexual violence, suggested the arch lay on the border territory between at least two street gangs.

  ‘You sure about this?’ King asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ Renita reassured him. ‘I’ve been through here a few times. The wasteground’s on the other side and that’s where my friendly says she saw Swinton and the kids heading.’

  ‘OK,’ King went along with her, casually reading the graffitied messages of impending doom from one gang to another. ‘If you say so.’

  As they exited the arch they immediately heard the sound of laughing children, but it still sounded distant. They skirted around the tall wild grass that hid their approach, heading towards the young voices that grew ever louder, until they heard the voice of a man mixing cheerfully with the others. King automatically held his hand up to stop Renita.

  ‘Hear that?’ h
e asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ she whispered. ‘Looks like the friendly was right.’

  ‘Come on.’ He led them off, moving slowly until they reached the end of their cover, the wasteground stretching out beyond their hiding place. He slid his hand into the tall sheaves of grass and moved them aside just enough to enable him to spy on the children. They were all between ten and eleven years old, he guessed, sitting and lying on the floor, using whatever they could as makeshift chairs and sofas. In the middle he could see the figure of Alan Swinton, a unattractive white man in his early thirties with unkempt greasy brown hair and thicker-than-normal spectacles. His thin arms and legs contrasted badly with his swollen pot belly and made him appear like some sort of hideous spider-type creature. It was if he was trying to make himself perfectly fit the public’s stereotypical idea of what a paedophile would look like.

  ‘Is that your man?’ King whispered to Renita, leaning away so she could take a look, as if they were big game hunters spying their quarry through the long golden grass of the savannah. She looked through the parted stalks and began to nod slowly.

  ‘Yeah,’ she confirmed. ‘That’s him. He certainly looks the part. What do you want to do?’

  ‘Give him enough rope,’ he told her. ‘You say he has no convictions, then let’s wait until we have him bang to rights.’

  ‘But they’re kids,’ she warned. ‘If we wait until it’s too late for him, it might be too late for them too.’

  ‘We won’t let it go too far,’ he assured her, ‘just enough so we can bury him.’

  ‘How far is too far with children?’ she asked, her voice thick with concern.

  ‘So what do you want to do?’

  ‘All we can do,’ she explained in her hoarse whisper. ‘Warn him off – let him know we’re watching him. Maybe let the kids’ parents know.’

  ‘So he walks away again?’ he complained. Renita just shrugged resignedly. ‘Fine,’ he gave in. ‘Have it your way.’

  Without warning they burst from their hiding place and strode into the open ground, not worrying about the two or three more experienced children who took advantage of the others’ hesitation to jump to their feet and flee into the surrounding mess of rubble and trees. ‘Everyone stay where you are,’ he ordered, closing the distance quickly until he was in the middle of the group. ‘What you doing here?’ he asked the children, ignoring Swinton who sat wide-eyed and resigned on a stack of old cushions salvaged from God knows where, looking even more innocent and bewildered than the children around him.