The Rule of Fear

by Luke Delaney

  ‘Good,’ King lied. ‘I’m fine. I’ve been working out again – running when I can.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Gerrard replied, looking down at his reports and tapping his fingers nervously on his desk. ‘Excellent. And what about other things,’ he continued. ‘How you feeling in yourself?’

  ‘You mean psychologically?’ King asked, enjoying the look of discomfort on Gerrard’s face.

  ‘Exactly,’ Gerrard said, the smile flickering on his face. ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ve read my psych reports,’ King bullied his senior officer.

  ‘And they’re accurate, are they?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And they say you’re fine?’

  ‘Yes, sir. They do.’

  ‘Well then, all’s good,’ Gerrard suddenly beamed, his perceived duty done – the box ticked. ‘And now all that’s out of the way, I’d better let you get back to work – let you get this street-cop thing out of your system. Remember, good arrests and rolling around on the ground with the local villainy may win you a lot of friends with the rank and file, but being a senior officer isn’t a popularity contest. Sometimes you have to be prepared to sit on your own in the corner of the canteen because you’ve had to make an unpopular decision that nobody likes or understands. Such is the responsibility of being a senior officer.’

  ‘That’s good advice. Thank you. I’ll remember that,’ King replied, although his mind had already left the room. ‘Is there anything else?’

  ‘Just one thing,’ Gerrard answered, trying to sound casual. ‘These attacks on young children in and around the Grove Wood Estate – I hear they’re still happening.’

  King cleared his throat before answering through his rising anger. ‘Yes, sir.’

  Gerrard leaned back in his chair and sighed a little. ‘Got to put a stop to it, Jack – before we end up dealing with something even more serious. Something that the media get a hold of. Could be very embarrassing. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he managed to reply despite the almost paralysing tension he felt in his jaw. ‘Well, thanks for your time,’ he added, rising from his chair.

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ Gerrard assured him. ‘Any time.’

  Too late, King realized he was staring a little too intently at Gerrard.

  ‘Something else I can do for you?’ Gerrard asked, his smile only slightly wavering.

  ‘No, sir,’ King managed to say. ‘There’s nothing.’

  King sat alone in the canteen back at Canning Town Police Station forcing down a late breakfast in an attempt to slay the last remnants of his hangover, glad to be away from the glare of the Borough headquarters and the senior officers who seemed to be everywhere. The atmosphere at Canning Town couldn’t have felt more different. Here those above the rank of inspector were rarely seen and sergeants, constables and a small detachment of CID officers were largely left alone to get on with their jobs, bringing a kind of peaceful calm to the place, despite the relentless storm of crime just beyond the walls.

  Danny Williams ghosted into the canteen, made his way over to King and took a seat. ‘You look well,’ he teased.

  ‘I’ve been better,’ King replied, moving unwanted food around his plate.

  ‘Late night, Sarge?’

  ‘D’you fucking want something, Danny?’ King ended the joke. ‘Because if not …’

  ‘Just thought you should know there were a couple of residential burglaries on the estate last night,’ Williams explained. ‘Didn’t get reported until late last night when the victims got home after a night on the piss at The Warrior.’

  ‘Unfortunate,’ King told him, ‘but not unusual. Whoever did it was probably in The Warrior themselves and knew the victims. Saw they were there and knew they were out.’

  ‘That’s not all though,’ Williams tried to intrigue him. ‘Whoever did it left a calling card behind – at both venues.’

  ‘Calling card?’ King took the bait.

  ‘Sprayed “Fuck the Old Bill” on the walls inside the flats,’ Williams explained. ‘Looks like someone’s trying to send us a message.’

  ‘Suspects?’ King asked.

  ‘Nothing solid,’ Williams admitted. ‘Just my opinion.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Classic Morrison and Harris burglaries,’ Williams answered. ‘Although the graffiti’s new, not that it’ll do us any good. They rarely leave any usable forensics behind. They’re no geniuses, but they’re smart enough to glove-up.’

  ‘And the stolen goods?’ King tried another angle.

  ‘They took a fair bit of stuff,’ Williams explained, ‘but nothing they couldn’t carry in one trip. They’re too experienced to risk return visits.’

  ‘Any info on where they stash their nicked gear?’

  ‘Not at home – if that’s what you’re hoping for.’

  ‘Then we could start with Baroyan,’ King suggested. ‘Stake out his place and wait for Morrison or Harris to turn up.’

  ‘If they even use Baroyan,’ Williams questioned, ‘which I admit is likely, would they be dumb enough or bold enough to take the stuff there themselves?’

  ‘Uhhm,’ King thought for a second, his eyes narrowing with the germ of an idea and a favour to be offered. ‘I think I have an idea.’

  Minutes later, King and Williams were pounding hard on the fragile door that covered the entrance to Dougie O’Neil’s squalid little flat. They received no answer so pounded again without calling out who they were. After a while, a scared, angry male voice came from the other side, close to the door, no doubt trying to get a feel of who was waiting for him.

  ‘Who is it?’ he demanded. ‘What d’you want?’

  ‘Sergeant King,’ he answered, ‘and PC Williams. Open the door, Dougie.’ His demand was met by silence.

  ‘Probably shitting himself,’ Williams offered. ‘Stuffing a rock of crack up his arse as we speak.’

  ‘Probably,’ King agreed and sighed as he cupped a hand over his mouth and tried to ease his words through the door so no one else could hear. ‘It’s all right, Dougie. We’re not interested in your gear. We just want to speak.’

  Silence for a few seconds before O’Neil responded. ‘What about?’

  ‘Open the door and we’ll tell you,’ King promised, but still it remained closed. ‘I can’t talk to you through a door, Dougie, but I’m happy to kick it open if you like.’

  ‘No,’ came the panicked reply. ‘No, wait.’

  A few seconds later and the door swung slowly open, O’Neil’s head jutting out and bobbing in all directions like an anxious deer. He checked the coast was clear before stepping aside and quickly ushering them inside then slamming the thin plywood barrier shut.

  ‘That’s better,’ King told him. ‘Don’t want the entire estate knowing our business.’

  ‘Which is?’ O’Neil asked, walking away from them, heading to his desperate-looking living room where he flopped on the salvaged sofa and immediately lit the sad-looking remains of a homemade cigarette.

  ‘I need information,’ King explained. ‘Information you might be able to help with.’

  ‘I’m no grass,’ O’Neil insisted. ‘I ain’t gonna grass on anyone.’

  ‘No one’s asking you to do that, Dougie,’ King lied. ‘Just a one-off piece of information is all we need. Besides – you were happy enough to try and serve up Micky Astill for us and save yourself.’

  ‘That was different,’ O’Neil tried to explain. ‘Astill’s a cunt. You’re pissing up the wrong tree if you want information on anyone else,’ he dug in, his expression blank and disinterested.

  King circled around him as O’Neil remained seated – close enough to make his expression change to one of nervous anticipation. ‘I should probably remind you you’re still on bail, Dougie. The Blu-ray, remember? Nicked during a residential burglary. You could do some serious time for that.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ O’Neil squirmed. ‘You can’t do me for the burglary. Most you can do me for is
handling.’

  ‘With your form that’s still enough to send you down, Dougie,’ King said, standing directly behind him and resting a heavy hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Or?’ O’Neil asked.

  ‘Or,’ King followed his lead, ‘you can help us out with a little bit of information and maybe, if things work out, I can make the trouble with the Blu-ray disappear.’

  ‘How you gonna do that?’ O’Neil questioned, his eyes narrow with suspicion. ‘CID ain’t never gonna drop it.’

  ‘Job’s not with CID,’ King explained. ‘I kept it and I can make it go away. No one will notice. No one will care.’

  ‘And in exchange?’ O’Neil warmed to the idea – his primeval, feral instinct to look after number one superseding all others.

  ‘Like I said,’ King repeated, ‘information.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Tommy Morrison and Justin Harris,’ Williams joined in. ‘You know them?’

  ‘Yeah,’ O’Neil shrugged. ‘I know them. Most people round here do.’

  ‘Two burglaries last night,’ Williams spoke matter-of-factly. ‘Reckon Morrison and Harris are good for them.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So where do they keep the gear until it’s time to get it to Baroyan?’ King bluffed, pretending he knew more than he really did.

  ‘Slow down,’ O’Neil insisted, sounding more confident than usual. ‘Morrison and Harris may be young, but they can be vicious little bastards. You want info on them I’ll need you to make the thing with the Blu-ray to disappear and I’ll need a nice drink out of it.’

  ‘You want cash as well?’ Williams laughed. ‘Fuck you, Dougie. Looks like we’ll just have to charge you with the burglary after all. You want too much, my friend.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ O’Neil panicked. ‘Fuck me. Morrison and Harris are too careful to keep their nicked gear in their homes—’

  ‘We already know that,’ King rushed him. ‘Where?’

  Dougie filled his damaged lungs and began to speak as he exhaled, as if he could rush the words out before he ran out of courage. ‘They keep it in one of the small storage rooms in Millander Walk – the ones used by the caretaker. They slip him a few quid now and then to keep him sweet and he lets them have a key to the room. They can come and go as they please. It’s a nice set-up.’

  ‘I’m sure it is,’ King spat his agreement. ‘And how do they get the gear to Baroyan?’

  ‘Well they don’t take it themselves, if that’s what you mean,’ O’Neil grinned. ‘Too slippery for that, those bastards.’

  Williams leaned in close. ‘So how?’

  ‘Got a little runner, ain’t they?’ O’Neil tried to get him to back away. ‘Little kid off the estate called Aaron Thompson. Good little thief in his own right, I hear. He meets Morrison and Harris at the storage cupboard and checks out the gear. He then goes to Baroyan who hears what’s for sale and then sends the kid back with an offer. Eventually a price is agreed and the kid takes the stuff over to Baroyan and brings the cash back to the other two and they give him a small cut. It’s a sweet set-up, but Morrison and Harris are vulnerable when they first show Thompson the gear and when he comes back to collect it. That’s when you can catch them with the goods. If they’re hanging around near the cupboard and Thompson appears, chances are the gear will still be inside.’

  King and Williams looked at each other before both nodding in silent agreement. ‘Very good, Dougie,’ Williams told him. ‘That’s actually pretty decent information you’ve given us there.’

  ‘So you’ll make the Blu-ray go away?’ he asked eagerly.

  ‘Maybe,’ King told him.

  ‘Maybe?’ O’Neil sat up stiffly. ‘You promised.’

  ‘I don’t remember promising,’ King argued. ‘Do you remember me promising?’ he asked Williams sarcastically.

  ‘No, Sarge,’ Williams shook his head. ‘Don’t remember that.’

  ‘I said I’d see what I could do,’ he told the hapless O’Neil who slumped back down into his chair. ‘But I wouldn’t get any ideas about telling Morrison and Harris that you’ve been talking about them,’ he warned him. ‘Wouldn’t like to think what they’d do to you if they thought you were a grass.’

  ‘Fucking Old Bill,’ O’Neil complained. ‘You can never trust the Old Bill.’

  Tommy Morrison and Justin Harris loitered near one of the caretaker’s storage rooms in Millander Walk smoking hard and covering the floor with a constant barrage of frothy spit as they continually looked both ways along the walkway. Eventually they saw the person they’d been waiting for approaching. Aaron Thompson walked casually towards them – his carefree spirit instantly knocked out of him as Morrison clubbed him around the side of his head with an open-palm strike. Thompson winced and cowered before recovering his courage.

  ‘What the fuck was that for?’ he complained.

  ‘You’re late,’ Morrison accused him. ‘You were supposed to be here ten minutes ago.’

  ‘My mum only told me a few minutes ago you wanted to see me,’ Thompson complained, still rubbing the side of his head. ‘What was I supposed to do?’

  ‘Maybe he’s too young to be reliable?’ Harris teased him.

  ‘Yeah,’ Morrison snarled in agreement. ‘Maybe you’re too young.’

  ‘I ain’t too young,’ Thompson protested, anxious at the thought of losing the much-needed income from his part-time job. ‘I’ll be thirteen next year.’

  ‘So why don’t you use some of the money you make from us to buy a decent mobile?’ Morrison quizzed him. ‘Then we wouldn’t have to call at your old dear’s and leave fucking messages for you.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Thompson pleaded, looking a little sheepish. ‘My mum won’t let me.’

  ‘You soft cunt,’ Harris told him. ‘Use your imagination. Get one without your bitch mum finding out.’

  ‘All right,’ he assured them, but their faces told him they weren’t convinced. ‘I said all right, didn’t I?’

  ‘Fine,’ Morrison relented, his snarl turning to a grin as he pulled a key to the storage room from his pocket. ‘Take a look at this tidy lot,’ he told Thompson and moved to the door, sliding the large key into the hole and turning it smoothly and easily as Harris kept lookout. He pushed the door open and stepped aside, allowing Thompson to enter. Morrison slipped in behind him, closely followed by Harris, but as he began to close the door it exploded inwards as if a truck had just driven into it, sending Harris spiralling to the floor, his eyes wide with fear and shock as he prepared to assess the threat and make a snap decision whether to fight, attempt flight or beg. Thompson just froze where he was standing, struggling to control his bladder as Morrison darted from one side of the small room to the other, like a rat trapped in a corner, looking for an escape route that simply wasn’t there.

  King and Williams stood in the doorway watching the chaos their entrance had caused for a few seconds before King spoke.

  ‘All right. Everybody stay where they are.’ Harris ceased his scrambling on the floor, but Morrison continued to spiral around the room like a broken android until King stepped forward and grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and almost lifted him off the ground, pulling his face close. ‘I said, stand still.’ Morrison froze for a second before he began to convulse and struggle. King tightened his grip and shook him hard twice – Morrison’s head snapping backwards and forwards until he managed to speak.

  ‘All right. All right,’ Morrison pleaded, holding his hands up in surrender. King pushed him to the side of the room and began to look around without speaking while Williams’ sizeable frame guarded the door against any desperate escape attempts. It didn’t take long to find the barely concealed stolen goods: two flat-screen TVs, a Blu-ray player, a large collection of DVDs and a small amount of gold jewellery.

  King turned to Morrison, who was already gathering his thoughts and regaining some of his composure and swagger. ‘Turn around,’ King told him, ‘and put your hands against the wall.�
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  ‘What?’ Morrison argued.

  ‘Just do it,’ King demanded and gave him a helping hand as he twisted him around by the shoulder and pushed him forward.

  ‘Easy,’ Morrison complained.

  ‘Shut the fuck up,’ King told him as he began to search him, quickly finding what he was looking for and pulling a thin pair of polyester gloves from his pocket. ‘You’re so fucking predictable,’ he told Morrison as he slapped him across the back of his head with them.

  ‘My hands get cold,’ Morrison sneered.

  ‘In the middle of summer?’ King raised his voice. ‘Don’t be a mug.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Morrison challenged him. ‘Well, them gloves mean you won’t find my prints on nothing.’

  ‘That right?’ King calmly asked before turning to Harris who was still on the floor. ‘Get up,’ he told him. With little urgency Harris pulled himself to his feet and began to dust himself down. ‘Hand them over,’ King insisted.

  ‘Hand what over?’ he asked, puzzled.

  ‘Your gloves,’ King explained. Harris just shrugged, pulled a pair of polyester gloves from his pocket and gave them to King.

  ‘And that means his prints won’t be on nothing neither,’ Morrison smirked.

  King seemed to ignore him as he turned to Thompson who’d barely blinked since they’d burst into the room. ‘You,’ King quietly barked at the boy, making him flinch. ‘Fuck off.’ But the boy didn’t move – made rigid by his confusion. ‘I said, fuck off,’ King repeated. Thompson sprang to life and darted past the equally confused-looking Williams.

  ‘You got nothing,’ Morrison drew the attention back to himself. ‘What you gonna do us for? Being in a fucking storage cupboard? All this shit could be the caretaker’s.’

  ‘It could,’ King agreed, ‘only we saw you carrying it in here – didn’t we, Danny?’ He looked at Williams in a defining moment of truth. If Williams went with him now he’d probably have to go with him forever. But if he didn’t, they were finished working together. Their eyes stayed locked together while Williams decided his future on the Unit.

  ‘Fucking right we did,’ he finally answered, but his face was blank and his tone neutral – hard to read how he really felt.