by Luke Delaney
‘No,’ she answered with a stunted laugh.
‘Seems different to me,’ Brown whispered. ‘He’s changed.’
‘You mean he’s enjoying himself?’ she explained more than asked.
‘I mean he’s not himself,’ Brown remained serious.
‘Go on,’ she encouraged him.
‘He used to be so … straight,’ Brown responded. ‘To be honest I thought he was a bit too fucking straight – accelerated promotion and all that. Truth be told I was a little nervous about working with him – thought we may not see policing in the same way, if you know what I mean. But now …’
‘What you talking about?’ she asked, trying to sound dismissive but failing.
Brown looked around conspiratorially before answering. ‘Like taking drugs off suspects and pocketing it instead of arresting them.’ Renita said nothing, but her silence was her answer. ‘Aye,’ Brown said knowingly. ‘What was it with you?’
‘Cannabis,’ she admitted before trying to make it sound like nothing. ‘A tiny amount. No bigger than the nail on my little finger. You?’
‘Heroin.’ Brown said it like it was a venereal disease. ‘About half a gram from what I could see. Put it in his pocket and fucked the scag head off. You ever see that puff again?’
‘No,’ she confirmed.
Brown shook his head with concern. ‘He’s a worry. He’s a worry. Perhaps he’s been on that cursed estate too long? Perhaps we all have? A few months in that place is enough for anyone.’
Just as Renita was about to continue the conversation King rounded the corner and entered the office. ‘Who’s been on the estate too long? We’ve only been at it a few weeks.’ Renita and Brown looked at each other, confusion etched on their faces.
‘A few weeks?’ Brown spat the question. ‘What you talking about – a few weeks?’ but before King could answer, the unexpected appearance of Inspector Johnston in the office doorway silenced them all.
‘Not disturbing anything, I hope,’ she asked, smiling her warmest fake smile.
‘No, ma’am,’ King replied, trying to look as relaxed as he could. ‘We were just having a bit of a team meeting – to discuss the way forward.’
‘Good,’ Johnston replied. ‘Good. Just thought I’d drop by and once again say congratulations on results so far. Your figures are making the Safer Neighbourhood Teams very jealous.’
‘Thank you,’ King nodded, hoping Johnston would be satisfied and leave.
‘You’ve really got them on the run down there,’ Johnston told them. ‘In fact things have been going so well that it might soon be time to move you from the Grove Wood Estate to some other troublesome housing area – see if you can’t have the same effect there. God knows, there’s plenty of them on the borough.’
King stiffened before answering. ‘Really? I was under the impression we were to be given at least six months on the Grove Wood. There’s still a lot of unfinished business – youth disorder, as well as a number of significant dealers still in place. We need more time.’
‘Not sure the figures agree with you,’ Johnston argued. ‘From what I can see everything seems to be settling down very nicely.’
‘Figures can be deceiving,’ King insisted. ‘We’ve had some early success, that’s all. Local slags are just keeping their heads down. They’re not stupid. They’ll stay out of sight for a while and hope we go away and as soon as we do they’ll take over again. Pulling the plug on the Unit’s exactly what they’re waiting for. Exactly what they want.’
‘We’re not talking about the end of the Unit,’ Johnston explained, ‘merely moving it. If things turn bad on the Grove Wood we can always move you back – make you more of a mobile unit – switching from trouble spot to trouble spot.’
‘Our strength lies in our local knowledge,’ King countered. ‘If we’re turned into some sort of borough-based TSG we lose our greatest weapon.’
‘Well,’ Johnston smiled, tired of arguing with a subordinate, ‘we’ll see. You’ve already had enough time to make an impact. In the meantime I also hear there’s been another child attacked on the estate.’
‘Yes ma’am,’ Renita admitted. ‘I took the report. Happened earlier today. Looks like the suspect followed the victim and—’
‘I know the details,’ Johnston interrupted her. ‘And I know this was the most serious case to date. But what I really want to know is how are you going to stop him?’ She paused as she took it in turns to look each of them in the eye before suddenly smiling again. ‘Keep up the good work.’ She spun on her heels and was gone.
‘Fuck,’ King cursed loudly once he was sure Johnston was out of range. Renita saw his anger, even if she didn’t understand it.
‘What’s the problem?’ she asked. ‘New estates mean new faces to nick. Another few weeks of walking around the Grove Wood and I don’t know about you two, but I’ll be going out of my head.’
‘Unfinished business,’ King snarled. ‘I don’t like unfinished business and this prick who’s attacking kids is really beginning to piss me off. We need to stop him – one way or the other. I’m going back on the estate,’ he told them as he quickly checked his equipment. ‘See if I can’t find someone to nick. Earn a bit of overtime.’
‘Your shift’s almost finished,’ Renita tried to persuade him. ‘Why don’t you just go home and see Sara?’
‘No,’ he answered bluntly, ‘and if any of you see Everton Watson out and about, give me a shout on the PR straight away. Understand?’ They both just shrugged. ‘Good,’ he told them and strode from the office.
Renita exhaled deeply before speaking. ‘What the hell was that all about?’
‘I told you,’ Brown replied, shaking his head. ‘He’s changed. Losing it.’
‘He isn’t losing it,’ Renita defended him.
‘Isn’t he?’ Brown snapped back. ‘Well I guess we’ll see, eh? We’ll see.’
King moved silently around the estate unseen – keeping to the rarely used paths and hugging the lines of buildings, occasionally concealing himself in a stairwell and observing life below. All seemed quiet until the unfortunate Dougie O’Neil suddenly came into view – moving quickly past the cars parked at the roadside, his head bobbing and weaving as he looked into each and every one in search of an easy steal. He may have just been on his way to the rundown local shop for a loaf of cheap bread, but a lowlife thief like O’Neil was a constant thief – always on the lookout for something of value, any value, that had been left unattended and was within his oily grasp.
King circled ahead of him, hiding in a tight alleyway as he prepared to pounce. Once O’Neil was level, still bobbing along the pavement with the typical stride of a petty criminal, King sprang from the alley and gave a short, sharp whistle. O’Neil looked up, his eyes wild with alertness until he saw who it was – his whole body suddenly slumping as King summoned him with a flick of his fingers. O’Neil looked to the heavens and mouthed something King couldn’t hear before walking towards him with head bowed.
‘Weren’t planning on screwing one of these motors, were you, Dougie?’ King asked with a wry smile.
‘No,’ O’Neil pleaded his innocence, looking indignant.
‘Really,’ King sounded bored. ‘First time for everything then.’
‘Why you hassling me?’ O’Neil argued, more spirited than usual.
‘I’m not hassling you, Dougie,’ King warned him. ‘If I was hassling you, believe me, you’d know about it. For one thing, I’d have already arrested you by now for vehicle interference.’
‘I didn’t touch a single motor,’ O’Neil pleaded. ‘You can’t nick me just for looking.’
‘Shut up, Dougie,’ King demanded. ‘I can do whatever I like.’
‘Whatever,’ O’Neil surrendered. ‘So why you pulling me in the street?’
‘Couldn’t come round your flat so soon after my last visit, could I?’ King explained. ‘That could get tongues wagging. Somebody might just be smart enough to put two and two together
– drop you right in it.’
‘So what you want?’ O’Neil asked as King led him into the alley and out of sight of prying eyes.
‘Information,’ King answered. ‘That’s all.’
‘More information,’ O’Neil complained. ‘You’re getting obsessive. You should go home once in a while.’
‘Why?’ King asked. ‘If I did that I’d miss out on all the fun I have chasing the likes of you around the estate. Why would I rather be at home relaxing, drinking a cold beer and watching TV than walking around this sewer?’
‘Like I said,’ O’Neil ignored the sarcasm, ‘you’re getting obsessed. You’ll be fucking moving in next.’
‘Information,’ King ignored him. ‘I need information.’
‘No, no,’ O’Neil found a backbone. ‘You still owe me for last time. Heard you had a nice little result out of my last tip. Reckon that’s more than covered the Blu-ray. Anything else’ll cost you.’
‘Fair enough,’ King surprisingly agreed. ‘You give me what I need and you’ll be well rewarded. You have my word.’
‘Your word don’t seem to be worth much,’ O’Neil pushed his luck.
‘I had to make sure you were reliable,’ King lied. ‘Someone I could trust. Now I know you are we can move forward in a more businesslike manner. If your information’s good, you’ll be rewarded.’
‘And the Blu-ray?’ O’Neil checked.
‘Gone,’ King assured him. ‘Disappeared, along with the paperwork.’
O’Neil eyed him with deep suspicion before finally agreeing. ‘Fine. What you want to know?’
‘Everton Watson,’ King told him.
‘Why so interested in Watson?’
‘Let’s just say there’s nothing worse than an itch you can’t scratch.’
‘Fair enough,’ O’Neil played along, ‘but you’ll only catch Everton if you get really lucky. You’ll have to catch him while he’s actually screwing someone’s gaff or catch him out and about with stolen gear, but good luck with that one.’
‘What d’you mean?’ King questioned.
‘Everton works alone,’ O’Neil explained, ‘so there’s no one can grass him up, because no one knows what he’s up to. Also he’s completely random where and when he goes screwing – totally unpredictable, know what I mean.’
‘Then we take him out the same way we took out Morrison and Harris,’ King suggested. ‘You tell me where he keeps his nicked gear and I’ll plot him up.’
‘Can’t be done,’ O’Neil shook his head, taking a second to look around the alley to make sure they weren’t being seen together. ‘Everton doesn’t use a fixed place. Once he’s screwed a gaff he hides the gear all over the estate – in bins, on roofs, in garages – all over the shop and rarely the same place twice.’
‘Then his handler,’ King proposed. ‘We keeps obs on his handler and wait for him to come to us. I assume he uses Baroyan.’
‘He does, but it’s no good,’ O’Neil dismissed it. ‘Like Morrison and Harris he uses runners to get the gear to Baroyan, only he uses a whole bunch of different ones. Little kids mainly and he never meets them in a specific place. Everton’s slippery – I tell you. Not an easy geezer to catch.’
‘Errm,’ King nodded his head in appreciation of Watson’s tradecraft. ‘I’ll think about it,’ he said before changing tack. ‘What about drug dealers?’ he asked. ‘Are there any other dealers on the estate?’
‘Astill’s your main man for crack and brown,’ O’Neil mused.
‘I already know about him,’ King reminded him.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ O’Neil grinned as he remembered. ‘Then there’s Susie Ubana if you’re interested in puff.’
‘Not interested,’ King insisted. ‘Class A only.’
‘And if the info turns out good,’ O’Neil checked, ‘I get paid, right?’
‘That’s what I said, isn’t it?’ King snapped at him.
‘Then there is one I know about,’ O’Neil admitted.
‘You mean one you’ve bought off,’ said King.
‘Yeah, well,’ O’Neil shrugged before trying to move on. ‘There’s a black kid still lives on the estate with his mum, who knows nothing about what he’s up to, hence he does his dealing on the street.’
‘Got a name?’ King pressed him.
‘Tyrone Mooney,’ O’Neil told him. ‘He’s only about eighteen and not too smart neither.’
‘All very interesting,’ King replied, sounding frustrated, ‘but you haven’t told me how I’m going to take him out.’
‘He deals on the estate,’ O’Neil explained. ‘In the stairwell at Brody House. He usually holds about ten rocks, but he doesn’t keep ’em in his mouth or shoved, he dots them around the stairwell – one under a Coke can, one in a crisp packet, that sort of thing. Then he phones his customers and lets them know he’s open for business – then it’s first come, first served. They give him the cash and he tells them where their rock is hidden. Once he’s sold out he fucks off, till next time.’
‘Sounds interesting,’ King admitted. ‘But how do I know when he’ll be there selling?’
O’Neil spread his arms wide apart and grinned. ‘Like I said, he phones his regular customers.’
‘Fine,’ King decided. ‘When he calls you – you call me. Agreed?’
‘Agreed,’ O’Neil nodded once. ‘Can I go now?’
‘Soon,’ King deflated him, ‘but first I need another piece of information.’
‘Ain’t you had enough?’ O’Neil appealed to him.
‘Not that sort of info,’ King told him, surprised by his own words – confused by his conscious being hijacked by his subconscious, thoughts and ideas that had been swirling in the darkness of his damaged mind fighting their way to the surface and finally finding a voice, even if that voice would only lead him down an ever darkening path – albeit one where his anguish and pain were dulled.
‘Then what?’
‘I need you to tell me how people take heroin,’ King surprised him, ‘and crack.’
‘What?’ O’Neil laughed. ‘You mean you don’t know?’
‘I know the principles,’ King explained, ‘but I’ve never seen it done close up. I’ve seen plenty of pipes, syringes and foil lying around – seized a fair few too – but I’ve never had the interest to pay much attention to how they’re actually used or the pipes made. I don’t know exactly how they’re put together. Not exactly something they’re going to teach us in training school, is it, and I’m hardly undercover or working the drug squad, so,’ he pointed a finger at O’Neil, ‘you tell me.’
‘Why don’t you just look on the Internet?’ O’Neil grinned. ‘Plenty instructions on there.’
‘Maybe I don’t trust computers,’ King explained.
‘Man, you’re paranoid,’ O’Neil told him. ‘Not thinking about trying forbidden fruits for yourself, are you, Sergeant?’
‘And end up like you?’ King looked at him with disdain. ‘Don’t be a cunt, Dougie.’ The grin fell from O’Neil’s face. ‘Now you gonna tell me how it’s done or not?’
O’Neil shrugged again. ‘Sure. Why not?’ He cleared his throat at if he was about to deliver a lecture. ‘There’s only one way to take crack – you gotta smoke it. You can hot-pipe or you can use a water-cooled bong. Most people start with a bong. It’s safer – don’t burn your lips and give yourself crack-lip – but once you’re really into the stuff you just hot-pipe it.’
‘Which is?’ King sought to clarify.
‘Just get yourself a little glass pipe, with a hole in both ends – the crack goes one end and the other you suck on. Put a lighter to the crack and smoke the fucker – only the pipe gets fucking hot, hence burnt lips.’
King couldn’t help but study O’Neil’s own lips and sure enough noticed the scarring and recent burn injuries from too many hot-pipes. ‘I’ve seen plenty of pipes,’ King told him, ‘but not so many bongs.’
‘People hold on to their bongs,’ O’Neil explained. ‘Even shitty homem
ade ones.’
‘And how d’you make one?’ King asked.
‘Easy enough,’ O’Neil answered. ‘Get a small plastic water bottle. Cut a couple of holes in it – both pretty high inthe bottle. Stick a hollow pen or something into one of the holes and seal it with chewing gum, whatever. Leave the other open – that’s your blow-hole. Then you want to fill it with a couple of inches of water, but not enough to reach the holes or the pen sticking in it. Then you get a little bit of tinfoil and, like, poke it down inside the top of the bottle a bit and wrap the edges around the outside of the top and maybe use an elastic band to keep it in place, but you need to use a needle to put loads of little holes in the foil. Then put the crack on the top of the foil, light it and inhale the smoke through the hollow pen. The water cools it down so it don’t burn. That’s it.’
‘And heroin?’
‘Well,’ O’Neil thought about it as if he was considering his preference between two fine wines, ‘hardcore is to mainline it. Take you straight to fucking paradise, man, but it can be dangerous, especially if the gear’s no good – been cut with too much shit, know what I mean?’
‘Go on,’ King encouraged him.
‘Best to smoke horse too. You can use a bong, but best to just chase the dragon. Make a circle with the brown on some skinny tinfoil and heat it from below. When it smokes suck it up with a pipe, or straw, it don’t matter, and inhale that bad fucker deep, man.’
‘That it?’ King checked.
‘Yeah, that’s it,’ O’Neil confirmed.
‘Why not just take cocaine?’ King asked. ‘Why bother with all the hassle when they could just do a line of cocaine?’
‘Cocaine?’ O’Neil asked, wide-eyed and smiling. ‘That’s a rare high around here,’ he explained. ‘This ain’t a night out in a West End club. Cocaine’s too expensive and the hit’s nothing compared to crack or horse. Unless you’re dealing big quantities of it it’s fucking difficult to make any money dealing that shit – practically talking minimum wage. Nah, man. There was no money in cocaine until dealers started turning it into crack. Then they had the perfect drug. More than ten times as profitable as cocaine and a hundred times more addictive. What dealer wouldn’t want to sell it?’