The Chop Shop

by Heffernan, Christopher

  “Don't bother with that; they'll never give it back to the guy. Requisitioned property stays requisitioned, until somebody forgets what it is and throws it out with last week's lunch,” Hill said.

  "That's what I tried to tell him. Okay, the files have copied. Is it loading?" Richard said.

  "Yeah, it's reading them," Michael said. He cycled backwards through the images, watching the time stamp in the corner change. He saw the vehicle drive backwards down the road, until it stopped beside the alleyway.

  Hill leaned in closer, and his breath smelt of cheese and onion. “This guy wasn't messing about with security. Look, you can pick out the number plates.”

  Richard scribbled down the details.

  “You're flipping a coin as to whether they're fake or not,” Hill said.

  “It's not like we have a choice. Fake plates aren't so widespread these days, because it's already such a pain in the arse trying to track a vehicle down. Nothing to lose except our time, and we waste enough of that as it is,” Michael said.

  “I hope we catch a break sooner or later, otherwise we're going to be out of a job,” Richard said.

  Chapter 17.

  “Does this have anything to do with the phone call you made?” Richard said.

  Michael nodded. “I'll tell you all about it later. You're always going on about doing your own thing without somebody breathing down your neck, right? Well now you can. It won't take too long.”

  “Okay. Give me a buzz on the radio when you get back down, and I'll pick you up again.”

  Michael stepped out of the car. He lingered under one of the floodlights, as he watched Richard drive out of the security perimeter, and then made his way towards the cargo lift.

  “Going up?” the policeman said.

  He nodded. The policeman raised the safety barrier, and then secured it back in place with the metal chain. He slapped the up button with the palm of his hand, and the lifted jolted into action.

  It was raining on the surface of the plate, and puddles formed in the crevices of the ground, reflecting the glow of city lights and grey overcast skies. He took the monorail further into the centre and got off at Upper Temple station.

  Policemen stood guard behind portable barriers, ushering the stream of people in expensive clothes down the stairs and through weapon scanners, where they filtered out onto the street.

  Further on, Roadblocks formed a security perimeter around a set of buildings. His identity card and a security number got him through the checkpoint. Signs and private security personnel directed people around the maze of metal barriers to the main entrance, where banners proclaimed the opening of the Anna Berrie Corporation fashion display.

  The scent of extravagant perfumes hung in the air. A few people waited at the side, smoking cigarettes, and just beyond them was a woman in a wheelchair arguing with men from the venue's security team.

  People watched from behind the barriers with some vague trace of amusement or embarrassment on their faces. Michael pushed his way through their ranks, flashing his police identity to any who began to protest.

  Buzzing voices filled the entrance area, and the pitter-patter of shoes on hard flooring echoed off bare walls. Waiters carried platters of champagne amongst the guests and visitors. He checked his watch and headed into the main hall.

  Rows of seated people ran parallel either side of the catwalk, retreating into the darkness where the lights had been dimmed. Music played, interrupted now and then by the voice of a female announcer booming through the speakers. Michael thought he'd seen her on television once.

  He skirted around the edges of the hall, finding James halfway along the right side, partly hidden by a draped curtain. The hushed chatter of the audience fell away, as the next batch of models walked out onto the catwalk.

  Projectors shone panoramic photos of East European death camps onto each side of the hall. The women wore clothes fashioned out of military uniforms, carrying organ transplant boxes and gas masks for props. One wore a necklace of bones and bullets, and the next in line tugged on a chain attached to the man and woman trailing behind.

  Both were dressed up as refugees, accessories to the main display in their fake rags and dirty faces, and the woman clutched a human skull in her hands. Cameras flashed like automatic gunfire at the catwalk. The audience clapped.

  Michael found himself transfixed by the projections on the walls, as old memories better off forgotten resurfaced in his mind. “What the fuck is this, concentration camp chic?” Michael said.

  James put a finger to his lips and hushed him. “Quiet. Follow me, I don't have much time; I've got to cover one of the displays. It's a bit ghoulish isn't it?”

  “It's not ghoulish, it's tasteless.”

  They walked to the other end of the hall and turned a right into the corridor, as the last model finished striking a pose for the cameras. James got them both through the next line of security with a wave of his press pass.

  “They let you move about freely like this?” Michael said.

  “I'm here as part of the press. We're precisely the people they want to move about freely. Besides, these kinds of stories always go down well with our readership.”

  “That's too bad.”

  The corridor was crowded on both sides by media representatives and public relations workers, sipping drinks and talking, each one seeming as though they'd done it all a million times before. They wore a mixture of sharp business suits and trendy casual wear, with identity cards and press passes hanging about their necks.

  James let him into a side room and shut the door. A trio untouched coffees sat on the table, still giving off trails of steam. He sat down at one end of the table, placing his satchel on the side.

  “Will we have some privacy here?” Michael said.

  “As much as you'll get around here.”

  Michael frowned. “You have some very serious questions to answer. I should be dragging you down to our station.”

  “Yes, about that. You did something very questionable and very illegal in supplying confidential police files to outside sources for their own use. It would be very bad for you if that information became public knowledge, such as being printed in a newspaper.

  “Even if you tried to silence me, the truth would still get out. You can keep puffing your chest out and clenching your teeth, or we can go back to being cordial again. Take a breather, before you turn red in the face.”

  Michael reached under the table and wiped his sweaty hands. “That man ended up dead. I've got witnesses and CCTV footage to prove it. Funnily enough, he ends up dead right after you get handed that police file. You need to tell me what's going on.”

  James touched one of the polystyrene coffee cups. He winced at the heat, sniffed its contents and took a small sip before setting it down again.

  “'After you get handed that police file.' Yes, who handed it to me? I'm not responsible for his death, if that's what you're implying. I write articles for the paper and report stories, I don't have them killed. My boss and I needed to speak to him, and that's what we did. Somebody else killed him.”

  “So tell me why you needed to speak with him. What so important about this man? He obviously told you something, or frightened somebody by talking to the press.

  The door opened, and sound from outside flooded the room. Two men and a woman entered, still laughing at a shared joke. They saw him and stopped, and Michael flashed his police identity card.

  “Leave, we're having a private conversation.”

  They turned back, and pulled the door shut behind them. It went silent again, except for the distant pulse of music throbbing through the walls.

  “The MP who killed himself, the one you were investigating, there's going to be a by-election, right? Let's just say that the candidate most likely to win is the one who is not popular with my employer. It's bad for business, and my employer wants to make sure events do not go in his favour.”

  “You're smearing him?”

 
“I think the more accurate phrase would be informing the public of his very shady past and morally corruptive behaviour.”

  “Right.”

  “Jeremy Miller was an old university friend of his, and they had a tendency to get into trouble. His father was easy to track down, but him? Not so much. We didn't want to tip the father off, and the additional leverage would be useful, so that's why we had you get the files from your station database. We paid him some money, too. He wasn't in a good place; drugs cost.”

  “Somebody found out about Miller talking to you, and they went to shut him up?”

  “Except they were too late; he'd already spoken to us. We're not ready to go public yet, as there are still a few more skeletons to drag out of the cupboard. You might be interested to know that this new candidate is quite friendly with Eratech.”

  Michael scribbled a couple of messy lines in his notepad. “Doesn't it bother you that you might be next on the list for being taken out?”

  “They'd only be digging themselves a deeper hole. It's harder to get rid of somebody like me. Here, I've written some information down for you. It might be helpful in your investigation, and seeing as you're the one investigating this murder, perhaps you might like to pass along anything you find out. It'd only stain his reputation further. I can make it worth your while.”

  “Really?”

  James gave him that smug smile again. “The paper keeps a war chest set aside. Occasionally they print something too inflammatory about somebody with enough money to afford lawyers. It's been filling up again recently, so I'm sure I could get some of the funds diverted to you, if you ever helped us out some more.”

  Michael checked his watch and put the papers away in his coat pocket. “You keep playing these kinds of games and one day you're going to get burned.”

  “I very much doubt that, but anyway, I've got to get back to work.”

  They went back outside.

  “You know how to contact me if you change your mind,” James said.

  A female journalist blocked the way back to the catwalk with an arm stretched across the corridor. She had a drink in the other hand, chatting to two PR representatives.

  “Excuse me, ladies,” James said, flashing them a smile. They moved aside, and he vanished amongst the crowds in the main hall.

  They waited in the car park with the engine running, eating their sandwiches as they watched the front of the station. It seemed strangely lifeless, just empty cars waiting in neat little rows. Sometimes he caught a glimpse of a policeman or two, in the shadows with their rifles. Then the lights shifted, and the figures faded back into darkness again.

  “I don't like Harris breathing down the back of our necks. It's like he's watching every little move we make. He should become a politician. That's all they ever do,” Richard said. He ate more of his lunch.

  “He breathes down our necks because his superiors breathe down his. It's corporate bureaucracy. He was an officer in the army, though; I would have thought he'd know how to delegate properly. You can't command an infantry company whilst holding every private's dick in your hand.”

  Richard shrugged. “Sometimes he's not so bad. Sometimes it seems like he knows what he's doing. I suppose he looks out for us, but ever since you showed up here, things just haven't been working right. Bombings, killings, corporate espionage. It's getting too hot for me.”

  “I thought you wanted this. Maybe you should quit and find something else behind a desk.”

  “Look at the unemployment rates; it's this or scavenging for food. I'll take my chances with this.”

  “I don't blame you.”

  Harris came out of the entrance and paced towards them. He clutched a radio in one hand and a packet of cigarettes in the other, and Michael rolled down the window as he approached.

  “You wanted to speak with us, sir?” Michael said.

  The major nodded. “I didn't want it going out over the radio. All I can say is, be ready; something might be coming up. It's vague at the moment, and I can't tell you more than that, but you need to be ready to move.”

  “That doesn't mean much to me,” Michael said.

  “You've got a lead to follow up on for your investigation?”

  “Yes, sir. We have,” Richard said.

  “We've got a number plate that checked out at the council registry. Either the killers were complete amateurs or they made a serious misjudgement. There's an address we're going to check out, but we need a fire team to accompany us on the raid,” Michael said.

  Harris shook his head. “No can do. We're short on men and the other stations are unable to assist. A local businessman has paid to have squatters evicted from some properties he just bought, so they're all busy with that. The company is still pushing for us to get a grip on things. My hands are tied, sorry. Grab some gear from the armoury and wear body armour. You'll be fine. Contact me when you've cleared the place out.”

  “Ah, shit,” Richard muttered, when Harris was out of earshot.

  “God damn him.”

  Chapter 18.

  Part of the street was on fire. Licks of flame escaped from open windows and turned the surroundings a shade of orange-brown. Shadows stretched across the road, and an overturned police patrol vehicle blocked one lane, windows smashed, tires punctured and its shape pockmarked by bullet holes.

  Richard eased off the pedal and wheeled his car around the wreck. Bodies lay scattered across the road and pavement.

  “Stop the car and pull over, now. Before they see the headlights,” Michael said.

  Richard parked next to the pavement and killed the engine. The mob strung up another dead police officer from a lamp post. Two others dangled nearby.

  “There's the place and the van,” Richard said. He pointed to one of the houses.

  Michael rolled down the window and leaned out. He gestured to the woman standing in front of her flat, cradling a child in her arms as she puffed on a cigarette. “Hey, what happened here?”

  She took another puff from her cigarette. “They tried to evict some squatters from that building over there. They came out and found this lot waiting for them. Are you the police?”

  “No.”

  “Too bad, I was hoping you could shoot them all. They woke my baby up.”

  Michael rolled up the window again. “What do you want to do? I think we could get in there, but getting out alive with our prisoner is going to be another matter.”

  “I'd like to turn the car around and come back later, but they might not be here later. Maybe somebody will tip them off that we're on to them and disappear, and then it'll be another case we couldn't solve, and another step towards getting the sack for poor performance and failing to meet government targets.”

  Richard reached into his pocket and inspected the grenade. “I'll call it in on the radio. We can always shoot our way out, right?”

  Some of the group turned away from beating the corpses with sticks to stare at them, and the woman took her child inside.

  “Best leave the radio. They'll know we're police if they see it. Let's play it quietly,” Michael said.

  They got out of the car and opened the boot. Michael retrieved the duffel bag they'd taken with them. “Are they watching us?”

  “Yeah, and I think they're starting to tire of their piñata.”

  Michael went down the alley. Overgrown weeds and bushes crept up the sides of the fences, and a rusting washing machine blocked half of the path. Broken glass crunched under their feet. They turned the corner out of sight of the mob, and he allowed himself to relax.

  “Needles everywhere,” Richard muttered.

  Michael pulled on a glove and felt along the top of the fence, pulling on it gently before climbing up to look over the other side. “It's safe.”

  They climbed over and landed in a patch of overgrown grass. The glow of warm light behind net curtains stretched across the garden from a kitchen window. Michael went down on one knee, unzipped the duffel bag and passed Richard a ca
rbine and ammunition.

  He inserted two blue breaching cartridges into shotgun, followed by five green slugs. They put in their ear plugs and removed more equipment from the bag, piling it into their coat pockets.

  Michael advanced towards the kitchen door. He tried the handle, but it didn't budge. Richard lined up behind him. He pointed the shotgun at the lock, looked away, and then blasted it twice. The door swung open, and Michael moved into the kitchen, as a humanoid shadow extended from the lounge.

  He sidestepped across the doorway, shotgun stock pressed into his shoulder. The man was reaching for a double-barrelled weapon from beneath a cushion on the sofa. He stood six feet tall, bald head reflecting the dim light of the energy saving bulb above them. His white t-shirt was stretched taut over bulging muscles.

  “Drop it,” Michael said.

  The man levelled the shotgun in his direction. Two barbs shot past Michael, trailing thin wire, and they pierced the t-shirt and then the man's flesh. Richard's stun gun crackled.

  The man's eyes widened, and his facial muscles contracted as a spasm ran through his body. Finally he dropped, tumbling and squirming about on the carpet.

  “Have some of that,” Richard said.

  Saliva ran from the corners of his mouth. Richard squeezed the trigger again, and another jolt electricity struck him.

  “Try not to electrocute him to death,” Michael said. He whipped a set of flexicuffs from his pocket and retrained the man's hands behind his back. “Simon Doyle? You'll be coming with us the police station to answer a few questions.”

  Simon spat on the floor. “Fuck off, I ain't done nothing wrong.”

  “Who lives in the flat upstairs?”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Forget it, Mike. The mob is still out there. Check the rest of the place and then let's go,” Richard said.

  Michael went into the bedroom. He flicked on the light switch and rifled through everything he could find. An envelope full of cash lurked beneath the mattress, along with a list of phone numbers and addresses. He pocketed them all.