by Gary Tulley
Sighing thankfully, Eastern reached out and grasped the inviting glass from her hand. “Thanks Joan, I’d almost forgotten what it tasted like.” Forced to agree, Joan nodded decisively before hitting back to silence his statement.
“After taking in what has happened, I can only think that you’re fortunate enough to have an opinion at all! This isn’t a one off Mike, and you know it. These people are playing for high stakes, and using you as a pawn in the process. And as for those so-called spooks, hell! You don’t owe them a damn thing.”
Content to fall back on his Scotch as a cover, Eastern declined to reply, knowing that as an outsider looking in, Joan had inadvertently stated the obvious. Nevertheless, downing what remained in the glass stirred him into levelling Joan’s own genuine observations. “It seems light years away since you initially decided to contact me. Like it or not Joan, I’m embroiled in this case right up to my neck, starting from day one, purely through fated circumstances Not that I’m complaining, but you need to know that nobody is pulling my strings. And, what’s more, I don’t envisage walking away from unfinished business. That isn’t what Mike Eastern is about. The important thing to remember Joan is that we started this venture together, so trust me when I say that we will undoubtedly finish it together.”
CHAPTER XIV…A level of understanding
Day one for the opening of the conspiracy trial affecting the accused, DCI Conway, and two further accomplices was now only three days away. Already the hype surrounding the case was beginning to make its mark at disparate degrees. For Joan in particular, the hiatus leading up to the trial and beyond would become one of personal retribution, the effect of which, if not handled with restraint, could evolve into a further trial of unprecedented grief. The tension now existing in their apartment had become somewhat flared from two directions. For his part, while acting on Rogon’s orders via a briefing, Eastern had been ordered to step down until further notice – the unsuccessful attempt on his life being a major factor in making his decision.
Eastern, on the other hand, had ideas of his own, which didn’t include carpet slippers and waiting for the phone to ring. “This isn’t me Joan, I need to be out on the street getting busy, and embracing what I’m good at. Spooks I don’t need! You said it yourself remember? Besides the outcome has become personal. That bastard who almost wasted me over at Division was obviously under orders, and probably a freelance face. Rest assured, somebody out there knows something that I don’t. So I intend to dig around and see what I can come up with.”
At first glance it looked like any other leather-cladded pocket note book. But the similarity as to its contents ended there. The book in question was Eastern’s ‘bible’, and the priceless ‘street’ information it contained could well have graced the underworld hall of fame. Flipping through the pages he lost no time in winkling out two specific contact numbers. “Let’s see, who’s it going to be, Mickey Sexton or Ray ‘news’ Carter. Yeah, I reckon Sexton gets my nod assuming, of course, that he’s not banged up again.”
Dialling the number he required unfortunately didn’t meet with the response he’d anticipated. “Hello darling, Trixie speaking. I’m with a client at the moment if you’d like to…” Eastern slammed the receiver down in frustration before she could finish.
“Yeah, yeah, I get the picture sweetheart, where is it this time Sexton, Belmarsh or the Scrubs?” he expressed in anger. Shaking his head, he quipped, “At least you’re getting the bloody rent paid!” Without further ado, he moved on to the next number. “Right then! Let’s see what you can come up with Mr flaming Carter. Hello…yeah, is that Carter?”
“Who the bleedin’ hell wants to know?” Came back the curt reply.
“This is Mike Eastern speaking, you moron, and don’t even think about hanging up, unless you’ve got friends abroad.”
“Mr Eastern, would I fuck with you? I’ve got overheads too you know.”
“Spare me the verbal diarrhoea Carter. You’d sell your own grandmother’s wheelchair for a packet of cigarettes. Now, listen up. I’m after some gilded SP but not over the phone you understand.” The possibility that there could be a tap on his phone had occurred to him). “In the meantime, get used to the word on the street. In particular you’re looking for a face who’s been spending well on the strength of a wedge. You know the routine by now.”
“They don’t call me ‘news’ for nothing Mr Eastern, leave it with me. So, when do we make a meet? I’m gonna need some expenses.”
“You’ll know that a couple of hours beforehand. Just keep your bleedin’ nose clean and keep your mobile handy, okay?”
Lurking in the background Joan had been listening intently to the conversation. “Well, it couldn’t have been all bad, at least you were talking.”
“Yeah, it’s a start Joan. I just hope that when I meet Carter next, I’ll be the one doing all the listening!”
In the pre-knowledge that the trial was three days hence, Eastern duly arranged the ‘meet’ with Carter the Saturday before, leaving the latter 48 hours to exploit his full street credibility. Come the Saturday, and full of expectancy, Eastern lost no time in contacting him again. “Carter! We’re in business so I’ll keep it short. I make it just coming up to 10am. That gives you two hours to rearrange your brain, the rest you know. I’ll expect you no later than 12 midday, at the usual spot…be there!”
Carter was under no illusions as to the awareness of the ‘rules’ when their sometime plutonic association came under scrutiny. Eastern was a flesh and bone investment that he needed to study 24/7 existing as he did on illicit hand outs. Fortunately for him, as snouts come and go, Carter was classed as a unique survivor due to his uncanny tenacity to ferret out classified SP when called upon.
Assured that Joan’s security was in place, Eastern exited the village on foot and headed for Preston Street via Western Road. Once there, he paused halfway down and lingered outside a doorway that was sandwiched between two restaurants. Purely out of habit he made a point of glancing both ways before entering and then proceeded to climb a set of rickety steps, eventually opening out into an office cum lounge.
Setting aside the décor the betting shop itself was no different than a hundred others in so much as you walked in, placed your first bet of the day and a couple of hours later you creep out having left your bollocks behind in the till. On entering, Eastern was forced into making an early adjustment as a pall of second hand smoke hit him between the eyes and grabbed the back of his throat. Cursing inwardly, he made a positive move towards a huddled figure locked into a racing magazine, while seated in a nearby corner.
Sensing his approach, the figure swiftly disregarded the paper and acknowledged Eastern’s presence. “Mr Eastern!... guv’nor…it’s been a few weeks, I…” Eastern wasn’t in the mood for niceties. Any preformed ideas of a welcoming committee chaired by Carter sank without a trace as Eastern disconnected himself and went for the jugular.
“I’m only here to get a result Carter, not a flaming reference!” Breaking off he allowed a strategic look to form on his face, to set the mood. Carter gave a solid nod and indicated his intention to open up.
“So, down to business. You’ve gotta understand Mr Eastern, the ‘street’ is an open minefield at the moment all down to that conspiracy trial looming up. One minute I’ve got enough SP to run a headline, and an hour later it’s fish and chips fodder, know what I mean?” Desperate as he was for any SP, Eastern chose to remain unruffled, in spite of Carter’s negative opening gambit.
“Sure I do, so I’ll settle for this morning’s news and anything on top, so, what’s the word?” Fifteen minutes later, and feeling slightly wiser, although £40 lighter for the privilege, he cut his way through the heaving sea of bodies and the nauseating filled environment, as he made a hasty exit for the conventional world as we know it, aside from the exclusive tones, supplied by the in-house tannoy ringing in his ears. The last thing he noted on leaving was a public notice depicting a NO
SMOKING order. His reaction to it was as predictable as it gets. “The management are having a laugh. That’s one bet they wouldn’t want me to lay odds on!” Within seconds of hitting the outside street, the memory was wiped clean as the fresh air consumed his lungs. Lingering briefly to collect his thoughts he then headed back to Western Road.
By the time he had reached the top of Preston Street, his past £40 investment now resembled a crumpled and now defunct betting slip. Sighting an empty public call box and feeling good with his inner self, he entered a designer number which connected in seconds. Clearing his throat, he uttered the letter ‘B’. Moments later a now familiar voice questioned his motive for calling.
“Ah, Mr Eastern, we had a suspicion that you might be calling in. I trust that the gamble paid off?” The doubled edged implication stunned him into silence, as the events of the last hour hit a raw nerve, causing anger to overrun mistrust.
“Say what? Listen to me you arsehole. If I thought for a minute that the tail you’ve obviously put on me is permanent then it all ends here. Do you understand? I don’t need any bleedin’ pin striped dude watching my back. That wasn’t the deal. Just put me through to Rogon will you? You’re seriously pissing me off.” There comes a time when even spooks, it seems, succumb to pressure and are made to feel transparent from any angle, leaving Eastern to make the point, ‘Hands off, I’m my own man!”
Finally a familiar voice made itself heard. “Rogon speaking, sorry about the crossed swords Mike. ‘B’ can be a little shit at times but leave him to me. Unfortunately it’s one element that even spooks are humanised into becoming.”
From feeling genuinely sane one minute and totally inadequate the next, Rogon’s intervention had left Eastern briefly stranded in ‘never never land’ before replying: “Are you saying that my conversation was being taped?” Eastern gasped.
“Once again I apologise Mike. You should have been forewarned. Familiarity is a dirty word in the department, we prefer to use the expression ‘personal scrutiny’. So naturally we all subscribe to it, basically.” He went on, “we might all breathe the same air but in reality you’re just another statistic amongst thousands. Locked into a disc and hidden away in a secluded vault some place.”
“Shit! I wonder who I’m sharing a bed with?” Eastern quipped.
“The good news is, you’ll never get to know Mike. Statistics are non-biological for that reason alone…” he countered. “Anyway, you wouldn’t want to meet an ugly one would you?” At least his ‘plastic’ observation afforded a level plain by inciting the pair into heavy laughter. In short, a dual personification of east meets west.
Rogon then turned his attention to business as usual. “I presume this isn’t just a courtesy call? I have to admit, that as the situation stands, we are at a crossroad. Even the IPCC are drowning in bureaucratic bullshit, striving to achieve a result.” On that understanding, and purely out of curiosity, Eastern decided to stall on the SP he’d gleaned from Ray Carter, and instead elected to probe a possible breakthrough, albeit a political arrangement, concerning the chief of suspect held on remand for his alleged role in the DC Terry Bryant murder.
“Talking of which,” Eastern prompted, “What is the present position regarding the security guard who’s in custody?”
Rogon incited, “I presume we’re talking about the clemency deal here?”
“Yeah the very same. I can’t figure out why the press are so reluctant to issue a follow up story. Considering that the release at that time was headline, to me it poses the question, what do you know that I don’t?”
Eastern frowned heavily as Rogon chuckled in reply to his request, albeit an act of cynicism on his part, before continuing their conversation. “You’re nobody’s fool are you Mike? I won’t kid to you when I say that the deal never existed in the first place. In fact…”
Eastern’s anger at being isolated jarred him into a swift intervention: “What the hell is it with you fucking people? And how long have you been holding out on me? I personally pay for certain SP fresh off the press which you in turn will get for nothing. All I get in return is a poxy brick wall thrown at me. Spooks just about sums it up for me. You people act like you’re untouchable by living in a cocoon of convenience. And in case it’s slipped your less than plastic mind, my bleedin’ neck is also on the line here amongst others. So, you’d better come up with some answers pretty damn quick. You owe me that much.”
Once a spook, always a spook. And Rogon wasn’t about to decamp on the strength of a quick fire reference partnered by a verbal threat. His own induction period of brainwashing on demand was light years away. And as a political android, whatever feelings he retained could be weighed on a set of pharmaceutical scales.
As was to be expected, Rogon’s attitude remained undiminished, and he responded with the fervour of a cobra on heat. “Welcome once more Mike to the league of uncivilised gentlemen, where rules are made to suit the location. That is why we are a non corruptible organisation, and personalities are rarer than a ‘Penny Black’.”
“I reckon I’ve got the message Rogon,” Eastern added, in a subliminal manner, before continuing, “But let’s not forget my input into this case, when the bell rings, especially where files are concerned.”
“Your omission is duly noted Mike, and, if nothing else, I am a good listener.”
Eastern duly went on to divulge his findings, when searching for possible leads, while spent at Division and HQ as he explained. “Overall I was connected with at least 10 files in particular, giving me cause to their validity. It soon became clear to me that certain prosecution witness statements had either been misplaced conveniently or taken while under duress. And in some cases, exhibit forensic reports appeared to be lacking in depth, mainly from a defence point of view. Going on from that, I picked up on a designer ratio of outcomes in so much that four were quashed due to ‘NO CASE TO ANSWER’, and the remaining six ‘no guilty’ pleas, were held up in lieu of an alleged convicted third party blatantly taking the rap. Once again under scrutiny, a certain set of initials sanctioning reports, namely ‘SDC’ appeared to be synonymous throughout. I deemed them to represent Sir Daniel Conway no less, amongst other family ties present. I can only add that if I were SDC right now, I’d be looking for a good brief. From where I’m standing, the corruption on offer makes double standards look like an optional extra.”
Even Rogon himself was adamant in summing up Eastern’s input. “That went better than I could have visualised Mike. Having said that, my position before and after any calculated decision that I arrive at to proceed has to be remain tenable. Our case going forward is complex and delicate to say the least. So we need to be 100% certain that our judgement is unblemished. Based on your findings, I’ll contact the IPCC first before setting up a meeting extraordinary with the PM. The sooner this lousy business reaches a conclusion the better.”
Pausing to reflect on a delayed after thought, Rogon chose to hone in on Eastern’s previous leading enquiry about the detained security guard. “I realise that it’s fresh in your mind Mike but the decision not to create ‘Joe Public’s interest’ by feeding them with unclassified SP came directly from Whitehall and not, I hasten to add, from me.”
Eastern, being on the other end of the line, would never have been aware of the quizzical look that spread on demand over Rogon’s face before he concluded: “Believe it or not Mike, but even spooks are answerable to a higher authority.”
A mutual agreement then briefly existed as a form of touché came into play triggered by the mocking tones of Eastern laughing due to Rogon’s disclosure. It then occurred to him that the latter hadn’t come up with a motive to collaborate the Government’s decision to use the press as a means to an end. In the event, Eastern demanded an explanation.
Rogon, to be fair, didn’t hesitate in reply by showing his keenness to talk shop. “The situation is critical enough to allow politics to enter the equation. Hence the bureaucracy shit hitting the proverbial fan. The
current elected party are desperate that ‘Mr Big’ be removed from the system on the pretext that he’s a household name, and promptly enlisted us spooks to bail them out. Surreal as it may seem, it could also be said that in a sense, bent or otherwise that particular person is holding the key to the country’s political future. As you’re probably aware Mike, there’s a coming election on the horizon. Therefore, by jointly bringing ‘Mr Big’ down, it would create a massive winning party vote.”
“And the opposition, what’s their take on the situation?”
“As you can imagine, they’re strongly opposed to the idea and are presently calling for a new reform bill to be rushed through.”
“I see. Although, what about the existing law as it stands? Can you elaborate on it?”
“Not exactly Mike. It’s a grey area and I don’t wish to go down that road. For whatever reasons they’re saying that the police should deal with their own, full stop.”
Eastern, as yet, wasn’t concerned, and pushed Rogon for more. “But surely the IPCC are…”
Rogon wasn’t up a debate on the matter and swiftly dismissed the ongoing enquiry by cutting him short. “Mike! Listen to me. Don’t become too involved, it could lead you to making the job become personal if you let it, and that’s the bottom line.”
In ignorance, Rogon’s lacklustre advice had inadvertently ignited Eastern’s fragile temperament and, in doing so, pushed it up to another level, causing a further verbal retaliation. “Personal? You need to get a life Rogon. Your plastic existence has drained you of reality. Less than 48 hours ago, while on the case, I was almost wiped out by a paid jockey on crack. I would put it to you, that more than personifies the bloody word personal! Know what I mean? Cretin!”
Question: when is a spook not a spook? In Rogon’s case, in the act of placing one’s foot in one’s mouth and making yourself inaudible.