The Badge & the Pen Thrillers

by Roger A Price

  ‘I might be missed,’ she said.

  ‘I thought that now they think you are an undercover pig, you won’t need to keep up the pretence of being a normal detective.’

  ‘True, I don’t need to appear to be normal CID, but I still need to keep in touch, both verbally and in person. I need them to think I’m doing my job.’

  ‘OK, we’ll sort that, but I need to get away today for a few hours, and then keep my head down… out of town.’

  ‘I thought you’d be leaving Preston for good after all that has gone on, to set up new somewhere else.’ Babik looked at her. ‘What? You told me as much,’ she added.

  He remembered that he had, and relaxed. ‘Sorry, yeah we will need to do that at some stage in the future, but we still have business in Preston.’

  Susan was the one to look at him now, and he thought before he added, ‘We have another building which thankfully they know nothing about, and I need to trust you.’

  ‘What the fuck do I have to do, Cornel? I told you about the other raid, warned you about Watson who was about to blow you out the water, even though I didn’t expect you to kill her, warned you about Bonehead’s handling of the ammo, oh, and helped you escape the ambush in Avenham Park.’

  He thought for a minute, and then realised he was being paranoid. She was right, of course. ‘Sorry,’ he said, adding, ‘it’s been crazy, and without you I’d be in a cell now, I know. I won’t question your loyalty again.’

  ‘And you’ve not paid me any money for ages,’ Susan reminded him.

  ‘I know, I’ll put that right too. Look, I’m going to need you to get back in, so you can monitor what they turn up. As far as I can tell, the second business premises are safe, and after the raid and the previous arrest of Sadiq, they should think that they have cleaned us out in Preston. I need you to help them to continue to think that way.’

  ‘No probs, where is it?’

  ‘Better than telling you, I’ll show you. That’s where I need to check in, this afternoon.’

  Susan just nodded and didn’t seem to show undue interest, turning to gaze out of her passenger window. Then his mobile started ringing. He pulled it from his pocket, assuming it was his associate. Babik looked at the screen and saw that it was Fletcher — no doubt he was after a bung too, and seriously more that he was paying Susan. He’d have to choose his words carefully in front of her. He accepted the call and spoke. ‘If it’s about you-know-what, I haven’t had a chance yet.’

  ‘It wasn’t, actually,’ Fletcher said, before continuing, ‘but now you mention it…’

  ‘Well, what then?’

  ‘Just to let you know that my office has just informed me that Sadiq’s case has been listed for mention tomorrow.’

  ‘Speak normal,’ Babik said.

  ‘Thought I was.’

  Babik had to stop himself; Fletcher was proving very useful, if not a little expensive, but could be a jumped-up snob at times. ‘Spit it out, I’m in a hurry,’ Babik said, glancing at Susan, who still appeared to be content with watching the world go by.

  ‘It means that Sadiq will be sentenced tomorrow and then it’ll be over.’

  ‘I knew as much already.’

  ‘Oh?’ Fletcher replied.

  Babik enjoyed the inflection in Fletcher’s voice, it would do him no harm to realise that Babik had other sources of information in the legal system, sources separate from him. Apart from taking Fletcher down a step from the pedestal he had put himself on, he wouldn’t know that Babik didn’t have eyes on him, as well.

  Fletcher continued, ‘Well, if you don’t need me—’

  Babik cut across him. ‘Don’t get your expensive braces in a twist, I only knew it was due, but what I want to know from you is whether Sadiq is behaving.’

  ‘It seems so,’ Fletcher started. Babik noted the arrogance returning to his voice. Fletcher continued. ‘Counsel are saying nothing, which I assume means that there is nothing to say. I’ve asked if he has been called before the judge for an in-chambers in-camera appearance—’

  ‘You’re doing it again,’ Babik interrupted.

  ‘Sorry, it means that if the judge had anything of a sensitive nature to discuss with either counsel he would have done it in his office, or in a closed court.’

  ‘And that hasn’t happened?’ Babik asked.

  ‘Counsel says not.’

  ‘Which means he’s kept his mouth shut?’ Babik pushed for more detail.

  ‘Absolutely. I told you how he reacted when I passed on your, er, advice re his good lady. I thought he was going to hit me.’

  Babik couldn’t blame Sadiq for that; he’d have loved to give Fletcher a slap himself, just for being Fletcher, if he hadn’t needed to keep him onside. ‘So as long as his sentence is good, we are all good?’

  ‘He should get between three and five, and I know that seems inconclusive by way of knowing for sure, but as there has been no secret meeting between counsel and judge, I have no worries. Plus there is more,’ Fletcher said.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘As Sadiq refused to help the police in any way, they have charged him with a section 20.’

  This jargon, Babik understood. ‘Who’s he GBH-ed?’

  ‘Wouldn’t say when I asked him, but he did show me his copy of the charge sheet.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t he say? Doesn’t he want you to represent him on that?’ Babik asked.

  ‘Said there would be no need. Said that he felt sure that in the fullness of time the aggrieved would realise that he has made a terrible mistake and would therefore withdraw his complaint,’ Fletcher finished.

  ‘Excellent, just bell me once he’s been sent down and then I’ll arrange your fee transfer as agreed,’ Babik said, and then ended the call before Fletcher could reply.

  He smiled, he’d heard all he needed to hear, and he was pleased Sadiq was back in line. He’d forgive him his wobble; it was obviously just a momentary lapse as he considered his options. He was a good worker and Babik knew he could use him again, even if it would have to be in a few years’ time. Though if Sadiq kept himself to himself inside he would probably only serve half his sentence. He could be out in 18 months.

  All sorted, or as near as, though he wouldn’t allow Sadiq a second wobble. Loyalty was everything.

  *

  Vinnie was obviously disappointed, but couldn’t blame Harry; the woman did look similar to Grady from behind. He was just glad that the force incident manager had only authorised a covert armed approach. As shocked as the couple were to be pulled over and told to put their hands on the roof of their car, it would have been a bit more tricky to talk down afterwards had they had a couple of handguns shoved in their faces. As it was, Harry and Vinnie simply apologised and explained that there had been a mistaken identity issue, and he was relieved that they seemed reassured and were happy enough to carry on their way. Vinnie also thanked the firearms officers, and as he walked back to the CID car Harry was just finishing a phone call.

  ‘The chief?’ Vinnie asked.

  ‘No, I’ll have the pleasure of that one later. It was the CPS lawyer in Sadiq’s case. The case is listed for sentence tomorrow but the judge wants to see us first, he’s listed it as a PII hearing to be held in his chambers.’

  Vinnie knew that public interest immunity hearings were nearly always held in private; the least sensitive would involve an open hearing with both counsel present — very rare. Usually only the prosecuting counsel was present, but defence counsel was made aware it was taking place. In these cases, the defence would be told the category of the sensitive material being discussed, but not the content. The defence would have to rely on the judge’s impartiality in deciding whether the material being discussed was too sensitive, and it was not in the public interest for it to be revealed to the defence. The judge could only order disclosure if he or she was convinced that the material either undermined the prosecution case, or would be helpful to the defence. In such an instance, when a judge did order disclosure
to the defence, the prosecution would have a big decision to make: proceed, or drop the case. Vinnie had only known the latter happen once, and in the post mortem that followed, the shit hit the proverbial so hard he reckoned some of it was still flying.

  ‘And before you ask, the judge has not yet informed defence counsel of the planned PII hearing, which he doesn’t actually have to do, although he is doing so in this case. But when he does, he apparently will not even tell them the category of the sensitivity, which as you know is extremely rare. And according to the CPS he will also order the defence counsel not to inform their instructing solicitor, Grant Fletcher.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ Vinnie said.

  ‘That depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On our performance.’

  ‘How do you mean, Harry?’

  ‘He’s clearly troubled at instructing the defence counsel not to tell his own solicitor, so he’s put a caveat on that decision.’

  ‘Meaning what?’ Vinnie asked.

  ‘Meaning that unless we convince him that his original decision was sound, he’ll tell defence counsel to, at the very least, inform the defence solicitor that a PII hearing has occurred.’

  ‘That would put Sadiq and especially his wife in mortal danger!’ Vinnie gasped.

  ‘And we only have intelligence of this threat, no actual evidence.’

  Vinnie knew it would be more difficult without the latter. ‘How long do we have to prepare?’

  ‘He’s waiting now.’

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Christine hadn’t had much luck researching the name Boldo online. It was a male name used by Romani gypsies and was believed to come from the Croatian name, Baldo. But nothing highlighted a known person using that name in the north west of England, nor anywhere else in the UK for that matter. She mused about where to try next. Christine had always favoured the ‘on the doorstep’ style of journalism. Too many of her peers, young and old, spent too much time talking to computers rather than speaking to people: the young, because it was the digital age and they knew little else, and the old when they couldn’t be bothered. It was the same with telephone interviews, sometimes a necessity when time was an issue, or if all you really wanted was a soundbite to anchor a breaking news story, but there would never be any substitute for speaking face to face. It was the only way of properly reading someone. That was something she prided herself in.

  She knew the Manchester case involving the Iqbals was probably dead from an investigative point of view by its standalone nature; though she could try ringing the women again. But her first instinct was to have a closer look at the Preston case involving Mohammed Sadiq. That was a brothel job, so potentially a far more open case, with any number of ways in. If she could find one. Clients of such places were never that forthcoming, even if she could trace any. What was on public record though, was the end-of-terrace house in Preston that had been used as the brothel. According to the online news reports, it had now been boarded up, but she reckoned the neighbours must have seen more than they apparently told the police. She’d be able take Vinnie for a drink later, too. She just hoped he was still in Preston by the time she’d finished. She’d ring later. But for now, it was back up the M6 to Preston. The address she was after was somewhere near to the docks, so shouldn’t be too hard to find.

  *

  An hour later and the sat nav was sending her car around in circles while driving her up the wall. It was obviously in need of an update, though to be fair; Preston Docks were docks in name only, nowadays. The old docks had obviously undergone extensive redevelopment, with retail parks, motor parks, a multiplex cinema, pubs, a marina and some fairly exclusive-looking apartment blocks. After Christine had driven around the entire complex once, a fact she only realised as she traversed the same swing bridge for the second time, she finally found what she was looking for. One small cul-de-sac of mainly commercial outlets, but with a handful of terraced properties at the bottom. She could see the boarded-up house at the end and reckoned the others would probably be sub-let flats.

  Christine backed up and turned her car around and parked it, facing out at the end of road. The street had a dingy look about it, which clashed with the rest of the docks, but she didn’t want her personal car being obviously linked to her. She walked down the street and could see that her initial assessment looked correct. There were four houses separate to the boarded-up residence; two opposite and two to one side. She received no answer at the first three and it was hard to assess whether anyone was in either of the upstairs or downstairs flats, as all the curtains were closed.

  She checked the time: 2.30 pm. If the flats were all inhabited by students, they were either out at university, or not; but regardless considered this time the middle of their night. A knock at the last flat confirmed the latter as the occupant, a bleary-eyed twenty-something, answered the door and gave mainly single-syllable answers that all sounded like grunts. Christine doubted he’d have noticed an alien invasion, let alone a working brothel and subsequent police raid. She thanked him for his time, even though she was sure that was another concept he probably knew little about. As she walked away, she suddenly felt middle-aged, even though she was only ten or so years older than the lad. Had she been remotely like that, at college? Probably.

  Anyway, while she was here she may as well have a nosy. The front door and windows of the former brothel were covered in plywood so she headed down the side alley, which led into a rear passageway and gateway. This in turn led into a small yard at the back of the property. It was probably the entrance of choice when the place was open. She took a couple of photos with her smartphone; it would help her recreate the mood of the place when she wrote her notes later.

  Even the back of the property was boarded, like the front, except that the rear door was hanging off its hinges — courtesy of the local youths, no doubt. She felt her heartbeat quicken as she walked inside, and she wasn’t really sure why. She wouldn’t need to use her phone to capture or retain the mood of the interior. The kitchen area had obviously been just that, and the attached dining area looked as if it had been a communal space with long bench seats. She shuddered at the thought of the cattle market the room had obviously been. Punters standing where she currently stood, before making their choices of frightened, no doubt drugged, enslaved young women.

  The front room was divided into two by a sheet, with a mattress on the floor of each half. She got the picture. No need to go upstairs; it would no doubt be more of the same. The dimly-lit place was starting to make her itch, time to go. She was about to retrace her steps when she noticed that the front door was on a Yale-type lock.

  It was only as the door clicked shut behind her that she realised she had been holding her breath, and she exhaled before sucking in a lungful of cool fresh air. She could only imagine what hell those poor women had been put through. She was about to turn back towards her car, when her peripheral vision caught movement nearby. She swivelled, to see a man in his fifties approach and stop very close to her, as if she was in his way.

  ‘Shit, what happened here?’ the man asked. He was fat, unkempt and wearing a tight-fitting suit that looked as if he hadn’t taken it off since it did fit him, which Christine reckoned would have been a long time ago. He also looked somehow wrong: she was on her guard.

  ‘Don’t you read the newspapers or watch the news?’

  ‘I don’t know you, do I?’ he said.

  The question threw her. But before she could answer, he carried on. ‘Not from round here, I’m a rep, and have not been in this area for a couple of months.’

  Christine was unsure why that would explain anything. And then — it did. She felt queasy. Her fears were confirmed by the man’s next remark.

  ‘If you are working, I’m looking for business.’

  She didn’t know whether to hit him or to vomit on him. She quickly considered whether she should tell him who she really was, in the hope of asking him about the management of the place, t
hough she suspected he wouldn’t know anything useful. Even if he had ever seen Boldo, he probably wouldn’t have realised. This revolting creature would doubtless only ever have had one thing on his primitive mind during his (numerous, no doubt) previous visits..

  ‘If you have to think this long, I guess not,’ the creature said.

  ‘Sorry, just collecting something while I can still get in, it’s my day off,’ Christine said with a strained smile.

  ‘No worries, I’ll try the other place.’

  She tried not to look stunned.

  ‘Maybe see you there some time, when you are working?’ the creature said, before winking at her and adding, ‘Money’s no object; not now, and you’d be worth it’. He then turned and headed back up the street.

  Christine considered what he had said about ‘the other place’. The value of getting off her arse and out of the newsroom was paying off, yet again. She kept a distance behind the man, and noticed that beyond her Mini was a large white van. The man headed straight for it and got into the driver’s seat without a backward look. He was obviously focused on just one thing — again.

  Christine reached her car and let the van turn out of the side street before she started the engine. That way, she hoped he wouldn’t see her following him. She risked losing him, but hoped her Mini would soon catch up. By the time she got to the end of the cul-de-sac she was starting to panic, as she saw several cars drift past the junction. But she needn’t have worried. She turned left, and as soon as she cleared the swing bridge she could she the back of the van, four or five cars ahead. She relaxed as she calmed her driving down. She wished Vinnie was with her, he would be good at this surveillance malarkey.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  By the time Vinnie and Harry arrived at Preston’s crown court it was nearly 2.30 pm. They were met by a CPS lawyer called Jill. Smart, professional, in her late thirties. She ushered them into a witness room before she spoke.

  ‘We haven’t got long; the judge is waiting in his chambers with prosecuting counsel, Mrs De Marco.’