‘We’ve tried setting up intel operations in Epping Hill several times. It’s always the same problem — it’s a closed community. You walk a group of people into the area who start asking questions and appear to have a penchant for doughnuts and the good people of Effingell will string them up as gavvers soon as you can say “assistance required.” These people are scum — unemployable down-and-outs, the dregs of society — but they are not completely thick’
‘You’re right.’ Jacobs paused. ‘The reason we are so conspicuous is because we have to play by the rules. We have to follow the guidelines that say who we can and can’t watch and when we can do it, who we can and can’t communicate with and how we do it. We stick out a mile in their environment.’
‘And you have another way?’
‘Yes. The idea came about after a large undercover operation was carried out across London. It was a resounding success . . . to start with. The intelligence we had was fantastic and we made nine arrests, all of them top dogs. The supply line was cut. We seized houses, fancy cars and a pile of drug money. It was absolutely beautiful. Then we took the job to court. The defence solicitors looked at the evidence and knew their clients were screwed, so they went for the human rights angle, the only chance they had. They pulled the legislation apart and eventually they managed to get just about every shred of evidence gathered using undercover officers dismissed. The Crown offered no evidence at all on six of the defendants, in case it was proven unlawful and the officers themselves prosecuted. One got an eighty pound fine for cannabis possession and another got six months’ suspended, and this was only because he’d knocked his wife about. It was a total disaster. What hurt the most was that we had to give everything back to them. But we learnt some valuable lessons.’
‘Go on.’
‘We went back, but with just five people this time. We mocked them up as a group of travellers — caravans, the lot, and they parked up right in the middle of the patch. Even the local police didn’t know they were on the same side. Then we spread the word that these fuckers were not to be messed with. Travellers always seem to get a certain respect from lowlife, but we started a lot of stories about this group. The local response officers even had a few slides made of a daily briefing dedicated to the travellers, giving warning markers of ultra-violent men who were not to be underestimated. We created identities with fake criminal records for GBH, attempted murder, arson with intent — you name it. We faked intel reports linking them to just about every type of violent crime there is.’
Huntington waved his hand. ‘I get the point. Undercover with a twist. It’s not groundbreaking, though.’
‘You’re right. But undercover police officers had failed previously because they couldn’t act like the people around them. We made sure that our people had free rein to do just that.’
‘Meaning?’
‘The people on the Epping Hill Estate use violence and reputation to work out a pecking order. The traveller family didn’t just have a similar backstory, they represented competition.’
For the first time, Jacobs had Huntington’s full attention.
‘Competition?’
‘That’s right. If you want to find out who the alpha male is in a pack of animals, you storm straight in there acting like it’s you, and the alpha is the one who comes looking for a fight.’
Huntington was silent for a while. ‘You want to put a group of police officers into the Epping Hill Estate with the intention of becoming competition for the drug dealers? And you want them to achieve this by using violence? And you wonder why the Met wouldn’t take this on? I think you’ve wasted enough of my time, Inspector.’ Huntington stood up to leave.
‘They wouldn’t be police officers, sir.’ Jacobs looked his area commander in the eye. ‘You’d take them on as a civilian group, call them “neighbourhood liaison” or something for the books. They don’t have the restrictions the police have because they never present any evidence at court. They simply get the information.’
‘So you want us to sanction the creation of a group of people who would use violence to get information for us?’
‘Any assaults or crimes of any type that are reported to us will be fully investigated and the persons involved will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. And if they are police employees, the IPCC and any other appropriate body will be informed.’
‘You think that no one would ever report, don’t you?’
Jacobs smiled. ‘Based on my experience, and yours too no doubt, I know that no one will make any reports. I took the liberty of looking at the Epping Hill history. Almost all the crimes are related to drugs in some way. It’s a closed society and it polices itself. The trouble is, the offending spills out of the estate. The good people of Langthorne get burgled or robbed by residents of the estate who need to fund their habits. We can never beat the drugs problem completely, but we can push it away, force them to go further afield to get their hit. That way they don’t reflect in your figures.’
Huntington stood up and pulled on his suit jacket. ‘I need to be getting back.’
Jacobs watched him leave. He knew he wouldn’t get an enthusiastic green light on the spot. In fact, this was just the response he’d expected. The man had heard something quite outside of his comfort zone. He would think about the proposal, Jacobs was sure of that, and it would probably take some time. Jacobs got up and returned to the counter. He might as well take another overpriced coffee back with him.
Chapter 5
‘Foxtrot Yankee Six Three Zero from Control.’
Foxtrot Yankee Six Three Zero was still attempting to open his deli-bought sandwiches, which appeared to have been wrapped for a game of pass-the-parcel. After three layers police constable Ed Kavski was finally seeing something edible. He sighed and pressed the radio “talk” button on the dash.
‘Yankee Six Three Zero go ahead.’ He looked at his colleague, Ben Parkin, who was fighting with his own sandwich parcel, licking a finger that had pierced through to the bread.
‘Foxtrot Yankee Six Three Zero, what is your current status?’
Ed had already made the Control Centre fully aware of his schedule for the day. He pushed the button on his car radio and said, ‘We’re on taskings today, Control, plain clothed.’
‘Foxtrot Yankee Six Three Zero, that’s all received. We’ve currently got a call in Luton Road, Chatham. A male has taken his two-year-old daughter from the mother and has her confined in a bedroom. Do you receive so far?’
‘So far.’
‘The local patrol don't have a Taser officer in this area today and you’re booked on with one. Would you be able to attend and assist? Firearms are making their way but they have a long ETA.’
Ed looked at the thick-cut white bread of his sandwich. It was going to be tasty. Then, with an exaggerated sigh, he scrunched up the multiple layers and dumped the untidy package on the back seat. He checked his watch.
‘Yeah, Control, we’ll go in the first instance and see if we’re needed. Can you keep Firearms rolling please, as we’ll need to get back to our tasking as soon as possible?’
‘That’s all received Foxtrot Yankee Six Three Zero and very much appreciated. I’ll show you making your way.’
The unmarked Audi A5 bumped down from the kerb and onto the road. Ed flicked a switch, and the grills flashed blue and the siren began to wail as they picked up speed and made their way to the nearby town of Chatham.
* * *
Michael Hunt was not a bad man really. He was a petty criminal and general pain in the police’s backside, but not nasty. He was well known to the police, mainly for a number of incidents involving his girlfriend, Zoey, and for petty violence when he had a bellyful of beer inside him. Lately, he had been quiet and had not visited a police custody suite for several months, in what was possibly a personal best. This quiet spell was now coming to an end.
Hunt’s long-suffering girlfriend stood with a small team of police officers on the pavement outside h
er flat, shouting words of abuse that were extreme even by the standards of this deprived area. She was five feet tall. Once healthily plump, she had become increasingly skinny as the relationship with her domineering boyfriend progressed. But with the police around her, she had suddenly found her voice. She screamed up at the window of Flat Three, 19 Luton Road.
‘Where’s my fucking babby? You touch even a hair on her head and I’ll rip yer fucking bollocks off, Michael, you cunt!’
Sergeant Paul Donovan arrived at the scene as two police officers were trying to restrain the hysterical woman. ‘Get her out of here,’ he barked.
‘He’s got my kid, you cunt!’
The sergeant pointed up at the window and said flatly, ‘And aren’t you just a happy reminder that a little un is always better off with her mother.’
‘Fuck you!’
Sergeant Donovan walked towards the entrance as a couple of PCs shoved Zoey into the back of a police car.
Michael Hunt had started the day with a supervised meeting regarding a dispute between him and his former girlfriend over child contact. It took place in a council building where basic childcare services were provided for those who needed them. It was also where Social Services facilitated meetings between feuding couples about access to their children. Michael had taken his two-year-old daughter, Lilly-May, to the toilet, where he had sat her in the sink and squeezed out through a single window. Then he reached back inside, grabbed the giggling toddler and made his way out into the crisp winter morning. He had been gone forty minutes, driving away in his mate’s battered old Ford Orion, before anyone had raised the alarm.
That was six hours ago. Michael had completed part one of his plan with a surprising amount of cunning, before realising that he had not got as far as considering part two. As was generally the case with Michael, drink provided a handy solution, and soon his anger was beginning to get the better of him.
* * *
The local beat officers had brought in a negotiator, who was attempting to talk to Michael and appeal to his common sense. His responses were slurred. Common sense had long since gone out the window.
Keith, the negotiator, had joined the force and then found that he had no stomach for confrontation. Seeing this, his superiors gave him roles that made use of his ‘softer skills.’ Now, Keith was on the phone to Michael, listening to him slur about how much he loved “his” Lilly.
‘No one doubts that for a second, Michael.’ Out of the corner of his eye, Keith saw a dark blue Audi A5 pull up.
‘I’d ne . . . never hurt her, yous know that. Not unless yous make me.’
‘We’re here to help, Michael. I give you my word. We all want the same thing.’
Keith rubbed at his mouth, watching as two men stepped out of the Audi. The driver was a thick-set man whose muscular torso strained against his black polo shirt. A long tattoo trailed up the length of the man’s right arm and under his sleeve. He strode to the rear of the car, opened the boot and pulled out a bright yellow box, resting it on the boot rim.
‘You know I’d never hurt little Lill. Her mum, though, you bring her up here and do me a swap and I’ll do her some proper fucking harm. She ain’t seen nothing yet, you get what I’m saying?’
‘Now, Michael, we were discussing how we can help you. We’ve got plenty of time. You want Lilly-May to be safe and we want that too, so let’s talk about how we come up and get her.’ The man by the car took out a yellow Taser from the box. He removed his sunglasses and threw them into the boot. He strode towards the front door of the property, followed closely by his colleague.
Keith was aware that a Taser officer had been called for. This made sense in a siege situation. He had been involved in numerous jobs like this one, and it was normal for the Taser officer to introduce himself to the negotiator, to get an idea of how the target was behaving. So Keith was a little surprised to see the men walk past him towards the building.
* * *
Ed Kavski pushed the heavy communal front door and waited for his colleague Ben. The door shut in the face of Sergeant Donovan, who had followed them to the building.
‘Eh, excuse me! Hold on,’ he called out.
Ed looked back over the stair rail and looked at the sergeant scuttling up after them, red-faced and flustered.
‘Sergeant Donovan, ground commander for our little situation here,’ he panted.
Ed continued to climb the stairs, two at a time. On the third and last set of stairs, he turned to Ben. ‘Do you wanna have a chat with our ground commander here?’
Ben nodded and turned to the sergeant. ‘Hello, Sarge. We’re hoping to get in there to talk to him . . .’
Ed reached the top of the stairs.
* * *
Outside, Keith was still trying to get Michael to surrender. ‘So, you see, Michael, if you’ll let me come up there and accompany young Lilly-May down the stairs with you, me holding one hand, you the other, then we can bring this to a close. You won’t be manhandled or even handcuffed in front of your daughter, you have my word.’ He waited for a response.
‘But I don’t trust you fucking lot, do I. I mean what essssactly does the word of a gavver mean? Fuck all, Kevin, fuck all!’
‘Keith. It’s Keith.’
Michael laughed again. ‘Well, I like Kevin, Kevin. Didn’t you say I was in charge, Kevin? So say your name, Kevin! Say your fucking name!’
* * *
Ed pushed the top and bottom of the door. It flexed from the middle, which indicated that the door had a single lock halfway up. He stepped back and kicked it, just below the keyhole. There was little resistance —the wood splintered and cracked and the door fell inwards at an angle, as the top hinge came away with a crunch. To the left of the door was a tiny kitchen. The living room and Michael Hunt were on the right.
Michael was talking into the phone. ‘Say your name is fucking Kevin!’ Then his amused expression gave way to one of terror as a large man stood over him, raised the Taser and pulled the trigger.
‘Michael, this isn’t a game. Let’s get back to how we can bring this to a peaceful resolution, for everyone’s sake. What do you say, Michael?’ Keith’s voice came through the phone just as twelve thousand volts of electricity passed through Michael’s body.
In among a pile of stolen toys sat Lilly-May, giggling as her dad’s legs shot out straight, his body went rigid, and he slid to the floor.
Chapter 6
4.30 a.m., the next morning. Graham Huntington slipped out of bed and left the house. He was wearing his gym clothes and carried his immaculately pressed uniform in a briefcase. In the past, he had used this period to do a decent run or session on the bike, but recently had found himself spending less time on the gym floor and longer in the post-workout steam room. It was his time for quiet contemplation. After the gym session he would drive his electric blue BMW sports car to the station and be in his reserved parking space by 6.30 a.m. All this for a shift that began at eight.
Today, however, Huntington’s routine had been disrupted.
The night before, his wife had asked him if he would take the cat to the vet in the morning. Apparently it was due in for an operation, although this was the first he’d heard of it. He lost the argument, and was outside the vet at 7.15, ready for the vet’s to open at 7.30. His irritation increased as the cat reached out a claw through the bars of its carrier and scratched the black leather seat. A student vet appeared to open up the surgery at 7.19 a.m., and Huntington leapt out of the car and thrust the cat at her.
Pet disposed of, he sped off in the direction of the station. He made good progress until he saw a marked police car in the distance, pulled across the slip road to the motorway that would take him speedily to where he needed to be.
Huntington beat the steering wheel in frustration.
* * *
PC Playmont was manning the roadblock, and he stepped away from his marked car as the little sports car approached. The driver’s window was already down and an angry face lo
oked up at him.
‘Why is the road closed?’
‘There’s been an accident up on the motorway. This junction is closed. I’m going to have to ask you to keep moving, sir, as you’re causing an obstruction on the roundabout here.’ PC Playmont knew that it was a serious accident. People were fighting for their lives out on the tarmac while the world expressed its annoyance at the inconvenience.
The man in the sports car turned round in his seat and looked back. The traffic was having no difficulty navigating past him. He faced the officer again. ‘I’m not causing any obstruction. I need to get to Langthorne nick as soon as possible.’ Now PC Playmont could see part of the man’s police uniform, with his rank neatly embroidered on his shoulder.
Playmont wasn’t impressed. ‘Yeah, understood, sir. If you carry on round and take the next exit you’ll find yourself heading towards Hythe. Stay on that road, which takes you right through and down to the sea. Once you get to the bottom of the winding hill and come to some crossroads just take a left and you should then be able to follow the road back into Langthorne and you’ll know where you are.’
Huntington produced a tepid smile. ‘I’m pretty sure that if you ran a check on my registration, you would find that I can be let through.’
Playmont stifled a swear word. ‘You can be let through? Are you aware of the serious incident on the motorway, sir?’
‘My radio hasn’t informed me of anything major.’
The officer bent down closer to the window of the low-slung sports car. ‘There’s been a fatal accident involving a nicked car and a Vauxhall Corsa carrying three teenagers to Thorpe Park. We’re hoping at this time that it doesn’t become a triple fatal. Now, I hear what you’re saying and out of respect for rank I will let you through right now if you so order me, but I will need to record your force number on this scene log here, and the reason for driving up onto the motorway and manoeuvring your personal vehicle through the ambulance staff working on the casualties. I have your force number, sir, as it’s written on your shoulder there, and I will record your reason as needs to get to work on time. Is that okay?’
BODILY HARM a gripping crime thriller full of twists Page 3