435 Tango: Out of the Blue and into the Black

by R J Holligan

  Quayle smiled. “What were you doing crossing the border? Obviously didn't heed your own advice.”

  Carding laughed. “Well I wouldn't normally, but the Beef Wellington there is to die for. I've learnt my lesson.” he added. Their conversation was interrupted by a shout from the custody desk. “Quayle come on down,” shouted Sergeant Dobson.

  Chapter 4

  Two- and a-bit hours later Quayle had booked his prisoner in and had completed the 'handover package' for the early shift. His prisoner being drunk, would not be fit for interview till the following morning. Shutting down the desktop computer he made his way through the deserted open plan CID office. CID worked more 'normal' hours but maintained a skeleton crew around the clock to respond to serious crimes. Custody had quietened down apart from the odd shout or kick of a cell door; the sergeants had retired from their redoubt into the back office. Quayle went into small kitchen off the corridor and made an instant coffee. A sudden movement made him turn. It was Carding. “Aha, just the Probie I was looking for. I bought Mr Slappy in in his own car. Trouble is its full of stolen stuff, so Dobson has seized it. Can you give me a lift back to the station and I'll pick up a pool car?”

  Quayle respected the fact that Carding had asked rather than ordered him to. “Of course, are you ready to go?” Carding nodded in the affirmative. In the bizarre world of austerity policing, the station where the Custody Suite was located did not have any response officers based there. Whereas the station where they were headed back to had no Custody Block. It was now called a 'Patrol Base'. This basically meant the Custody Block there had been mothballed and the cells were full of files not offenders and the front desk was also closed. In essence the town had a Police Station but no access to it.

  Traffic was light as they hit the dual carriageway for the short journey to the station. Quayle was desperately concentrating on driving. Driving a heavy but charged up police car was a little different to his underpowered petrol clunker.

  “So had many collars yet?” Carding asked, breaking the tension.

  “A few. In fact we I had a DD the other night. It sounded like you lot picked up the interview as it was a bit more than a drunk driver apparently.” said Quayle changing gear.

  Carding looked puzzled. “I don't recall anyone on our radar. What was his name?”

  Quayle swung the car into the station carpark, flashing his warrant card at the entry barrier. “Palfreyman,” he said.

  Carding looked puzzled. “No, definitely not. I mean, I can't comment on operations but none of my boys and girls have been up this neck of the woods on interviews.”

  Quayle parked the car and got out followed by Carding. “Thanks for the lift and see you around,” said Carding getting into an unmarked Ford. Quayle suddenly felt tired as the adrenaline seeped out of him and sluggishness to over. He looked at his watch, home time. “

  In his usual uncanny way, Bozza pinged him on the radio “Hope you got started, the Boss said stand down – I de-kitted for you and stuck your stuff in your locker room. Enjoy your rest days.”

  Quayle laughed. “Roger that,” Quayle replied. Entering the locker room, Quayle did a double take as he looked towards his locker. It was swathed in yellow 'Biohazard' tape. Whatever the stresses of the job there was always time for a bit of banter and larking around. Back in civvies he walked through the silent streets alone apart from a few wandering cats and slumbering pigeons to where he parked his clunker. A tinge of blue was just appearing in the early morning sky. It was a beautiful time of day to be waking up but a shit one to head home and try to sleep. The upside, there was literally no traffic. As he drove, he pondered Carding's words. If it weren’t the Sneaky Beakies, it could only be ...Special Branch.

  Chapter 4

  Quayle's mind jumped back to the foggy October morning when he and his fellow trainees were sitting in the room where most of the lectures to place. Their hum of chatter died down as a bullet-headed stocky man stalked into the room. “He span on his foot and eyed the room. “Congratulations, you're all dead, seriously injured or have been taken hostage.” They all sat in silence. “Good Morning, I’m DI John Campbell from Special Branch. Luckily, I'm not a Kalashnikov-wielding maniac with a suicide vest and a death wish. The security here is a shower of brown stuff, which I'll address with your superiors.” He'd then launched into a briefing about the history of Special Branch and what it did.

  Essentially it had been formed to counter the threat from Irish Republican Army. Over the years its remit had spread to monitoring and investigating everything from Anarchists to Animal Rights activists. Basically any individual or group they thought might pose a threat to the State. And it could pretty much do what it wanted where it wanted. Special Branch Officers operating in territorial forces were not accountable to the Chief Constables of the force area they were operating in.

  The more Quayle mulled it over the more it looked like they were in the frame. If the Sneaky Beakies were interested in Lomax they would have bugged his car or put him under surveillance. He could see a couple of men in grey like Campbell swanning into Custody and Sergeant Dawson stepping aside to do whatever they needed to do. Openness and accountability might be a buzz word upstairs with the executive officers, but the lower ranks knew where their bread was buttered and more important how hard they worked for the magical unicorn of a good pension. Quayle parked at his semi-detached house in a suburban street.

  A memory triggered by his chain of thoughts made him laugh out loud. Three minutes into Campbell's lecture, Sarah, a gobby former PCSO came walking in carrying a bowl of cereals which she was eating whilst talking to her little daughter on her mobile phone, which was wedged under her chin. It was her typical behaviour to loudly scoff the cereals throughout presentations. Suddenly she'd looked up and saw Campbell’s visceral stare in the way a hungry lion los at a gazelle.

  “What the fuck are you doing coming into my room like that? Do you think you're on fucking holiday? Would you like me to put Jeremy Kyle on for you?” he'd bawled.

  The bowl and the phone fell to the floor. Next morning there was no Sarah and her locker were empty. It wasn't really a laughing matter but in Quayle's opinion she was a stuck-up bitch who thought she was 'all that'. But beneath the hair, whitened teeth and the gym body she hadn't got what it took to be a copper.

  Once inside Quayle poured himself a large single malt and took a good swig. He laid out his stuff for later that afternoon. He'd taken on a big mortgage to buy this place and volunteered for all the overtime he could get. The extra shift was a plainclothes operation to catch shoplifters. He'd be going straight out into the town. So he'd got his stab vest and undercover rig, carried handcuffs, baton and PAVA spray in a holster type affair that you could wear under a jacket and finally his Airwave radio. Bozza would bring the can of PAVA from the station. Sitting in an armchair he picked up the latest Yachting Monthly and started reading a review of some half million pounds of sailing gorgeousness.

  Quayle looked at yachts like some people lusted after expensive cars or houses. Soon he was asleep, the tumbler of whisky only half-drunk. A phone was ringing on the edge of Quayle's slumber. Opening his eyes he glanced at his phone on the coffee table. It was silent. Suddenly he remembered, his work phone was in his jacket. By the time he’d got to it , it had rung off. Three missed calls from an unknown number. “Fuck it,” he thought. He turned the phone off and went to bed.

  The sound of feet crunching on gravel told him that the children from next door were back from school and it was time to roll. Showered and shaved he walked to the top of his road and caught the 152 into town. Bozza was waiting in the multi-storey car park that overlooked the High Street. Quayle sat in the back and slotted the PAVA canister into its holster. Bozza had bought a couple of takeout coffees which they drank as they planned their course of action.

  “We'll start in the Crown Centre and head down the High Street. Powell and Animal Dave will be moving along in our general direction, two Specials will be
in Croft Street with the marked vans. Tango Victor have already spotted some nominals so we should get you a collar for your portfolio.

  Tango Victor was the name for the civilian who monitored the CCTV network, a formidable ally in modern policing. “Okay, let’s go!” said Bozza. Shoplifters saw the town as a soft touch as they came across the border from the nearby city of Fulton. They fell into two groups. People stealing to resell the goods to get money to feed their drug habits. Or professionals working in gangs using foil-lined bags to take a fair volume of stuff. These were usually linked to Romanian OCGS. The former takes small high value items like men's razors, spirits, mobile phones or joints of meat. The latter work in pairs or gangs, one snipping off security tags while the others shove it in a bag. Larger gangs will cause a distraction and divert the attention of shop and security staff. Some of the more desperate ones will just grab a handful of goods and make for the doors.

  Their first stop was Super Savers. Bozza loitered around the entrance and flicked through a magazine. Quayle quickly latched onto two girls who were loitering by the makeup counter. The first girl started talking to the assistant behind the counter, getting her to get something from a high shelf. As she turned her back the second girl swept up a handful of makeup and dropped it in the open rucksack of her partner in crime.

  Quayle ducked behind the shelves of the aisle he was in. “Two teenagers, by the makeup counter. One blonde in jeans, one brunette in black leggings with an Adidas backpack, should be coming your way in a minute.

  Bozza put the magazine down and stood just outside the door. It was important to get them to step out of the shop to prove that they intended to steal the goods. Sure enough they came out together chatting and excited.

  Quayle came on a few paces behind them. “Good afternoon ladies,” said Bozza, pulling aside his coat to reveal his warrant card on a lanyard. “I have reason to suspect you have stolen goods on you. I am arresting y…”

  The first girl shoved Bozza, but he grabbed her by the bag as she went to leg it. The second girl wavered for a second not knowing whether to help her friend or get away. Deciding there was no honour among thieves she went to make off. Quayle grabbed her arm and got her in an arm lock. Cautioned and rear cuffed, Quayle and Bozza marched them to the van around the corner.

  Quickly updating their pocket notebooks they split up and went either side of the street. Quayle to up position on a bench and pretended to be absorbed in his phone. His radio buzzed with a point to point call. Airwave sets are digitally encrypted radios that also act as mobile phones. Point to Point calls allow officers to make calls to each other via dialling in their 'collar numbers', their individual numbers.

  “Hello?”” he said. “It's me. The guy from the car the other night. I want to come in but they want me to keep doing the black bag jobs.”

  There was a pause. “I'll be at McDonalds on the bypass 05:00 tomorrow.” Quayle was about to reply when there was a commotion. A fat woman came blasting out of the shopping centre pursued by Bozza and a Special. As she ran items fell from the large overcoat she was wearing. Quayle jumped to his feet and ran towards the woman. Seeing him, she turned and ran back into the shopping centre towards the other two officers. Quayle recognised the woman. It was 'Special Brew Rita' a well-known customer. Quayle slowed to a walk and wondered why the other two hadn't got her in the bag. Then she turned and he saw the knife, a big serrated blade in her hand.

  “I ain't fucking going back inside I just wanna feed my kids,” she screamed to no one in particular, holding up the knife.

  “Come on Rita, you don't want to do this, it's only a bit of stuff. You'll probably just get a fine,” said Quayle, using the distraction to draw his autolock baton and snick it into its full length. He then moved the baton to the back of his right leg in the concealed carry position. The reassuring figure of 'Animal' Dave Pearson quietly came alongside him.

  “I've got a Taser but keep your hitting stick ready, the tines might get lost in the blubber,” said Pearson.

  “Rita, Rita put the knife down right now,” shouted Dave. She turned looking bewildered. “Rita put the knife down or you will be tasered,” he repeated.

  Pearson put the red dot of the taser right on her chest. She remained impassive. Pearson challenged her again, sparking the taser, causing a blue spark to come out of the yellow gun's front. This seemed to enrage her and sticking her head down she screamed like a banshee raising the knife as she ran. There was a dry pop and the taser fired. The tines embedded in her overcoat and she fell onto the floor like she'd been poleaxed. Falling from her hand the knife skittered across the floor. They all closed in on her batons still drawn. Pearson stood back on overwatch in case she needed another shock to pacify her. Bozza bent down over the prone pilferer.

  “Aw she's pissed herself.” He looked up at Quayle. “PC Quayle, your prisoner I believe.” Quayle frowned at Bozza and unclipped his handcuffs.

  Chapter 5

  Lying in the bath with a tumbler of Scotch in the soap rack, Quayle looked at his Airwave radio where it sat on the lid of the toilet. While waiting for a solicitor for Rita before she could be interviewed, he had taken home a spare radio battery. He looked at the radio as if by force of mind, as if he could make the man call back by force of will alone. Next to the radio lay his work mobile fully charged and turned up to maximum volume. Now he was off shift he had had time to collect his thoughts. He wrote up a list on his mental whiteboard.

  Firstly, Palfreyman, if that was his real name, had got in contact with him in person. All he needed was Quayle's collar number. Then he had managed to get hold of an Airwave handset. While you couldn't buy one at Curry’s quite yet, more handsets disappeared than the force would let on. Equipment was issued to Specials or handed out on hastily organised operations without much care. So that meant Lomax had had police experience or contacts. That seemed fairly logical. Secondly, he had mentioned 'black bag' jobs. Quayle had read enough thrillers to know that this was work that intelligence agencies and security forces farmed out to freelancers so that there was 'deniable plausibility' if the players were caught. So far, so good. The third and most puzzling fact was 'Why Me?” After all Quayle was a newly minted Student Officer. He had no rank or influence or political connections, he couldn't call in any favours. That reason could only be learned by meeting Lomax. The water had gone tepid and he was physically and mentally drained. Sleep was needed. He dried off and walked down the hall, eyes averted from the door to the master bedroom. He opened the door to the spare bedroom slipped behind the sheets and was asleep in seconds.

  Chapter 6

  Using all the knowledge he had gained from reading a hundred airport thrillers, Quayle dressed in nondescript clothes and stuck on a baseball cap. He turned off both his mobiles and left them there. Briefly he looked at the Airwave set but then remembered they could be tracked. Going to the shed he pulled out the veteran mountain bike and cycled the two miles to where he was going to pick up a car. He to the longer but pretty much CCTV route along the canal towpath. Knowing there were at least two ANPR cameras between his house and the rendezvous he had quickly discounted driving his clunker. Not to mention the inevitable witnesses who would be around. Wherever and whatever time you went out somebody was always out walking their dog, which was why they were the number one body finders and key eyewitnesses.

  Leaving the towpath he got off the bike and pushed it down an alley between a building site and some allotments, until he came to a gate which he opened with a key. After concealing the bike under a tarpaulin he relocked the gate and came out of the alley. Looking along the street he saw his target. A battered VW Golf parked haphazardly on the drive of a detached house. Trying the driver’s door he found it open, as he had expected.

  Reaching below the seat he found the keys and started the engine. The car reeked of stale booze and cigars. Cracking the windows to let in some fresh air, he drove off heading for the bypass. Belonging to Charles Beasley an old soak of a Solicit
or who drank himself into a stupor ever night, Quayle knew the VW Golf wouldn't be missed till late morning, if at all. By which time he hoped he would stick the car back where it came from. Quayle had observed Beasley doing the key trick as he parked outside the station a few weeks ago.

  As he drove on, Quayle considered the offences he'd already committed before most people were up and about. He'd accessed the Voter's Register to get Beasley's address and was now a fully paid up TWOCER.

  The ride through the cold morning had sharpened his appetite. McDonald's Breakfasts were like nectar when you came off a night shift. Quayle knew this one fairly well and parked the car in a nearby Morrisons before approaching the building from the direction where he had the least cameras. CCTV would pick him up inside but would not tell any watchers whether he'd come by car or on foot, muddying the trail a little.

  Scanning the place as he entered, he saw the usual suspects, a group of builders loading up on carbs before a day on the tools, the solitary suit wearing road warrior leaning over their laptop hoovering up caffeine to fuel their manic day. It was 4:50am. Quayle ordered an Egg McMuffin meal with coffee and to up a corner seat facing the window. His choice 'Plan B' or swift exit would be over the counter and through the kitchens. The main door was a classic trap point. Whilst the general punters didn’t notice, it made you come in through the left door and pushed you out to the right, though the next door, preventing a fast exit for armed robbers.