Table of Contents
Cover
Copyright
About the Author
Also by Simon Kernick
Dedication
Acknowledgements
The Crime Trade
Part One: The Operation
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Part Two: The Investigation
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Part Three: Endgame
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Afterwards
Afterwards, part two
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THE CRIME TRADE
A CORGI BOOK : 9780552158091
First published in Great Britain in 2004 by Bantam Press an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Corgi edition published 2005
Corgi edition reissued 2009
Copyright © Simon Kernick 2004
Simon Kernick has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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About the Author
Simon Kernick lives near London and has two young children.
The research for Simon Kernick’s novels is what makes them so authentic. His extensive list of contacts in the police force has been built up over more than a decade. It includes long serving officers in Special Branch, the National Crime Squad (now SOCA), and the Anti-Terrorist Branch, all of whom have plenty of tales to tell.
For more information on Simon Kernick and his books, see his website at www.simonkernick.com
www.rbooks.co.uk
Also by SIMON KERNICK
THE BUSINESS OF DYING
Featuring DS Dennis Milne, full-time cop, part-time assassin.
‘Taut, gripping, disturbing – a most assured and original début’
Daily Mail
THE MURDER EXCHANGE
Ex-soldier Max Iversson is hired to provide security for a meeting that goes disastrously wrong.
‘From hardboiled cops to ruthless women on the make, Kernick generates a potent cocktail of thrills’
Guardian
THE CRIME TRADE
DI John Gallan and DS Tina Boyd uncover a murderous conspiracy that will take them to the heart of London’s most notorious criminal gang.
‘A taut gritty novel in which Kernick uses every trick in the book to keep the narrative breakneck’
Time Out
A GOOD DAY TO DIE
Exiled cop Dennis Milne returns to London to hunt down the murderers of a close friend.
‘Great plots, great characters, great action’ Lee Child
RELENTLESS
Tom Meron finds himself on the run, pursued by enemies he never knew he had . . .
‘This is the sort of book that forces you to read so fast you stumble over the words. Phenomenal!’
Evening Standard
SEVERED
You wake up in a strange room on a bed covered in blood. And you have no idea how you got there . .
‘If you like lots of non-stop action, this is for you’
Guardian
DEADLINE
You get home from work and your daughter is
missing. You know you will do anything to get her
back alive – but time is running out . . .
‘Simon Kernick writes with his foot pressed hard on
the pedal. Hang on tight!’
Harlan Coben
For Rachel
Acknowledgements
This book would never have been written without the help of a large number of people within the crime business, the majority of whom would like to remain anonymous for various reasons. However, you know who you are, and I’m very grateful. Thanks too to my agents at Sheil Land and everyone at Transworld. And last, and most definitely not least, my wife, Sally.
Part One
THE OPERATION
1
‘Where’s the money?’
‘Where’s the gear?’
‘Gear?’
Stegs kept his expression neutral. ‘The dope. The drugs. The stuff we’re buying.’
The Colombian allowed himself a tiny smirk. It reminded Stegs of the expression Barry Growler, a notorious bully at his old school, used to pull before inflicting one of his famous punishments. ‘It’s close to here,’ he said.
‘So’s the money.’
‘OK. That’s good.’
‘I’m going to need to see the gear first, before I hand over any cash. I’ll have to test it, see that the quality’s right.’
‘You don’t trust me?’ asked the Colombian, his hands raised in a gesture of jovial innocence. The smirk grew w
ider.
Stegs didn’t like the look of it at all, but that was the thing in their game. You couldn’t trust anyone, and not only that, you could never tell how they were going to behave either. This was his first time dealing with Colombians and he couldn’t help thinking about the scene in that old Al Pacino film, Scarface, when Al and his mate, Angel, go to a Miami hotel to buy some coke from a group of Colombians, only for the sellers suddenly to pull guns on them and use a chainsaw on Angel’s head in a (surprisingly futile) bid to get Scarface to reveal the whereabouts of the money. Stegs was not enjoying this meeting one little bit.
Neither was his colleague, Paul ‘Vokes’ Vokerman. Vokes was sitting in a chair next to Stegs, across the table from the Colombian, Fellano, and he was fidgeting big-time, like he had crabs.
Fellano, on the other hand, was oozing confidence, but then he also had three bodyguards scattered about the hotel room, and Stegs would have bet a grand no problem that they were all packing firearms. Under those circumstances, he had pretty good reason to be confident.
Now it was Stegs’s turn to smile. ‘It’s not like that, Mr Fellano.’
‘Jose, please.’
‘Jose.’ Jose. Typical. It had to be fucking Jose. ‘It’s not like that, but you have to understand my position. I have to satisfy myself, and my partners, that the goods are genuine. We’ve only done business once before, on a much smaller scale, and I don’t want there to be any complications or misunderstandings this early in the relationship.’
‘Of course. You are right. We don’t want any . . . misunderstandings.’
Stegs didn’t like the way Fellano emphasized the word ‘misunderstandings’. In fact there wasn’t anything he liked about him, and he knew Vokes felt the same way. Fellano was about forty-five, possibly a couple of years older, and well built with a large, square-shaped head and features that were berry dark and more South American Indian than Hispanic. He was dressed very smartly, but without ostentation, and he had an amiable air about him which Stegs had seen on serious criminals plenty of times before, and which he knew would disappear faster than a bun at a weightwatchers’ convention the moment you got on the wrong side of him. Stegs was keen for that not to happen.
He pulled a weighing machine out of the bag and put it on the desk, hoping that it would act as a hint, which it did. Fellano turned in his chair and nodded to one of the bodyguards, who was leaning against the opposite wall, next to the kingsize bed with the silk sheets. The bodyguard, also wearing dark glasses (in fact, Fellano was the only one of them who wasn’t), left his post and walked into an adjoining room, emerging a few moments later with a briefcase. He brought the briefcase over to the table and handed it to Fellano. There was a moment’s pause while Fellano fiddled with the locks, then the briefcase flicked open. He put it on the table with the open part facing Stegs. There was a single kilo bag of coke in there.
Stegs stared at Fellano. ‘Our deal was for twenty kilos, not for one. I was under the impression you were a major player.’
‘Come on, Steve, we’re wasting our time here,’ said Vokes, using the codename for Stegs he always liked to stick to.
Fellano didn’t even look at him. Instead, he addressed Stegs. ‘You talk about trust, Steve, and I understand that, but tell me this. How can I trust you? You could be anyone. You could be a police officer for all I know.’
‘I think my colleague might be right, Mr Fellano. Maybe we are wasting our time here. I thought I’d provided you with all the credentials you needed, plus twenty grand of our money for that first kilo. If you still don’t think I’m kosher after all that, then there’s nothing I can do about it.’ Stegs started to stand up. ‘Maybe you ought to look for another buyer.’
‘I have the rest of the consignment nearby, but I now wish to see the money.’
‘OK, but I want to see the rest of the gear at the same time.’
Fellano nodded. ‘Sure, I understand that.’
‘The money’s not here, but it’s also nearby. I’ll show you it, Mr Fellano, and one of your men, but I’m not going outside with all of you. It’s too risky. We’ll arouse suspicion.’
‘Then your partner will need to stay here.’
Vokes looked at Stegs, his expression one of concern. ‘I told you this was a waste of time, Steve. We don’t need to deal with people like this.’ He stepped away from the table.
Stegs put his hand up. ‘Hold on, Paulie. Wait a minute.’
‘What’s the point? We’re just getting taken round the houses here.’
‘Because I didn’t drive all the way over here for nothing, that’s why.’ He turned to the Colombian. ‘All right, Mr Fellano, here’s what I suggest. My man stays here with two of yours, then you, me and your other guy take a walk down to wherever you’ve got the stuff. You show it to me, and after that, if you want, I’ll take you to the money. Then we return here and make the transaction. How does that sound?’
Vokes wanted to say something, but Stegs gave him a look that said ‘Come on, don’t blow this,’ and Vokes appeared to relent, although he didn’t look too happy about it. But that was the thing about the drugs business, particularly the high end. The complete lack of trust meant that even a routine retail transaction required a half-hour debate and more than a couple of heart-stopping risks.
Fellano thought about it for a moment. ‘OK,’ he said, nodding slowly. ‘That sounds fair.’
Stegs turned to his mate, who’d now sat down again. ‘Are you all right with staying here for a few moments, Paulie?’
‘No, not really. Maybe you should stay here.’
‘We’ve decided,’ said Fellano with some finality. ‘You stay here.’
Stegs patted Vokes on the shoulder. ‘I’ll only be gone a few moments and I don’t think Mr Fellano here is reckless enough to cause any problems in a hotel room with thin walls in the middle of Heathrow. Am I right, Mr Fellano?’
‘I want this deal done as much as you do, Steve, even if your friend is not so keen.’
‘He’s just cautious, that’s all.’
‘A man can get over-cautious.’
‘Not in this game,’ said Stegs, with a cold smile. ‘So whereabouts nearby is the other nineteen kilos you promised?’
‘In the trunk of a hire car in the parking lot.’
Stegs nodded. It wasn’t an ideal location, but it was wet and windy outside, so they probably weren’t going to get too much attention. ‘Shall we go, then?’
‘Are you sure about this, Steve?’ asked Vokes.
‘I’ll be ten minutes. No more. Then we do the deal and we walk.’
Fellano stood up and motioned for one of the bodyguards – a wiry little guy with a droopy moustache and seventies hair – to come with him. He then said something in Spanish to the other two. Vokes looked nervous, and Stegs felt a pang of guilt, having given him the worst job. The job of hostage. But he couldn’t see any other way.
‘Let’s go,’ said the Colombian, and he and Moustache walked to the door.
‘Tell him to get those fucking shades off,’ Stegs said to Fellano. ‘He’ll stick out a mile in them on a wet March day at Heathrow airport.’
Fellano gabbled something else in Spanish, and Moustache took them off, giving Stegs a dirty look as he did so. Stegs ignored him. ‘I’ll be back in a mo, Paulie, all right? Just stay here and keep these two company.’
Vokes looked at the two silent Colombians watching him from the far wall, then back at his partner. ‘Don’t be long,’ he said.
‘Ten minutes,’ Stegs answered. ‘Ten minutes max.’
No-one spoke in the lift down to the ground floor, and when the doors opened, Stegs hung back while the two Colombians walked through the busy reception area and out of the rear doors that led directly into the hotel’s car park. After spending a few seconds perusing a selection of the day’s newspapers and magazines that were laid out on a low mahogany table, he walked casually in the direction they’d taken.
It was raining steadily ou
tside and the cloud cover was so grey and thick that the day was almost dark. Only a handful of people were scattered about, and they were mainly businessmen, hurrying along under umbrellas, so immersed in their working lives that not one of them even glanced up as he passed.
He walked between the rows of parked cars and made his way towards the back of the car park, keeping ten or twelve yards behind the Colombians, watching for anyone who looked out of place. A middle-aged man in jeans and a Barbour jacket getting out of his car caught his eye, but the man looked away without interest, and the moment passed.
When the two Colombians got to the last row of cars, parked against a high brick wall that marked the car park’s boundary some fifty yards from the hotel, Fellano looked left and right as nonchalantly as possible, then back at Stegs. Stegs smiled like he knew them both, then quickened his pace and caught up, walking between the two of them without speaking as they approached a new metallic-blue BMW 7 Series. A typical high-end dealer’s car. It made Stegs wonder whether BMW approved of the fact that so many of its customers were involved in the illicit drugs trade. Perhaps one day they’d end up sponsoring crack dens.
Fellano stopped three feet from the back of the car and deactivated the alarm.
Upstairs in the hotel room, Vokes Vokerman paced nervously, trying to ignore the two other men in the room as they watched him boredly, one by the door, the other against the opposite wall. Vokes had expected there to be the usual to-ing and fro-ing, as there always was on a big deal like this one, but he hadn’t wanted to be the one left up here with the Colombians while Stegs went walkabout. It had happened before of course, them being split up on an op. More than once, since nobody ever took you at your word in the drugs game; except this time, it shouldn’t have happened. They’d been told by the handlers to bring the money into the room with them, but instead had opted to keep it back, thinking it would show they were serious buyers (i.e. distrustful) if they turned up without it. Which was now looking more and more like a mistake. This meeting had been in the making for weeks, months even. The Colombians had their credentials, knew their backgrounds – their pedigree in the importation game – and there’d already been a test purchase of a kilo, for which they’d handed over twenty grand. And still they didn’t seem satisfied.
The Crime Trade Page 1