Crossing The Line

by Catriona King

  “What’s wrong with kids having cartoon stickers?”

  He was backed up by Andy. “Yes. Could someone please explain what we’re talking about?”

  Craig chuckled. “Sorry, that’s my fault, and it’s not really important to the case. I just had an idea that what if the stickers weren’t just stickers but drugs in sticker form? Smyth might have swallowed them to get high as well as to conceal his plans.”

  Des nodded slowly, “Ahhh....I see... so you want me to test them for drugs.”

  “I was thinking perhaps they were tabs of LSD? That’s what the ones at The Met were. They dissolved on the tongue.”

  Annette’s outrage was noisy. “Someone was really selling LSD to kids?”

  Craig nodded and carried on, ignoring the fact that the word he’d just banned was now being muttered under quite a few breaths.

  “I could be completely wrong of course, Des, but I thought it might be worth checking.”

  Liam nodded solemnly, with his tongue firmly in his cheek. “Yes, you could be misjudging our poor victim and speaking ill of the dead, which my mum always told me not to do, but I doubt it somehow. Derek Smyth would probably have ground up the wallpaper and snorted it if he’d had any-”

  Aidan cut in, “Why not speak ill of the dead, that’s what I want to know? They can’t get their feelings hurt, can they?”

  Craig shook his head firmly. “Oh no, you don’t. You’re not starting a philosophical debate until we’re all seriously drunk. OK, Des, can you do that for us?”

  “I can indeed. You’ve got me curious now.” The scientist lifted the tube again and bopped John hard on the head. “Sorry. I couldn’t help myself.”

  Craig rolled his eyes and then looked at the clock. “Right, Aidan’s question tells me that we need a break, so let’s take ten minutes.” He gestured at the cluster that was Aidan, Ryan and Andy. “When we’re back we’ll take you three and the analysts.”

  ****

  Mahon Prison. 4.30 p.m.

  George Royston found it difficult to believe that any of his officers could be less than honourable. He’d known most of them for years and had seen how hard they worked, and how much abuse they took from prisoners every day. He’d seen them mourn, and mourned with them, colleagues who had been murdered outside the prison by dissident Republicans who’d objected to them working for the British Crown, and comforted some harmed within the prison walls during incidents when they’d been trying to save inmates from each other, or at times from themselves.

  So it was with a heavy feeling that he had lifted his pen to draft the list of guards for the Murder Squad, and when he set it down again ten minutes later it was with misty eyes that he scanned the collection of names. Thankfully it was short, only six men, limited by the fixed Rota system that he’d introduced years before to enable officers to become familiar with the men they guarded, in order not only to spot any changes that might herald tricky behaviour but also to, if not exactly befriend them then to become accessible and approachable for any inmate needing support with his mental health. Suicides were far too common and George Roger Royston didn’t want any on his watch.

  He read the officers’ names back to himself mentally, recalling the face of each man as he did: slim, round, angular and lantern jawed; dark, fair, ruddy-faced and freckled; from the youngest guard in the prison at twenty-five to the oldest, a soon to be retired but still energetic, sixty-five.

  They’d been with him for years with the exception of two: George Russell, a thirty-five-year-old ex-army sergeant who’d joined the service ten years before and had transferred across from Magilligan Prison in June, and Brian Archibold, a man he didn’t yet know well because he’d been a replacement in September for one of his regulars, Jerome Tomelty, who had left the service to join the harbour police. The young officer’s love of the sea had been well known and normally expressed by surfing or swimming in it on his days off, but the love had undoubtedly been increased to need by working on a prison landing every day for years.

  Tomelty had been a loss to the prison service and his replacement Archibold was still an unknown quantity; just turned forty, the man seemed quiet and had always been polite when spoken to, but might he be a bad lot and just concealing it well? The governor shook his head, knowing that he was grasping at straws. If there was anyone on Mahon’s staff who might have been involved in Derek Smyth’s death he honestly couldn’t have named them. The real questions that had been rattling around in his head since the police had paid him a visit were, how and why?

  Derek Smyth hadn’t had a hand laid on him; he’d been poisoned, so what involvement the police thought his officers might have had with that he didn’t know. And what would have been their reason for harming Smyth? The man had been quiet, passive almost to the point of inert he would have said, except obviously his reasons for being locked up in the first place said that he couldn’t have been.

  Sighing heavily, the weary governor poured himself a fresh coffee and took it with him to his office window, his view the only truly external one in the building, a sweeping vista of fields and trees that he had insisted on for his peace of mind. After a brief, refreshing gaze at nature he set to work again, his next list comprising drama club members and more.

  ****

  The C.C.U. Murder Squad.

  “OK, let’s get back to it. Aidan, tell me about Vice.”

  “Well, Guv... Vice is the name for all the naughty things that people do.”

  The answer made Craig roll his eyes, but he couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Very witty, now get on with it.”

  Andy got on with it first. “We went to see a D.C.I. Lomax.”

  A proprietary glance from Aidan said that he would take it from there. “Emrys Lomax. Do you know him, Guv?”

  Craig shook his head. “No, but I’m guessing from the Emrys that he’s Welsh.”

  “And then some. He’s a native Welsh speaker. Lovely to listen to.” Aidan was fluent in Irish, so his admiration was heartfelt. “Anyway, when I asked him to check out his informants, that used to be the girls working at street level, he said that most of the prostitution is happening through casinos and escort agencies nowadays. Even a few of the taxi firms are pimping, although there are still some girls on the street.”

  Liam nodded. “The taxi racket’s an old one. They used to do a lot of it during The Troubles when it wasn’t safe for anyone to be out. The taxi firm would take the calls and ferry the girls wherever, doubling as protection, and then they’d take a cut of whatever got paid. Pimp and Ride we used to call it.”

  Seeing Annette’s outrage coming to the boil again Craig moved things along fast.

  “That makes sense. Although...”

  Aidan caught his drift instantly. “Different class of girl, that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “No, not that. I was actually wondering whether the girls still on the street might only be there if they have a habit to feed. That might make immediate cash-in-hand more important to them than a warm room.”

  Liam agreed. “True. The ones going through agencies would have to wait to get paid their cut and that wouldn’t suit everyone.”

  Aidan nodded slowly. “So, you’re thinking it might still be worth us asking around the streets and leaving Emrys to check the others.”

  Craig nodded. “You might hear something useful. Right, what about the drugs side?”

  “Ditto. Escort agencies, taxi firms, and a lot of stuff being home-delivered by bike, especially to the suburbs-”

  Andy jumped in again. “We got more info from our other interviews.”

  Aidan shot him a look. “Just what I was going to say before I was so rudely interrupted.”

  Craig saw a solution to the D.C.I. stand-off that was clearly brewing and turned to Ryan with a smile.

  “Fancy taking this one, sergeant?”

  As two, now deflated, D.C.I.s sank into their chairs Craig compounded their kicking by passing Ryan a board marker and waving h
im to his feet, shaking his head when the sergeant glanced warily at the two men with whom he’d just spent the afternoon.

  “Ignore those two. They’ll chip in when they’re needed.”

  The Strangford man crossed to the board and hesitantly wrote up three headings: SOC, Drugs and Customs.

  “OK, so, we went to see the team who’d worked on Pangea and they told us quite a bit about the smuggling networks and international side. They worked with over a hundred other countries on the op and in one week, October ninth to the sixteenth, they intercepted sixty thousand tablets heading for homes across the province-”

  Liam asked a question. “Did they mention the types?”

  Ryan nodded. “All sorts. Pregabalin and Zopiclone were two-“

  John cut in. “They’re anti-anxiety and anti-epileptic meds.”

  The sergeant nodded. “Diazepam as well.”

  John turned to Des. “It might be worth us taking a look at one of those. Just to see if it matches what we found?”

  The forensic scientist shook his head. “I’m not sure it’s worth the bother, John. The chances of it having a taggant that we can match is miniscule, but I can give them a call and ask.”

  A taggant is a chemical or physical marker added to materials to allow identification and various forms of testing. It can also locate a material’s point of origin.

  Ryan went on. “They mentioned the importance of fake professional looking websites and social media in ordering the meds. And the Department of Health was involved, their Medicines Enforcement people, talking about the drugs’ quality and off-prescription meds, so Doctor Winter is liaising for us there.”

  The pathologist gave a nod. “Although I’m not sure they’ll give us much more than we already have.”

  All eyes returned to the speaker as he tapped heading number two: Drugs.

  “Then we met with a D.S. Rimmins.”

  It sparked as series of smiles and an especially broad one from Ash, for whom Karl Rimmins was a style icon. Flamboyant as Ash Rahman aspired to be he hadn’t yet settled on his signature style, flitting from one over the top alter-ego to the next every time something new caught his eye on the web, unlike Karl who had been secure in gothic stroke Nosferatu chic since his late teens. Rimmins was who Ash wanted to be when he finally grew up, but for the moment he’d settled on wearing his black shoulder-length hair loose and displaying a single gold earring; the combination made him look like a pirate king.

  “And what did Karl have to say?”

  Ryan had been weighing up mentally whether it was better to do as Craig had asked and risk pissing off two D.C.I.s, defy Craig and insist that Andy or Aidan covered all the points, or take a one out of three approach. He settled on the last.

  “Perhaps Aidan and Andy could cover that and customs, chief? All this standing is hurting my back.”

  Craig knew bullshit when he heard it, but he admired Ryan’s diplomacy all the same. He reached out a hand for the marker, suspending it in the air for a moment before dropping it in Andy’s lap.

  “You take drugs and Aidan can do customs. Thank you, Ryan.”

  It was a pointed reminder to the sparring D.C.I.s that it was thanks to the sergeant that they were getting to report at all.

  Andy sprang to his feet with unaccustomed energy and moved to stand beside the board.

  “OK, well, we saw Karl Rimmins and he told us the drugs they were finding fell into five categories. One, street Heroin, usually supplied through the County Lines. Two, street cocaine, mainly crack, highly addictive and can make the users violent. There are lots of new addicts emerging there. Three is suburban cocaine, e.g. middle-class snorting going on after dinner parties. It’s usually delivered to them at home by bike-”

  Annette shook her head. “I must be really boring but I can’t think of anything worse.”

  Craig smiled. “I’d say you have more imagination than people who need to get stoned to feel good.”

  Andy went on. “Number four covers the NPS highs like Spice. Illegal now but still out there in force. And five is medication. Karl said that fell into two categories. Either real and prescribed but not being taken by the person they were prescribed for, because they’d sold them on or they’d been stolen. Or... the counterfeit meds that we’ve just heard about, flooding in from across the world. Karl said they were coming in mainly from Eastern Europe and China right now. SOC mentioned China as well.”

  “OK. Anything else useful?”

  Andy made a face. “When we mentioned prisons to him he had quite a bit to say on those. NPS and meds are apparently almost undetectable by the drugs dogs they use inside, so a lot of inmates are swopping to those for their fix.”

  Liam smirked. “Some of that lot would smoke their bed sheets if they thought that it would work.”

  Craig had read something in Andy’s gaze that said there was more to hear.

  “What else, Andy?”

  The D.C.I. glanced at Aidan before carrying on, the first sign that he was feeling less than assured.

  “Karl said it was just a rumour...”

  “Rumour’s are good.”

  “OK, well, he talked about what the paramilitaries on each side had got up to after the GFA.”

  “You mean the ones who haven’t become politicians or community workers?”

  “Yes, those.”

  Liam guffawed. “They’re all criminals, mate. Drugs, pimps, petrol-stretchers, you name it. If it isn’t nailed down they’ll flog it.”

  Craig rolled his eyes. “Not cynical at all, are you.”

  Before Liam could retort Andy had shrugged.

  “Maybe, but Karl’s point is that outside prison there are some demarcation lines between the sides, and in their activities. The Republicans tending more towards counterfeit DVDs and petrol, and the Loyalists falling more on the drugs and pimping side. Both of them do protection rackets.”

  Liam sat forward, his interest piqued. “So?”

  Craig already knew the answer. “But inside prison the lines get blurred. So, Karl was saying that both sides could be getting involved in things inside.”

  “In everything, yes.”

  “It’s the drugs side I’m most interested in.”

  “Yes, that as well. And the Eastern Europeans seem to be joining in too, especially on the pimping and drugs.” He hurried to caveat his words again. “But Karl said it was just a rumour.”

  “One worth exploring.” Craig turned to his deputy. “What do you think? Could they be working together?”

  “We need to find out more about which gangs are in play at Mahon before we can answer that.”

  Craig turned to Annette next. “Anything on that yet?”

  She nodded. “I’ve done the background research and I’ve meetings set up with the Law Department, Counterterrorism on general criminal imports, and D.C.I. Hamill down in Gang Crime for tomorrow.”

  “Good. Look deep into the prison angle, especially which gangs are active inside Mahon.” He glanced at his constable who was leaning forward so far that she couldn’t be ignored. “And take Mary with you.”

  Annette had fully intended to but had been withholding the information until the next morning as a punishment for the reappearance of her piercings.

  Craig turned back to his still standing D.C.I.. “Good. Anything else, Andy?”

  “Not from Karl.”

  He passed the board marker to his quasi rival and Aidan took to his feet.

  “OK. Customs. We went to their offices in Sydenham and met with a Chief Max Harding. He’s the boss up there and pretty young to be it. Interesting hair as well. ”

  Craig moved him along before they heard about the customs officer’s social life.

  “What did he tell you?”

  The D.C.I. perched on the nearest desk, his muscles aching from his gym workout the night before.

  “He said that usually airports were worse than ports for drugs getting through, but that they’d had fun and games this year with
some shipping containers. The smugglers are ingenious sods. Painting the inside walls with diazepam and coke-”

  Davy spoke for the first time in a while. “They can do that?”

  It was Des who answered him. “They can indeed. They suspend it in a liquid that can be moulded into shapes or used as paint, then they reconstitute it at the other end. Did you never see Traffic?”

  The squad’s resident movie buff, Ash, smiled. “Brilliant movie. Steven Soderbergh.”

  Another ‘move-it-along’ signal from Craig brought Aidan back to the point.

  “Some containers have false walls and bottoms to hide drugs, and some carry illegal immigrants who’re being smuggled in and making payment for it by body-packing coke. As well as the stuff coming in through the ports, there are drop-off areas around the coast where drugs are being left under water and in caves. But generally airports have been worse for stuff getting through in the past because of the fast turnaround times and the fact they don’t get to open all the bags in the hold. The mail inspectors have had a bit more luck, but mainly only if something they see on x-ray looks like tabs or blister-packs, or they spot a metal seal or a bar code. If the smugglers have had the wit to mould them into something else-”

  Craig interjected. “Like kid’s stickers.”

  “Yep. Then the drugs might still get through.”

  People’s ingenuity knew no bounds when there was a profit to be made.

  “Anything else relevant from Harding?”

  Aidan smiled knowingly. “Eastern Europe.”

  Andy interjected. “That’s when I suggested Armenia, Belarus and Ukraine.”

  Craig kept looking to Aidan for the answer so as not to start the D.C.I.s jockeying for position again.

  “Harding said yes to all of those, but that they weren’t where he’d really meant. He said that most of the rumours he’d heard were about The Baltic States. Northern Europe rather than the east.”

  Craig was surprised; Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania were models of almost Scandinavian modernity. Most importantly he’d never heard them associated seriously with drugs before.