by Ian Patrick
“Morning, Batford. DCI Winter. Let’s get you to your office, shall we? You can meet the others and get yourself settled in. We’re in the middle of a job as I know you’re aware.”
She walks towards an inner door, swipes her card and the lock disengages. I follow. The stark white of the halogen-illuminated corridor contrasts well with her outfit. From her tan she’s clearly just back from holiday or she has her own glow tube.
Thick, soundproof doors encase rooms off the corridor. All key coded. She says nothing, just pushes open double doors until we go up a flight of stairs. Six flights. She also loves fitness. The lifts were good. I’ve learnt that the best approach in these situations is to mirror the other’s actions. I say nothing. Bide my time, calm my nerves and follow her arse up to room 320A.
No signs alert you to who resides in each office. Need to know – and I don’t need to know. As she covers the keypad from me I can hear MAARS’s Pump up the Volume being played on the other side. The first door opens into a small corridor. Small metal lockers adorn the wall. They’re the kind you see in a John Lewis store where you can leave your phone and charge it whilst spending your hard-earned cash on items you never needed or thought of until you entered. You have the key to retrieve your property and with a full battery, message all on Facebook and Twitter with numerous smiley emoticons and photos of your shit.
“Turn off your phones. All of them. Put them in there and take a key.”
I do as directed, on this occasion. The SIM card from both phones already rest in my wallet, I’d removed in reception. She swipes into another door pad and the music increases in volume as the door opens.
“Turn that shit off,” she directs, as she breezes in. An overweight male, late forties, bald with goatee, flicks the radio off.
I don’t wait to be invited in. The room is relatively silent. It’s a typical squad office, all Superdry tops and stubble. The only two females look at me, their eyes follow as I enter the goldfish bowl. Ma’am’s office. She locks the door and shuts the blinds. This is getting interesting.
“I’ll be brief.”
She smooths her trousers and sits behind her mediocre melamine desk. Standard size, scratch-resistant covering. The chair isn’t. It’s bespoke, Occupational Health-measured and issued. She has a back problem. I get seated whilst she ignores me and checks her computer. She puts on glasses and leans into the screen.
“Is that it?” I ask.
She opens a drawer and takes out a thick file. My personnel file. She opens it and I can make out the first photo taken when you join the force stapled to the flap. It’s called a service now. Force appeared too authoritarian and strong. I prefer Force. It adds weight, and does the public really give a shit what terminology we use? The DCI takes a breath as she’s about to speak.
“I haven’t even started, Batford. I don’t welcome secondments and I certainly don’t welcome secondments from Specialist Operations Undercover Unit. We investigate national major crime involving guns, drugs and organised criminal networks. We’re in the middle of the biggest investigation into an OCN ever conducted in this country. Last thing I need is to babysit you.”
She pauses as she flicks through my file. She thinks she’s smart because she has it. She knows this display will make me uneasy. Make me believe she has access to higher authorities that release such material. What she doesn’t know is that my original file was shredded. How do I know? I did it. The one I replaced it with is perfectly acceptable and could be corroborated. Fools rush in where wise men never go. I say nothing. I know this game. I’ve been here before. No squad relishes outsiders coming in. Especially ones that will be amongst the people they’re looking at. I say nothing until the moment comes to speak. That won’t be long.
Thirty seconds.
“So you were born in nineteen seventy-eight, parents unknown. Taken straight into care at birth and placed in foster care where you remained on long-term placement until you joined the army in nineteen ninety-four and saw undisclosed active service.”
I wait for her to ask where and which regiment but she has the common sense to not go there. She’s loving every minute of it. It’s clear by the way her eyes strain over the top of her glasses that perch on the lower bridge of her nose. I can take it. I wrote it and so far it’s true. In fact all she will read out is. Why shouldn’t it be? It makes interesting reading. I say nothing and wait patiently for her to carry on.
“Left the army in two thousand one to join the Metropolitan Police where you served in uniform in Tottenham. Did your round of promotion and squads and ended up in The Covert Intelligence Command as an undercover officer where you’ve been to date.”
She shuts the file, takes off her glasses and rubs her nose. I’ve had enough. I start a slow handclap. It’s all I can think of to break the ice.
“Feel better now? I’m here because of who you’re investigating. You glanced over my detective career because it pisses on yours. You’re a fast-track promotion, on your third marriage and have no kids. Your life is over. The NCA is your family and not a close one at that. Your team leach ambivalence towards you, as they know you’ve not worked the main squads. I’ve seen it from both sides of the fence. I’m here because the powers that be don’t want this fucking up. I didn’t ask for it, I was sent. Quite frankly I don’t know you and didn’t see fit to pull your file to find out. Word of mouth was all I needed. You either work with me or against me I don’t care but you have to use me. Your call, ma’am.”
I sit back, she stands up. I’m five foot eleven. She can’t dominate me.
“I’ve worked for three months on this. If I needed UCO input I would have requested it. This lot aren’t tree hugging activists you can just shack up with and shag to get the information. We’re not talking about some power station being taken over by a bunch of fucking hippies, sergeant.”
Mirroring language. So old school. I have no interest in her job, only an aspect of it. MAC-10 machine pistols, to be precise. Some will go to proper villains but others will end up with local gangs to unleash on the capital’s streets. Not sexy stuff, I know, and not terrorist related but they will make a nasty mess, send murder rates sky high and not be good for the economic well-being of the country. How do I know this is the case? I’ve been told. Chance conversations are so underrated. I also know the amount of cocaine that comes with them but I’m curious to see if she knows first.
“You’ll be working to my directive, Batford. If you stray from it I’ll have you back at the airport checking passports. I’ve spoken with your unit and they will provide your cover officer. I don’t want he or she anywhere near my plot either. Is that clear?”
“Crystal.”
That was quicker than I’d thought.
She slides a piece of paper across the desk and I take it. It’s a memorandum of understanding, or MOU in the trade. I scan it. It makes no odds what’s in it; I’ve breached it before it was printed. I sign it with my warrant number and slide it back with the Bic biro. The understanding is clear. Don’t speak with anyone outside the room about the job. Bit difficult though. I’m already wrapped up in it.
She places the MOU in her desk tray then hands me another.
“It’s an inclusion notice. Sign it and you get briefed as to where we are now. Don’t sign it and you can fuck off out of this building.”
I take it. It’s basic. A standard template. No conditions. A rookie mistake. I take out my Mont Blanc pen and sign in the same way. She takes it back and looks at the numbers. She makes sure it’s identical on both documents.
I need to build some trust. Trust is key. Without trust you have no momentum, no will to progress. I can’t do anything until she confirms who she’s looking at and for what purpose. I also need to know how she’s getting the information. I’ve been told what I have to do and that’s to recover the guns. A hundred weapons is a big ask. First you have to find them, persuade the owner to let them go and then get them to the mainland unnoticed. I do know that criminal
s have a tendency to over-egg the omelette and that a hundred is more than likely ten. Money is due to go across and a hundred is expected. I know this as my firm have told me so. The accountant of the recipient is also rumoured to be talking to police. Loose lips sink ships. I hope he’s checked the lifeboats because his ship has started taking on water. The captain of that ship is Ben Hamer.
She’s by my chair now. Her perfume smells like it needs changing. That stale scent that shows a will to make the effort but doesn’t have the time. I get up.
“Shall we?” She motions to the door and we step into the main office. It’s busier now. People have returned. The smell of fish and chips dominates the room. It’s a small squad. It should be one detective inspector, a detective sergeant and eight detective constables. There’s only the DS and five DCs as an outside team. The DI is on sick leave a DC is on maternity leave. These things seem mundane but to me this information is key. I need to know who I’m up against on the outside. The players I don’t mind. They don’t have the support of the old bill; well, not officially.
She claps her hands and they stop what they’re doing and turn towards us. I lean up against a grey steel filing cabinet.
“This is our secondment from the Met’s SCO35Unit. He’s been sent here to provide UCO cover for our job.”
The team’s mouths open like a gathering of prostitutes at an orgy. I’d spotted the DS; he was the one that went to get up but was restrained by a helpful hand on his arm.
“I can see what you all think of this but we have no choice. We are at a crucial stage in the development of this work. I want you to see this as an opportunity. Briefing room please, and let’s get up to date.”
Chairs shuffle and paperwork is locked away. Trust is going to be tough here. I wait for them to enter the briefing room adjacent to the DCI’s office. Comfy set-up. Armchairs, coffee machine, an overhead projector. I notice the camera above a TV for outside briefings. I take my seat at the back and wait as the DCI brings down a ceiling-mounted power screen. She logs into a computer and the NCA emblem flashes up. We’re off. Hardest part done. I’m in, no real drama just minor discomfort. Like a leper walking into a spa.
“I’m DCI three-two-seven-eight. This briefing is being audio recorded and relates to Operation Storm, an Intelligence-led operation targeting Vincenzo Guardino, also known as Big H. Guardino is one the biggest importers of cocaine and heroin in Europe. We know he’s planning an imminent importation of a hundred kilos of cocaine. He has many money laundering enterprises and his books are kept by an American called Ben Hamer.”
I look at the covert image of Hamer flash up on the screen. It’s recent. He still has a tan. The DCI used her warrant number in the introduction. No name. She fears this network and rightly so. Briefing documents change hands for good money. I’ve sold a few.
“Next up is Guardino.”
The DCI has relaxed. “He’s our main target. We know where he lives, works and that he has a chauffeur. He keeps clean. He even has a TV licence. Surveillance picked him up this weekend meeting Hamer and an unidentified white female at Heathrow Airport. The female and Guardino are known to each other. She has been seen with him on previous occasions. I need her identified and fast. Is she a courier? Secretary? What is her association with our target?”
Bingo. “I’ll take that action,” I shout, from the back, so I’m heard. Game on. She glances to the DS who shrugs and nods back. Such subservience to lower ranks breeds contempt. Displays a clear lack of authority. What she should have done was tell me she hadn’t finished the briefing; all questions and assignments would be divvied up at the end. This operation is confidential. Any task or action is written out and given to an officer to resolve and feedback the outcome. Better for me not to have a computer involved. Data tracking is not my best friend. I need anonymity.
“Very well. Speak to DS Hudson after.”
I nod. She carries on.
“What we also know is he’s planning an importation of firearms along with the drugs. We have no timescale.”
The more I listen, the less faith I have this team will bring it to fruition. The benefit is that the DCI will find me indispensable. The briefing was short. They’ve made little progress beyond housing Guardino and Hamer. Lifestyle work takes time. Progress can be slow when they don’t come out to play. My firm knew this. That’s why they sent me in. My bosses need the delivery to take place. There are buyers lined up hungry for food. They may be coppers but they know buyers don’t wait.
The briefing comes to a swift end. There’s no more to say. They have as much information as a traffic warning sign. You know there may be trouble ahead, what that could be is anyone’s guess. I’m the last to leave the room. Shunned like a vegan at a hog roast. DS Hudson is sitting back at his desk. All clear of paperwork and extraneous stationery. I approach and he has the good sense to hold out his hand.
“Danny Hudson.”
He has a weak handshake.
“Bring me up to speed on what you need. I can’t be long – I’ve a deployment in an hour.”
Blatant lie. Makes me sound indispensable and adds an air of secrecy that all cops love. I have to eat and change for the seven p.m. meet with Miss Stone. The team’s most wanted.
Hudson is in his early thirties, scruffy shoulder length brown hair that could do with a wash. His month-old beard needs attention. It looks as though a pigeon has deposited its nesting materials then thought better of the housing. He’s wearing brown Timberland boots and a blue check shirt. The description is purely for me to rehearse my observational recording, you can forget it.
He hands me a file marked ‘Unident A’. It’s thin. It contains a surveillance image of Miss Stone and Hamer getting into a black taxi outside arrivals at Heathrow. There’s nothing else. Hudson looks up. An apologetic smirk on his face. “We need all you can get. A full profile.”
“Leave it with me.” I hand him back the file.
“You’ll need the image. You need to know what she looks like!”
I tap my head. “It’s all up here.”
He shakes his head in disgust.
I take this as a perfect opportunity to leave. I collect my phones from the locker and slip the SIM cards back in. The Nokia breathes and I can relax. I smell her before I see her. The DCI is behind me; a fresh application of perfume has been applied.
“Here’s my number. I want to know when you’re out on my job. Every time. Not just when you feel like it. I don’t imagine you’ll be needing a desk here?”
I’m looking at my phone then turn to her. “No. You’ll be the first to know when I have anything. Let me know when the next office meeting is and I’ll be there.”
“I look forward to seeing the results.”
She turns and goes back into her domain. I show myself out. I know where I’m going and need the fresh air. I head towards the Thames. I come under the railway arch opposite Tintagel house. I stop to admire the graffiti, a Banksy-style image of a guy reaching for a love heart. It’s positioned as though he’s using a pipe attached to the wall to stand up and reach it. Clever, even though it’s crime, I admire the ingenuity and thought that has gone into its execution.
It’s not all about the picture. The location is key to make the art work. I come out and head towards the MI6building. Its masts and radars protrude from the roof. The cameras sweep the area. You can have all the technology in the world but nothing beats face-to-face combat when it comes to accessing criminals. I get the underground from Vauxhall to Brixton. Change at the end of the line and come back. My thoughts are drawn to Hamer; he’s a busy man. I’d met him two weeks earlier in a hotel in Bali.
On surfacing I’m happy I’m alone. I grab a bus and go home.
Sensitive log entry 23 – 1000 hours 10th August 2020
Initial meeting with UCO went as expected. He is a jumped-up over-opinionated prick. Just within the age range of my target’s associates but without the same degree of flair.
He looks as th
ough his life has been one long Caribbean holiday. He clearly keeps fit but I would surmise this is for appearances rather than sport.
I have no idea as to his experience in the field and his personnel file is poor. From initial looks it would appear to have been redacted leaving only the bare minimum of papers. I would have expected more with his level of service.
He has no respect of rank and is clearly under supervised. I am as satisfied as I can be that he will be monitored by his own unit whilst deployed.
He has been read his status and authority level by myself and signed to this effect. I have been given no opportunity to look at where his deployment would be useful and it would appear I won’t be afforded it either. SCO35have his control and the crossover with my investigation is a real shit.
He will have no direct access to my unit and only have a key card for the main door to the building to attend office meetings.
I asked him to sign a memorandum of understanding and inclusion notice, which he did.
I have noted my feelings as to his presence and use during this operation and can do no more at this stage. Should he interfere with my investigation I will make my views known and request his return to unit. I have also asked that he report regularly to me with any new intelligence and attend office meetings as directed.
I have provided him with my contact number and he is aware he can contact me 24/7.
I can only investigate Guardino with the limited resources I have. Issues of national security are not my remit and of little concern to me on this enquiry.
Initial briefing given and action accepted by DS Batford to target unidentified female, action 34 refers.
DS Hudson aware, on HOLMES desk.
The target is of little importance to me despite my enthusiasm in the briefing.
As I expected DS Batford can’t resist a blonde with big tits and leapt at the chance to establish contact and ID female.
This should keep DS Batford out of the picture for a while leaving my team to concentrate on Guardino’s driver and associates.