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by Ian Patrick

  “Have you ordered?” She grabs the menu.

  “No, that would be rude of me.”

  “Okay…I’ll have the full house with extra bacon, I’m starved.”

  I follow her lead and order. The waiter brings over our teas and takes away my empty.

  “So, is this where you bring all the girls then?” She’s looking at me over the rim of her mug.

  “Only the ones I don’t want to be seen with.”

  She’s still smiling. She has a sense of humour.

  “Husband forgiven you yet for the rude awakening?”

  “He has. Not that it’s any of your business. Are you married?”

  “No. Never have been, never will, so don’t think of proposing if yours goes belly up.”

  She ignores my last comment. I would’ve too.

  “So, what have you got to tell me then?”

  She won’t be smiling for long.

  “Let’s set some ground rules. If someone comes in here who knows me, by another name, you just sit and say nothing. I’ll do the talking and get rid of them. If someone comes in who knows you, then you tell them you’re having a meeting and will call them. You must call them back. Tell them you were speaking to a builder about a new patio.”

  “If someone comes in here knowing me, it will be a miracle. I’m from South London. The North gives me shivers.”

  “We must be prepared.”

  Our breakfasts arrive. She gets the ketchup first. I go for HP instead.

  I start eating.

  “So, what can you tell me? You’ve only had the action a day.”

  She seems mocking in her tone.

  I wipe my mouth on a paper serviette, looking around before replying.

  “The load’s on the move. You’ve got a week, maybe less, before delivery. The firm have a gun. I’m no further on the female in the photo.”

  She stops eating and leans in. “A week? A gun? That’s not right. Who’s told you this?”

  I look at her. She knows the question was absurd. There would be no reply.

  “Look, that’s not what’s coming over the lines. We’re hearing talk of multiple weapons, not one gun. How do you know it’s only one?”

  “I have it on good authority.”

  “Well, that’s no good to me. This is the last thing I need. Why should I go with you over what’s being discussed by phones?”

  “What else is being discussed?”

  She eats before responding. The fact she’s admitted they’re tapping a phone is something she should never have done. She has no option now. She’s given me the rope to hang her if I desire. I don’t though.

  She’s a quick eater. Comes with the job. You never know when you’re going to get called away. The work waits for no food. Over the years I’ve developed a fireproof mouth.

  “Okay, I haven’t got any choice. I’d made my mind up after the way I behaved yesterday to let you in. I phoned your commander. It was the wrong thing to do. She told me if I wanted to stay in my job, I’d better cooperate. This operation means everything to me; to make the bust. You have to understand my superiors are looking at me to make this happen. I want the next rank and intend to get it on merit and good results.”

  “I could have saved you a load of grief if you’d just called me and asked to meet. My commander hasn’t even met me. She knows this job though and that’s why she’s listened to those who told her to put me on it. Don’t go sticking your head above the trench line again. She’s a great shot.”

  The cafe has emptied nicely. A few regulars are left downing tea and toast, engrossed in copies of The Sun. I order two more teas and formalise my ethos. Once the teas arrive, I begin.

  “I have to know everything you hear. You don’t know and can’t know what I’m doing or whom I’m speaking with. The integrity of this operation depends on it. Bottom line, we both want the same end game. That’s the seizure and the firm put out of action. My remit is far from yours. It doesn’t take a detective chief inspector to work out that there are other interests in your operation. Interests of national security.”

  I say nothing more.

  She continues. “You’re wrong in your assumptions of me. I’m a detective, yes, I may not have all the experience you have, but I’ve been hunting this man since he first crossed my path on the Regional Drug Squad. I thought once I was on the NCA with all at my disposal I’d nail him. That was until you showed up and pissed on my parade. We have different remits but I hope the same goal. Work with me, that’s all I ask.”

  She’s almost pleading. Self-deprecation momentarily surfaces on her face then leaves. I have to show some level of cooperation and empathy towards her goal. After all we’re on the same team.

  “That’s what I am doing and will continue to do. I called this meet didn’t I?”

  “Your update will help. I’ll have to bring an armed surveillance team with me now but that won’t be an issue. What are you doing after this?”

  “What are you offering?”

  She relaxes and a brief crease appears at her mouth.

  “You think you’re a charmer don’t you? You think that because I’ve been married more than once and focused on my job that I’m an easy target for you? You haven’t got the class or manners to be of interest to me.”

  I sit back and laugh. Fair play to her, she’s right, I haven’t the will or the inclination for married cops. I’ve seen the pattern on numerous occasions. The playful banter at an office drink, hours spent together on a case, late nights eating out together, then bam! Life blurs into a fantasy that Disney couldn’t even add sparkle to. Average fling, three months tops.

  “Thank you for your brutal honesty. I was merely thinking about another cup of tea, maybe some cake.”

  “Just thought I’d be clear. I know how you like to be succinct and to the point, Sam.”

  “Don’t your kids get sick of you never being there?”

  Harsh, I know but had to be said.

  “If I had any I’m sure they would. Tropical fish are my husband’s thing and that’s enough responsibility for me. You? Many child maintenance payments to service?”

  She’s leaning back, arms folded.

  “Touché. None actually. I’m a rare breed in this organisation, single and no responsibility or history following me. I’d have thought your homework through my files would have told you that?”

  I’ve dampened her ardour. She appears reflective, a suitable response considering her remarks and any possible effects. For me, I feel nothing. A part of cop banter, nothing more. She is a sad indictment of human dedication to an impossible cause. A wish to rid the streets of crime using a morale-drained team with no money and limited resources. I prefer the teams I’m on.

  She’s conceding. She looks at her watch.

  “I’ve got to run. Thanks for breakfast and keep in touch.”

  I can’t resist the final word.

  “Fish need feeding?”

  She grabs her bag and jacket and with a flick of her hair, leaves. I have no intention of going just yet. It’s going to be another long day. I grab the bill, pay, then head back to Elephant and Castle and await my call.

  Decision log entry 62 – 1000 hours 11th August 2020

  Meeting went ahead as arranged with UCO – DS Batford.

  Meeting took place at Lloyd’s Cafe 0900 hours.

  Meal taken not claimed on expenses as DS Batford paid.

  He stated the commodity was on the move and I had less than a week. The group are armed and he has not identified the female in the photo supplied by DS Hudson.

  He alluded to know more but I made an error of judgement by:

  a) Telling him I’d phoned his commander.

  b) Stating I had line room support for the operation and that it didn’t corroborate what he was telling me.

  He claims he is working with me but I do not have full trust in this. In light of his information I will now apply for an armed surveillance team, as I have no choice if the shipmen
t is moving.

  This will delay my current tactics and mean I must pull my team away from all targets.

  I am unclear whether Batford means one of the team already have a gun or there is only one gun being brought over. He doesn’t fill me with confidence.

  Current surveillance hasn’t produced anything other than a budget deficit.

  Something isn’t right when the phones are telling me one thing and he is telling me another.

  His source must be on the periphery of the crime or he’s being asked to perform a role I am not being made privilege to due to national fucking security.

  I’m also tired having awoken in the early hours, had little sleep and the world’s worst breakfast. This may cloud my judgement at this time.

  Entry complete.

  8

  “Alpha One, this is Six Zero, come in, over?” I can’t hear a thing above my breathing. The earpiece is shit, the mic maybe broken. The estate’s tower blocks rise above me like a beacon of oppression. I stay crouched behind a large concrete pillar. I can smell propellant hanging in the air’s whispers. A colleague to my right is doing the same thing, his 9mm Browning is out and held down by his side. His breath is short from our last sprint to safety. We haven’t been seen. Our objective is almost over. In the distance I can hear sirens. Sounds of glass against concrete and every now and then a larger crash as a heavier object connects with the earth. Shouting emanates in the distance. I pull the bandana up around the lower half of my face and look around the pillar.

  There it is. The briefest glint of reflected light from a tenth floor window. He’s there. His lair has been found. I wait until Alpha Two looks in my direction. He does. I indicate five showing my open hand and point at the block. It’s twenty metres away. I count down using my fingers. I wait for his signal. He raises his fist then lowers it. He runs first and enters the main doorway to the block. I follow. Staying close to the ground and using the cover of burnt out cars as I cross the war-torn street. Flames dance off bonnets and the remains of petrol lick the road alight and engulf stray car tyres.

  The immediate street’s empty. There’s a reason for that – no one wants to die. I hear the sound of smashing glass and a scream coming from a first floor flat. We press on up towards the tenth floor taking the stairs. We have our firearms drawn but keep the face covers on. We blend in with the surroundings. Covert urban mercenaries. We’re at the tenth. I open the main doors to the balcony and look left and right. It’s deserted. The view is desolate. Fridges that have been dropped from the block lie shattered below. Cars overturned and ablaze. No fire unit is attending. They can’t, it’s unsafe.

  Alpha Two is behind me now. I identify our target premises. From my jacket I take out two flash bangs. We have one chance. One job. Seek and destroy. I feel light headed; I remain alert awaiting a signal. My earpiece comes alive.

  “Alpha One, from Control. We have you by satellite. Your location is good. You’re cleared to go, I repeat clear to go.”

  The first flash bang goes in through the broken glass of the window. Alpha Two kicks in the door as I throw the second. I hear a double-tap shot. I’m in the room through the window. Target is on the floor in the hall. A rifle lies on the living room floor. I meet Alpha Two in the hallway.

  “Alpha One, from control heat imaging shows premises clear. You have a moving target coming from balcony, be advised.”

  I turn towards the open frame to the flat’s door. There he is, a boy of nine. He’s looking at me. His eyes a thousand-yard stare. He raises his hands and I see the gun. I freeze. He shoots. Alpha Two falls. I raise my weapon as I crouch for cover and depress the trigger. The boy takes the force of each 9mm bullet as it tears through his small frame. His body twists as he gets thrown into the balcony wall with every shot. Blood excretes from his mangled body and starts filling a drainage gully. I put Alpha Two over my shoulders and reach the stairs, taking each step towards the roof at an even pace. I feel nothing. My body is numb.

  The helicopter hovers overhead, I run towards it and Alpha Two is taken from me as I’m dragged in and we rise into the air. I hear the pilot through my earpiece.

  “Control, we have both units on board. Alpha Two is KIA, Alpha Two in state of shock. Medi Vac, over.”

  “Medi Vac received. You are cleared to return to base with both units. Brigade commander is aware. Control out.

  I can’t breathe, I’m suffocating, I hear the whump, whump of the rotors, they grow louder, louder, LOUDER.

  I sit up from my bed. I’m sweating. The overhead ceiling fan is on. I’m alone in my room. The only other sound is chanting coming from the main prayer room. I collapse back and wipe the tears from my eyes.

  Maybe I’m tired. Overworked, struggling with the degree of responsibility. I’ve always taken responsibility for my actions. The boy’s death is a constant haunt I can’t shake. His face returns the more stressed I find myself. The dream has become the puppet that dangles at will whenever I feel the pressure. Pressure to finish whatever I’ve started. How much should one have to take to serve and do the right thing? I should have reacted quicker and killed the boy first. That’s what happens when boys play a man’s game. You’re in the frame for death and death is the unseen enemy.

  The morning’s breakfast weighs heavy in my stomach, as does DCI Winter phoning my commander. Last thing I need is her breathing down my neck as well as Winter. Sitting up, the weight shifts. I sit at the edge of the bed and hold my head as my neck aches from stress and feels heavier than it should. The gas valve has been located and the heat is turning up.

  9

  A workout is what I need. To feel alive you have to move your body. Chest and arms the order of the day. Early afternoon feels cool but welcoming. The free weight area is empty apart from the usual gym bunnies and steroid swallowers. I go to the locker to change and on opening it there’s another padded envelope. I grab my shower stuff and put the envelope in my bag and put it back and go shower.

  They know I’m here. That’s what’s disconcerting. The budget cuts didn’t affect my firm. Money is no object as long as they get results. A mockery when across the country officers are losing wages, jobs and posts. A five-year plan of destruction. Government controls the wrecking ball. In the end you have to pick your side. Morals won’t pay bills. It’s not that I don’t have any, mine are different.

  King’s Cross. Gateway for the prosperous to leave. Pavements paved with silver for the prostitutes. My car has been left outside the coroner’s court. A fitting place to leave it. They’ve left me a VW Golf GTI. I swear they’re just enjoying attracting attention to me. It’s early evening and I have a post-workout hunger. As I approach the car a local Tom is propped up against the wall by her right foot blowing smoke rings. Sad to realise if she had a choice that’s all she’d rather blow. She looks at me and winks. I nod back. A reciprocal acknowledgement rather than an agreement for work.

  She looks relaxed for a woman about to be screwed all night by a mix of married men and tourists. She doesn’t look my way but casually remarks, “I’d rather be paid to look after those stiffs than the stiffs I have to face every fucking night.”

  I smile in response and start to open the car door. She’s not interested in where I’m going or why I’m there. She recognises pain and angst. She has a doctorate in it. She doesn’t need to know any more.

  I’d like to help her. I can’t. We both have to continue surviving on the street. She has her way. I have mine. We think we have time to do what we want before we die. It’s a lie. If that were the case why would people with cancer have ‘visit Ikea’ on their bucket list? I get in the car and examine the envelope. There’s another £1,000 to replace the wad I torched along with a scanner. I can’t afford to get caught with a police radio. The near miss rattled me. It’s good to know what your pursuer is saying and who’s coming to back them up.

  I put the scanner under my seat, put £500 in the glove box and roll up another £500 and put an elastic band around it. I wh
istle to the Tom and drop the roll on the floor as I drive off. She sees this and takes no notice of the car. I look in the rearview mirror, her hand is over her mouth, she’s sitting on the pavement, her head obscured by her black shoulder-length hair. Her shoulders slumped, moving up and down.

  It appears like a good kind-hearted deed. In effect I ensured she wouldn’t mention me or my car if ever asked. I also can’t afford to be stopped and have to account for £1,000. Proceeds of Crime Act is all an officer needs to remember to take it off me and haul me in. I don’t need that kind of attention. The heat is already on simmer. If I were in Grand Theft Auto, the cops’ heat level would be blinking and I’d need to change vehicle. I have done that and it still feels unsafe.

  I head towards Camden but looking to sit up in Cafe Rouge in Highgate. Instead I reach The Flask pub and sit outside. The atmosphere is convivial for someone waiting for a call. I finish my second Scotch when the phone goes on the table. It’s Stoner’s number on display.

  “Alright babes. You free this evening?”

  “Depends. What’s up?” I don’t wish to appear keen.

  “Thought you might want a drink after the other night?”

  “What would your man have to say about that, I wonder?”

  “I’m a free woman. Well, tonight anyways. It’s not social. I can’t speak on this though. Where are you?”

  “Meet me At The Flask, Highgate Hill, in thirty minutes. Tonight may be difficult.”

  “Cool. Vodka and Coke for me. I haven’t eaten so don’t make it a double.”

  She’s gone. I scratch the continued growth of hair on my head and face. Seems strange to have it back after so long. I don’t miss shaving. I stay where I am. I’m comfortable and the evening’s warm with the outdoor heater next to me. As I watch the world go by I wonder how I ended up going from walking the streets of a war zone to the streets of London as a PC. I’m so far removed from those days I barely recognise myself anymore. My aspirations have disappeared, any hopes I may have had long forgotten. Each day has become a challenge of survival. A new urban warfare where there is no apparent regulation.