by Ian Patrick
“I ain’t coming to you. I ain’t risking a nicking either. Once they’ve all fucked off, call a cab and we’ll meet up in a couple of days and talk it out. I’ll have spoken with big H by then and he’ll know what to do. He knows it won’t be us, lover.”
He says nothing. The only sounds are the traffic and voices from voyeurs at the scene.
“Alright. Let me know what he says after you call him. I’ll meet you if he’s okay with me and you.”
“Speak soon.”
She ends the call.
“Right, we’ll go south then cut over to the A1. I need to tie up a few loose ends. Once I’ve sold the gear and got the money I’ll call you. Only meet Barclay if you have to. If it were me, I’d call it quits now and never see him again. Drive to Mill Hill. You can get a train back to London from there.”
She says no more. She’s smiling and if it weren’t for her shades I would say her eyes were sparkling. We’re both exhausted from little sleep. Her more than me after Barclay had paid a visit. I’m content to let her drive to the A1 then I’ll take over. Both sides are tucked up now and won’t be thinking about us. Big H already knows there’s a problem as Stoner’s phone shows ten missed calls.
32
The same security guy at Tintagel House waves me through and I make my way up the stairs to the second floor. I’ve stored the Range Rover in a private storage facility. I can hear voices coming from the usual meeting room. I knock and enter. The commander and the superintendent are present. A woman has her back to me, looking out over the Thames. She doesn’t turn to see who’s come in. When she does turn, I stop.
“Sit down, Batford.”
The commander speaks curtly and I stare at the female leaning against the air heaters that travel along the length of the room but no longer work.
The commander continues. “I take it you know who this is and I can dispense with introductions?” I take time to assimilate the situation before responding.
“Yes, I do. Good afternoon, DCI Winter.”
“Good afternoon, Batford.”
She sits herself down. The superintendent is near the door and remains so as he locks it. The commander takes the floor. It’s her show and my fears are correct. She and the superintendent have turned Queen’s on me.
“This conversation isn’t being recorded so feel free to speak. You know DCI Winter isn’t pleased with another death by police and only ten kilos of cocaine. Neither are we. We both know how much cocaine was coming over and this falls well short. As police officers, Batford, we have a duty to the public and that duty is to serve the community and keep the streets safe. So far you have managed none of this. There are two deaths and a missing one hundred and ninety kilos of cocaine.”
I look at the door, still blocked, and at the windows but the height is too great to escape alive. I’m not liking the conversation.
“Fact is, Batford, we recruited you for greater things. Covert policing has taken a beating since Kennedy and his mob went dipping their wicks and impregnating half the protestor movement in the north of Britain. Cuts have taken their toll. We are operating within the bare minimum legal requirements as far as RIPA is concerned. I’m old school, Batford, and I’m aware that covert operatives are bending the rules to get results. I can live with this, to a point, but NOT where the commodity we’re looking to intercept goes off the radar completely.”
This just gets better and better.
I sit back in my seat. Winter says nothing.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, ma’am. I did what I was instructed and authorised to do. You’re just covering your backs.”
Has to be worth a shot. I need her to play her cards quickly.
The commander doesn’t take a breath before responding.
“You had basic covert human intelligence source authority as commensurate with the Regulation Investigatory Powers Act. You did not have authority to evade police, commit criminal damage to vehicles, and use a covert credit card, without authority, to purchase clothing. Need I go on?”
I’m grateful she’s missed out on the deaths I was party to and committed. She clearly has no idea about those or doesn’t have any evidence linking me to them. I respond appropriately.
“He instructed me to go dark. He’s the authorising officer for my role!” I indicate the detective superintendent. “You’re just trying to cover your own dirty tracks, the pair of you. If I’m going down I’m taking you two with me. I’m saying nothing until I’ve called a brief. You’re accusing me of criminal acts. I haven’t done anything more than follow instructions and take the lorry where I was told to. I called it in when it was safe for me. She had the lorry taken out and an associate up to his neck in shit. It’s not my problem he chose to pull a gun on our lot and got wasted. I saw what happened. It was a clean shot and I’ll testify in court to that if you want.”
She motions towards the detective superintendent who produces a flask and some canteen biscuits from a rucksack. Typical, even in these times of austerity the job can afford to put on tea and coffee at meetings. They think they have me. They’ve got fuck all. If they did they wouldn’t be doing it this way. Winter would have me in cuffs the moment I walked through the door. I accept the coffee and take three of the twin packs of wrapped biscuits.
I blame the cuts on my demise. I look at the three wise monkeys concentrating on me in expectation of an answer. Two hundred kilos of cocaine is nothing. Two tonnes, maybe.
I put down my coffee cup as they lean in towards me.
“This is a classic case of lost in translation. The amount was the amount Winter seized. The only other possibility is that he had her running around after a poxy ten kilos when the rest was coming over without us knowing. End of.”
Winter hasn’t spoken and this tells me she’s been instructed to say nothing as a condition of attending this meeting. She breaks this silence.
“Where is it Batford? Rather convenient you were elsewhere when the lorry gets taken out? I wouldn’t put it past you to know where the main load is and keeping it for yourself or your department to claim later.”
I rise from my seat, biscuit crumbs cascade to the floor from my lap.
“You fuckin’ what? You’re accusing me of drug supply? You’re one bitter bitch, you know that?”
“That’s enough, Batford!” The commander interjects but I ignore her protestations.
“You know nothing about pro-active work, ma’am. You don’t even know why I wouldn’t be with the fucking lorry. Why do I want to be in the evidential chain? I get the commodity to you and you take it out without me being anywhere near it. Standard operating procedure! I gave it to you on a plate. You fucked up all the way through this investigation. Get over it and move on to something smaller, like your old man’s cock.”
Winter moves quickly across the room and swings at my face. I duck but she’s having none of it. The superintendent weighs in and gets her off me. I’m still standing with my back to her. When I look across she’s seething. Her face contorted with rage.
“You need to control that temper, ma’am. It could land you in deep shit.”
She says nothing and turns away from me.
“Get out Batford! You’ve said and done enough. I’ll call you and reconvene a debrief. “
I accept the commander’s authority. I walk towards the door, biscuits stuffed into my pocket. Winter will calm down and my bosses will brush her off and she’ll accept whatever they tell her. You don’t attack a colleague. If you do, you hope it will all go away. This one will. I like her and I've overstepped the mark. I know where I need to be now. I feel like a painter putting the final touches to a masterpiece.
I step out, walk past Thames House and head for Vauxhall tube. I already know I won’t be making this journey again. Once I’ve collected the Range Rover, London will be a distant memory.
Final log entry – 17th August 2020
Operation Storm has now concluded. The final tally is:
Ten kilos cocaine, purity unknown.
One MAC-10 machine pistol
One handgun
Two dead targets, both shot by police.
Arrests – None. Insufficient evidence to link Guardino to the importation.
I have spoken with SCO35 and they have stated the UCO has nothing further to add that would be of significance to the operation. The UCO was NOT in control of the lorry found at the services and hadn’t seen any drugs or firearms on board. The cocaine was secured in the hollow metal arms of the skip. The firearm was in a box outside the vehicle on the skip loading plate. No fingerprints were found on the drugs or weapon. Any DNA found can be argued as transfer only. This is as far as Batford is concerned.
I am dissatisfied with the outcome of this job.
I believe DS Batford played a greater part in the importation than was commensurate with his role.
I do not have enough evidence to back this up and would look foolish approaching the CPS or our own Anti-Corruption Team.
I now have two targets I will not give up on until they are arrested and serving time.
1/ Vincenzo Guardino.
2/ Detective Sergeant Sam Batford
Entry complete. Full file to be prepared for archive and future operational use. I will not stop until justice is served.
DCI Klara Winter
National Crime Agency
Severely fucked off.
33
Reports coming in of a gangland execution in Islington. Two people police are naming as Zara Stone and Terry Sullivan aka Barclay were discovered late last night shot in the head in a vehicle on the Barnsbury Estate. Police are not commenting, stating they are keeping an open mind as to the motivation.
I turn off the BBC World Service and look out of my safe house window at the fields beyond. Nothing here but sheep and the smell of shit. This will be my home until I’m required again. It’s only been two days and my sleep hasn’t returned properly. I look at the coal scuttle by the back door, it’s half-empty. I put down my fourth cup of coffee. I begin to feel emotion. A feeling that has eluded me for some time. Tears form but I fight them back. I wanted Stoner to succeed in breaking away from her life of violence and abuse. I know all I did was dig her an early grave.
This is my life now, one short trip to collect fuel and empty it onto the fire. It didn’t take me long to get over my angst at having the fire active. I feared the smoke from the chimney showing I was in. When you live in the middle of nowhere surrounded by a windy Scottish climate you soon get over that fear. I know it’s August but the weather hasn’t been kind in the north.
I only came with what I had on. I look at the suit and shoes and burst out laughing. I did what I had to do and got the job done. My phone goes. I’d left it near the window in the kitchen to get a signal. I check the number and answer.
“We got the parcel. You were spot on. Shame it was only fifty kilos but it’s better than nothing. The emergency button you activated on the watch did its job well, the location was found quickly. We’ll be in touch once the dust has settled.”
The caller terminates.
I step out into a brisk breeze and lock the door to my safe house. My only observer is a sheep in an adjacent field. This one is separated from the flock but has an acute awareness of my presence. I click the fob to an auction purchased Land Rover Defender. I’d paid the government’s cash for in a false name. The police, in turn, have doctored the Police National Computer so all aspects of the vehicle appear to check out. Once again, I’m rehearsing a lie I know nothing about, but must be prepared to relay, with assured confidence, at a moment’s notice.
Before I get in the car I walk into the wood adjacent to the cottage. A roadside salt bin has been moved. It can’t be seen from the road as it’s covered by undergrowth. I take off the old carpet covering it, lift up the yellow lid and dig into the top layer of salt. My fingers brush the tops of wrapped rectangular blocks and I smile. I re-cover with salt before closing the lid.
I now have a new covert credit card. I hear there’s a Michelin-star restaurant at a hotel nearby. Would be a shame to waste the suit and I’m hungry.
See you on the next one and don’t be late.
THE END
About The Author
Educated in Nottingham, Ian left school at sixteen. After three years in the Civil Service he moved to London for a career in the Metropolitan Police. He spent twenty-seven years as a police officer, the majority as a detective within the
Specialist Operations Command. A career in policing is a career in writing. Ian has been used to carrying a book and pen and making notes. Now retired, the need to write didn’t leave and evolved into fiction.
Rubicon is his debut novel. He now lives in rural Scotland where he divides his time between family, writing, reading and photography.
Author’s Note
For the sake of clarity I have left the National Crime Agency ranks as traditional police ranks. Although the staff work under the auspices of the civil service, with a different grading system, many are police officers who moved over when the opportunity arose and continue to do great work in keeping the UK safe. Places change, command names change and ranks come and go. By the time you read this Detective Chief Inspector will probably no longer exist and places mentioned may have disappeared or changed use. Finally, this is a work of fiction and should be enjoyed as such.
Acknowledgements
Any writers journey is never a purely solitary pursuit. I have had some fantastic support along the way and I would like to thank the following: Jane Issac, Rebecca Bradley, Louise Voss, Liz Barnsley and Karen Coles for taking the time to read through my final draft and keep me on track. My wife for having the belief in me and being my first line of defence before anyone else reads my work. Chris McVeigh, at Fahrenheit Press, for just getting it and taking the risk on a new writer. Donna-Lisa Healy for my author photo. Finally you, the reader, for taking the chance on a new name. I greatly appreciate your support.
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