by Keith Nixon
But part of him didn’t mind what the reason was. She was here and she’d chosen him to escape to.
His phone rang. Wyatt. “Hi, how are you?” she asked.
“Pretty good, thanks.”
“Glad to hear it.” She sounded taken aback, like she’d expected him to be gloomy. “I’ve got a bottle of wine. I can bring it over or you can come to mine?”
“Sorry Emily, I can’t. Not tonight.”
“Oh, that’s a pity.” The disappointment was obvious in her tone. “Why?”
“I’ve got a guest.”
“The surprises keep on coming, Sol. Can I ask who? Is it Yvonne?”
Gray laughed. “That’s ridiculous.”
“I shouldn’t have asked. All we’re doing is sleeping together.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Which? Sleeping together or telling me who’s in your bed?”
“Neither, both. Oh, I don’t know!”
Wyatt laughed. “Men, you’re all so easily confused.”
“It’s my daughter, Hope. She turned up unexpectedly.”
“Oh God, sorry.”
“What for?”
“Taking the mickey!”
“No problem.”
“How is she? She lives in Edinburgh, right?”
“I’ve no idea, and she does. She gave no warning and hasn’t told me anything. It’s all a bit of a shock.”
“Well that’s great, although it’s a shame I’ll have to drink all this wine myself.”
“I’ll make it up to you.”
“You’d better. See you tomorrow at the office. Faces back on.”
“Absolutely.” Wyatt disconnected.
“Who was that?” Hope was standing in the doorway, dressed in pyjamas and a robe. “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s okay.” He placed his phone on the table. “I thought you were down for the night.”
“You make me sound like a baby.”
“Just a turn of phrase.”
Gray moved his feet to allow Hope to sit. “I’m sorry for landing on you like this. I’d nowhere else to turn.”
“It’s no problem, what’s the matter?”
She leaned forward, hands in lap. “I’m pregnant.” Gray sat open-mouthed for a few moments. Hope filled the pause, said, “I didn’t know how else to tell you.”
“That’s fantastic news!” Gray gave her a hug. She was stiff and immobile. He remembered her earlier upset. “Isn’t it?”
She burst into tears again. Gray sat, unsure what to do, how to react. Then said, “I’ll make you another cup of tea.”
Gray filled the kettle and turned it on. He was going to be a grandfather. It was difficult for his already cluttered mind to fathom. He went back onto the balcony. Hope was twisted on her seat, looking out to sea, one arm on the railing, chin in hand. He put the cups down.
“What does Hamish think?”
“He really wants me to have it. He’s got two children from a previous relationship but would love to have more.”
“So, what’s the problem?”
“I am,” said Hope. “I’m not sure I could cope with being a mum. I’m still at University, for God’s sake! I told Hamish what I thought. We argued about it and I left.”
“When are you due?”
“The first of November.”
“Your mum’s birthday.” Gray hugged her again. This time she softened and folded into him. “Whatever happens, whatever decision you make, everything will be all right. I’ll make sure.”
“Do you promise, Dad?”
“Cross my heart.”
Twelve
Now
Gray had to admit that, despite being a bag of nerves, when push came to shove Bethany Underwood was a mean co-ordinator. He was standing to the rear of the press room, watching the Press Officer marshall the correspondents into some form of order. Presently, she was giving a grizzled TV cameraman the third degree about where to position his equipment. There was no favouritism in Underwood’s world.
Once she’d finished verbally battering the cameraman, she strode over to Gray. Her blonde hair was as frizzy as ever and she’d taken to adopting the fashion trend of plucking her eyebrows and drawing them back in again, seemingly with a thick, black crayon.
“Bloody well think they can do as they like,” she said.
The room was structured with a degree of symmetry: a table at the very front with seats and a microphone, which Gray would shortly be behind; then four rows of chairs for the journalists, where many already sat, flicking through the press pack handed to them when they entered; and finally, television cameras and recording equipment strung out at the rear.
“I’m impressed, Bethany,” said Gray.
Underwood gave him a funny, disbelieving glance. “Thanks.” She sounded suspicious. “You’re on in five minutes. Remember, deliver your patter then open up for questions. You can run as long as you want but this lot get bored quickly. Many of them will be after the salacious. My offer to cut them off at the knees should they piss about remains, Solomon.” Underwood refused to shorten Gray’s name and he’d long given up telling her it was all right to do so.
“You know what, Bethany, I accept.” Given what Gray had just witnessed it might be a wise idea to have the cavalry standing by.
“I’ll be over there.” Underwood pointed a nicotine-stained finger – the result of smoking roll ups – to where Hamson was standing. Hamson had refused Gray’s suggestion that she, as the senior officer, hold the press conference. Gray was in charge of the case. “Against the wall and just out of camera shot but well and truly in their eyeline,” said Underwood. “When you get to the questions, I’ll shake my head if any of the reporters should be avoided.” She checked her watch again. “Right, go and take your place. Accept no shit, Solomon.”
Gray headed to the front, pulled out a chair and sat. He squinted under the harsh glare of a light directed into his eyes. Moments later the beam was shifted slightly, following Underwood’s snippy direction. Hamson gave him a thumbs-up. Underwood gave the okay sign, finger and thumb in a circle.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I appreciate your time today. I’ve asked you here in order to make a public appeal for information regarding the murder of LaShaun Oakley.” Gray held up Oakley’s photo, one Worthington had pulled off social media. It was reproduced in the press pack too. Cameras snapped away. “He was stabbed to death three days ago at 10.39pm in Union Row, Margate.” Gray lowered the picture. “Mr Oakley had only just arrived in our town from London. As yet, we have not identified his attacker and I am appealing for information. Somebody out there knows something that can help us. I ask that if you have anything to say, no matter how trivial, please do so and I assure you it will be treated in the strictest confidence. I’ll take questions now.”
A young woman in the centre raised her hand. Gray glanced towards Underwood. She nodded.
“Felicity Rainoake of the Express. Is it true that a person was arrested yesterday in connection with Mr Oakley’s murder?”
“A man was helping us with our enquiries, but we’ve since released him.”
“Mr Harwood, correct?”
“That’s right.”
“You were Mr Harwood’s arresting officer?”
“I was but the purpose of this conference is to appeal for witnesses to the murder.”
“Mr Harwood is claiming wrongful arrest.”
“We had good cause to bring Mr Harwood in and I believe we followed due procedure.”
Other hands went up, as well as Rainoake’s. Gray bypassed the Express reporter and pointed to a grey-haired man wearing an ill-fitting suit.
“Adam Payton, The Guardian. Do you have any further leads?”
“We are pursuing multiple lines of investigation. This is a fast-moving and complex case.”
“Which means you don’t have anything,” said Payton.
“Nothing I can discuss at this time.”
&nbs
p; “Mr Harwood is also claiming he was mistreated during his arrest.” It was Rainoake again, not waiting to be asked. Underwood was making a throat-cutting motion with her hand.
“That’s not something I’m aware of,” said Gray.
“We have an exclusive interview with Mr Harwood which will be published tomorrow.”
“I look forward to reading it. Are there any more questions?”
But now Underwood stepped in. “Thank you for your time everyone,” she said to the reporters, ending the press conference. It was about the fastest press conference he’d ever attended. A few more photographs were snapped while the crowd of reporters began to break up. Hamson headed forward and paused beside Underwood. Gray joined them.
“You got ambushed there,” said Underwood.
“It didn’t quite go as I intended.” Gray turned to Hamson. “Has Harwood made his complaint official?”
“Not to my knowledge,” said Hamson.
“Bloody press,” said Underwood. Gray couldn’t disagree. “I’ve always said they’re bastards.”
“Anyway,” said Hamson, “I’ll find out if anything is going on with Harwood. And let’s see what this article says. Until then we’ve got Pivot to deal with.”
Thirteen
Now
“Thank you for coming, everyone,” said Yarrow.
The Incident Room was full, every chair taken. All of CID and most of uniform were present. Yarrow stood at the front, holding court, Hamson to one side, leaning against the wall. As Gray preferred, he was at the back, out of the way, Fowler adjacent to him.
“After months of hard work, the day of reckoning is nearly upon us,” said Yarrow.
“Bit biblical,” mumbled Fowler. Gray had to agree. It made a change for Gray to be with Fowler again. He’d hardly seen his friend these last few months. Pivot had taken a significant toll on his free time.
Yarrow continued. “We have the warrants signed off by a judge, so tomorrow morning, bright and early, we’re going into a number of properties to take down the dealers who have blighted your town for months. These guys.” Yarrow turned and pointed to a double row of A3 laminated cards, each with a photo, name and series of particulars against them, affixed to the wall. “But more about them shortly. I can see there are a few faces who haven’t attended previous briefings, but I guess someone had to keep the station running while we interfered.” Yarrow gave a self-deprecating chuckle. Most of his team joined in. Hamson retained a straight face.
“So, apologies to those who’ve heard this before, but it’s important everyone has the same facts. You’re already aware what a County Line is and its intent. God knows, you’ve experienced enough of the fallout recently. However, a key feature is the use of a mobile phone which is central to the customer base. Typically, this phone is located in the urban hub, London in this case. Periodically, a group message is sent out to the entire customer base to advertise the availability of drugs, and orders are placed back to this line in response from these said customers. It’s like a massive WhatsApp group chat, but about Class A’s.” Yarrow got another laugh. “A relay system sends the orders on to another number followed by the individual dealers in the marketplace. Then the dealers go out and ply their trade. A line can typically make three to five grand per day. That’s big money in anyone’s book. Except maybe a Premiership football player.” More chuckles.
“The phone number itself acquires a value, as a business does. Actually, that’s what this is to these people, a commercial venture, but one where the employer has no regard for its staff and the staff have no rights. There are cases of individual numbers being sold for tens of thousands of pounds. It’s like a franchise. The developed process is sold on to others for them to implement elsewhere in the country. The phones are the key. So, when we hit the properties, I want you to look out for every bit of tech you can spot, particularly mobiles. They tend to use old clunkers from a decade ago. No smartphones here. All clear?”
Nods from around the room.
“As I said, the bastards who run the lines don’t care for anyone. At several locations we fully expect to find users. Like this one.” Yarrow pulled one of the bios off the wall and held it up above his head for all to see. “Eloise Nunes. She takes a lot, sells a little, including herself.” Yarrow stuck the bio back on the wall in its place.
“Often there’s more than one address from which the narcotics are spread out across the area, reducing the impact on the whole supply chain should a successful police raid occur. Drug movements are far more frequent and the value significantly less – i.e. if you get caught with them, the sentence is much reduced. So don’t anticipate finding half a ton of crack. It’ll be a few wraps. But the objective here isn’t volume, it’s value; to take out multiples of these small chunks of Class A’s.
“Thanks to your sterling work, we believe we’ve identified pretty much every dealer, every property, cuckooed or not, and every seemingly legitimate business front across Ramsgate, Broadstairs and Margate. So bloody well done. Mike Fowler was particularly upset when he found out his favourite burger joint was also distributing gear.” More laughs, Fowler joined in.
A serious expression crossed Yarrow’s face. “Now, a word of caution. County Lines gangs employ a high level of violence and intimidation to gain and build markets. There are at least eight lines running into Margate. That’s eight streams being used to pump junk into people’s veins. Think about it. ‘Taxing’ is the marking or injuring of a gang member who’s done wrong to discourage others from doing the same. For example, one man had his hand severed and both legs broken for snorting the drugs he was supposed to be selling and spending the proceeds from whatever didn’t go up his nose.
“Kids are used to run drugs and money. They’re usually anywhere between thirteen and eighteen, the majority being fifteen to seventeen. Young children are used to entice others in via social media with the opportunity of earning large sums of money – a promise which turns out to be a lie. Often family members are threatened or intimidated. And there’s ‘debt bondage’ where individuals work for free to pay back what they owe. Not that runners earn much. A few hundred quid a week and they take most of the risk of being caught. Women may be forced into sex. And woe betide anyone who grasses. That’s the type of people we’re dealing with here.
“There’s a regular transition of individuals between the urban and rural centre to bring in more drugs and transport cash. Typically, movements are by train, although, as funds increase, a shift to vehicular access increases. The people they’re using don’t stay long; a few weeks to a month, to prevent the individuals becoming known to us. So, we may find injured or scared people in the properties who should to be treated with care.
“The dealers need to keep the people they’re exploiting in line. The use of knives, firearms, baseball bats and more recently acid and other corrosives, is increasingly common. We’re seeing assault, kidnapping and burglary. Sometimes murder. There was an example earlier this week with LaShaun Oakley, who was stabbed to death. DCI Hamson has asked that everyone we arrest be questioned about Oakley.
“Once we’ve gone in and taken down the dealers there’s still going to be a huge amount of work for all of us do. There will be an awful lot of junkies wandering the streets looking for someone to buy their fix from. Unfortunately, another dealer is always waiting in the wings to fill the gap. Therefore, after tomorrow this isn’t over by a long chalk. But together we’ll have put a big, nasty hole in Thanet’s drugs supply.
“Right, I’ve done enough lecturing. You’ve all been split into teams. The details of who’s in what group are on the wall over there.” Yarrow pointed to several pieces of A4 paper beside Hamson. “See who you’re with, who’s your leader and the address you’ll be at. Then, familiarise yourselves with our targets.” Yarrow hiked a thumb at the laminated photos.
“These buggers move around the properties, so you could be taking down any one of them. Be here 4am sharp tomorrow. We’re going in
hard and fast at 5am. The assaults will be co-ordinated. Once we take one place, the jungle drums will start up and before we know it our targets will have flown. At the same time, our colleagues in London will be hitting a number of associated properties.
“My objective is to have each and every one of these scrotes in the cells by this time tomorrow. Nobody gets away. Okay?” Yarrow looked around the room, got the nods he wanted. “Thank you everybody and good luck. See you in the morning.”
The room broke into a buzz of conversation and disorder as en-masse the team shifted towards the team list and the crib sheets. Gray already knew which team he was in; he’d helped build the list.
Damian Parker was Gray’s primary target. He’d cuckooed the female user Yarrow had mentioned, Eloise Nunes. Parker was one of the more senior people in the set-up. He was a local, though regularly travelled between the capital and Thanet transporting cash and drugs. They anticipated he’d have information which would lead to further arrests. Gray crossed over to Parker’s photo, took in the man’s scowl, his attempt to look tough. Otherwise Parker appeared entirely normal. A reasonably well-to-do guy in his mid-twenties with a neat haircut and wearing decent clothes. Not the usual type expected to be a drug runner. But they’d captured footage of Parker doing a deal in broad daylight.
“It’s going to be beautiful,” said Fowler, who’d sidled up beside Gray. When in uniform, Fowler had always been up for a confrontation. He’d become expert at wielding the battering ram. “All that smashing wood and breaking glass. They’re not going to have a clue what’s hit them.”
Fourteen
Now
Gray was wired. It was 4.50am and he’d been up over an hour already. He and eight other officers sat tight in the back of an unmarked van, parked around the corner from the target address. The closeness of the bodies made it warm inside; Gray had people either side of him, knees touching. The guy opposite was jiggling his leg. Gray understood why. Only ten minutes till they were due to go in.