“No. Not yet. Look, Colin, take a seat, let me explain.” Colin reluctantly sat down. “I’m guessing you haven’t come across any immunity pleas before?” Colin shook his head. “Me neither. I had to look it up. It works in stages, each stage dependent on the one before. Firstly, Petrov needs to be given a ‘Scoping Interview’ by a senior detective.”
“OK, so what does that do?” asked Colin.
“That’s where he’ll give details of the information that he wants to trade. We can assess what he’s got and whether its quality is good enough to warrant a deal being considered.”
“So he has to give the information BEFORE any deal is agreed?” clarified the DI.
“Exactly.”
“He’s not gonna do that though, is he? I mean, if he gives up the details before a deal is signed, we are in possession of the information already, and can just pull out of the arrangement.”
“But if his solicitor is any good, he’ll advise him to give just enough to get us interested, and to keep the juicy details until after the deal is agreed,” added Mitchelson. “Besides, we can’t even conduct the scoping interview until a ‘Proffer Letter’ has been given to him and he signs it.”
“What does that say, exactly?”
“Think of it like a contract. He agrees to tell us the information (or some of it at least) in the scoping interview, and to then admit everything to a court. If he does so, he gets immunity from prosecution and a new life. If he reneges on anything, changes his mind, alters any of the details of the information supplied, then all deals are off.”
Colin considered what he had been told. In some ways, it helped to calm his temper knowing that, despite what Sergei had boasted about, things were NOT cut and dried yet. But he still felt betrayed, something that he was having difficulty reconciling.
“But you’ll still be pushing for this deal, regardless of the fact that a police officer, one of our own, is dead?” Colin asked.
“Well, yes. The information could help to put away a whole drugs syndicate.”
“Only to be replaced by another one in no time at all!” Colin added, pessimistically. “We could shut it down anytime, at far less cost to ourselves. What does he want in exchange?”
“Immunity from prosecution, anonymity, relocation... Basically, a whole new life.”
“And you’re seriously considering that, are you? It had better be bloody good information.” Colin was not convinced.
“What Petrov wants is not necessarily what he’ll get,” added Mitchelson.
Colin was silent for a moment. “You know the Met are queuing up to interview him in relation to our old incident in the Drug Squad, not to mention numerous other TICs (taken into consideration)?”
For the second time in a few minutes, Mitchelson looked shocked, but also a little worried. “You told them about his arrest?” he exclaimed.
“Of course.”
“That complicates matters a bit,” he said to himself. Then to Colin, he asked, “Why didn’t you talk to me before you contacted them?”
“Why didn’t you tell me about the deal before I went into interview? I looked like a right bloody idiot in there.”
“That’s none of your concern, Inspector. The deal was arranged above your pay scale.”
“You know, sir, that’s the second time I’ve been told that today. It’s like you’re all reading from the same hymn sheet.”
Both men stared at one another, each trying their hardest to control their simmering anger.
“But nothing is agreed in writing as yet?” clarified Colin.
“I’m pushing it through,” replied a stubborn Mitchelson.
Colin stood up, turned, and left the office leaving the door wide open behind him. He was a man on a mission. He would not let Petrov get away with it. One of his own team had died as a result of the prisoner’s actions. If he could not stop the deal from going ahead, then maybe he would have to resort to other ways and means.
...
By late afternoon, many of the day-shift officers and civilian workers were leaving the police station on their way home. Superintendent Mitchelson would normally have been joining them. But this particular afternoon, he was descending the stairs to the custody suite. He, too, was a man on a mission.
“Afternoon, sir,” said the Custody Sergeant from behind his counter. “What can we do for you?”
“I’m duty senior officer, Sergeant. I’m just doing a prisoner welfare check, nothing to worry about.” Mitchelson paused. “How many have we got in at the moment?”
“Just the one, sir; cell number three – Petrov – the cop-killer!”
“Alleged cop-killer,” corrected Mitchelson. “Have you got his custody record?”
The Sergeant handed him a folder of paperwork which he gave a cursory glance to. He had no intention of conducting an official welfare check, but he had to be seen to be doing so.
“Alright if I go and have a word with him? Check he’s happy,” asked the Superintendent.
“He definitely won’t be happy, sir. He hasn’t stopped complaining since he arrived.” The Sergeant collected the huge ring of cell keys from behind the counter and started to head towards the cell complex.
“It’s alright, Sergeant, I can do it myself. Give me the keys. You can stay here and do something more important.”
“If you’re sure, sir?” He handed the bunch of keys to the Superintendent who slowly walked out of sight into the cell block area.
Standing outside the door of cell #3, he peeked through the observation window. Petrov was sitting on the blue plastic mattress by the far wall of the 3m by 3m room, staring at the floor between his feet. Mitchelson opened the drop-hatch with a metallic clang, causing Petrov to raise his head and look up at the door.
In hushed tones, so not to be heard by the police officers in the main reception area, he said, “Petrov, it’s me...”
“Ah, a personal visit from the top brass, eh? I am a privileged prisoner,” he replied, sarcastically. “Have you got my DEAL paperwork to sign yet?”
“Look, it doesn’t work like that. You’ve got to be served with a Proffer Letter, a letter of intent. You then tell us what information you want to trade, we assess its value, and if it’s agreed by everyone...”
Sergei was bored listening to the Superintendent. He waved his hand in a dismissive manner before interrupting his flow. “Yeah, yeah – whatever – sort it out FAST. Get me outta here. I’m paying you to protect my arse.”
Mitchelson was suddenly scared. He looked up and down the corridor to check that nobody was within earshot. “Shhh,” he said. “Keep your voice down. Someone might hear.”
Sergei smirked from within his cell.
“Look, it’s out of my hands now,” continued the Superintendent. “Others want to question you, people from London. So the information you give had better be bloody good to make all of that disappear. I’ve done all I can for you.”
Sergei laughed to himself. “Getting a backbone are we, Superintendent?” He spat the last word out with disgust. “You weren’t so tough when you were taking my money as a junior detective back in London, were you? Think how much you’ve had out of me over the years, both in the smoke, and up here...”
“Yeah, and I paid for it - tipping you off, covering your back, diverting investigations away from you. And for what? So that you could blackmail me, drag me deeper into your filthy world.”
“Don’t forget your retainer. You were quite happy to take that every month,” said Petrov.
“Not anymore. This is the last time.” Mitchelson had heard enough. He needed to silence Petrov for good.
“If I go down, so do you,” added Petrov.
“Are you threatening me?” asked Mitchelson. He smiled; a cold nasty smile, one that would have been more at home on Sergei’s face. “Take your fucking deal and get out of my life.”
He slammed the hatch on the cell door shut, and marched back to the custody office. If the deal went through, Pet
rov would be out of his hair, out of his life, unable to contact him for fear of destroying his new identity. He would be free of him for good. Or would he? What if he found a way of contacting him, prolonging his agony, continuing to blackmail him? And what if DI Peterson got his way? If he stirred up enough trouble to scupper the deal, then Petrov would be found guilty of all charges, and sent down for life. If Petrov’s promises were true, his career, if not his actual life, would be over. That was something that Mitchelson was not willing to contemplate. There must be a better solution, a way of buying Petrov’s silence, a way of stopping him from being a threat. His mind was spinning as he tried to think of a way out.
Chapter 36
Charlie York was confused.
He had given Petrov’s mobile phone number to the police anonymously, and yet here he was, having been arrested and brought to the police station by DS French. He had thought that anonymous meant it could not be traced back to him.
He sat nervously at a table in Interview Room #5 at Bradwell Street Police Station. As he played with his podgy fingers, his solicitor, Archie Truman, sat next to him spreading his official-looking papers across his side of the table, whilst DS French sat opposite, staring and smiling at them both.
BEEP!
The sound of the recording devices starting nearly caused the extremely anxious York to leap from his seat. After the introductions had been made, and the caution given, Gary began his interview.
“So, Mr York, for the benefit of the tape, could you tell me what your occupation is, please?” Gary said, formally.
York felt even more confused than before.
“Eh? What are you on about? I...I do lots of things. Trade stuff, buy and sell...you know?”
“So you’re not Charlie York, the forger, then?” asked DS French.
York looked sheepish. Clearly they knew who he was and what he did. Why wouldn’t they? After all, they only had to check their records to find his previous convictions for deception. That being said, he did not intend to make things easy for the police. He still had no idea why he was being interviewed.
“I’m Charlie York, the person who you lot stitched up and convicted as a forger, yeah.”
Gary smiled to himself. “Oh, sorry, we must have got the wrong person then.” He stood up to go.
“Stop playing games, detective,” said Truman in a bored voice.
“Aw, you solicitors always spoil my fun,” Gary said, mocking him. “OK, down to business.” He stared at York. “We have evidence linking you to the murders of a PC Griffiths and a Malachi Maclean.” The blood drained from York’s face and he looked stunned, unsure whether he was hearing things correctly. “We believe you supplied the killer with fake identity documents.”
“Rubbish! Says who?” he countered, rather too defensively.
“We also have links between you and Sergei Petrov; you might know him as ‘The Russian.’ You were commissioned to provide him with a passport and a fake identity. So, we’re looking at charging you with aiding and abetting the escape of a fugitive, not to mention all of the forgery charges too. And that’s just for starters...”
As the enormity of what he was facing started to dawn on him, York began to perspire, beads of sweat building on his forehead. He looked guilty, he acted guilty, and Gary knew that he was guilty.
Stuttering, York said, “What evidence y...you got? Y...you can’t go around accusing people with n...no evidence. It’s just one word against another.”
“Really?” replied Gary. “We’ve got Petrov’s mobile phone. It has numerous calls and text messages to your number.”
“But that could be about anything, it doesn’t link me to those crimes you mentioned.”
“True, but the messages refer to you providing a driving licence and a passport. That’s slightly more incriminating, eh? Plus there are photos attached to the texts, sent to your number, which show Petrov and Maclean posing as if for passport-style pictures.”
“But...but...”
York held his head in his hands, covering his eyes, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table. His solicitor shook his head as if to say, keep quiet, but York was not looking at him. He seemed lost in a flood of despair. He sat silently for three long minutes thinking, contemplating what his next gambit might be.
Sensing his prey was floundering, Gary went in for the kill. “After you were arrested, we searched your flat. Guess what we found secreted under a floorboard in the bedroom?” No reply. “Only a mobile phone with the same number that these calls/texts were sent to. That phone is being examined as we speak. I’m pretty sure that it’ll contain matching calls, messages, and photos.”
York remained silent, still thinking of his best option to avoid digging himself any deeper into trouble. Then it dawned on him...
“Well, how do you think you managed to catch Petrov in the first place?” asked York. “I gave you his phone number anonymously, didn’t I?” He had a big smile planted firmly across his face. If he proved that he was responsible for providing the vital piece of information that led to The Russian’s capture, then there was no way that the police were going to prosecute him for his minor role. Or so he thought.
“Did you really?” asked Gary. “That information was anonymous, as you rightly said. You could just be saying that to save yourself. There’s no way of knowing if it is true or not.”
“Yeah, but if you’re searching my phone, then check the call register; I called the freephone number from it. You’ll see...” His smile grew, safe in the knowledge that this critical detail might just save him from a life behind bars.
“OK, I’ll check it,” said Gary, “but regardless of the results, you’re still implicated in two murders and various other offences. You may have supplied the information leading to the arrest (which we can mention on your behalf, in court, to help your case), but we can’t just turn a blind eye to your part in everything.” York’s smile suddenly vanished.
“If you say in open court that I helped you to find Petrov, then I’ll be branded a ‘grass.’ My life won’t be worth living.”
Gary feigned surprise. “Oh yeah! What a tangled web of lies and deceit you live. But if we don’t mention your help, then you’re facing a longer sentence for your crimes. It’s your choice.” Gary paused for maximum effect. “Oh, and one other thing...with you being complicit in these offences, you can kiss goodbye to any thoughts of getting a reward for your information.”
He stood to leave the room. Looking over his shoulder, he said, “Think through your options. Talk to your solicitor. Let me know what you decide to do. For now, you can go back in the cells while we verify your tip-off about Petrov’s phone number.”
Charlie York was a broken man. He could see his only chance of freedom slowly ebbing away from him.
...
John Mitchelson was in his office, the door firmly shut, his secretary advised that he was busy and wanted no interruptions.
After his chat with Petrov in the custody suite, he had been fuming. How dare a member of the criminal underworld dictate what a police Superintendent should or should not do! But inside, he knew that The Russian would continue to make excessive demands on him, and that no matter how angry he got, he would do exactly as he was instructed. He had NO choice. He had too much to lose.
He was overly stressed, pacing the room, thinking. How had he managed to get himself into such a desperate situation? He knew the answer only too well - stupidity, greed, and ambition.
Years earlier, as part of the Met’s Drug Squad, John had been a junior DC, fresh from his detective training course. He had been keen and eager to impress. Even in those early years he had been ambitious. Pressure had been applied to all new members of the squad to cultivate a network of informants, people willing to trade information for money. John had simply been doing what he had been instructed to do.
One particular low-level informant had passed some drug-related information to him which had proved to be quite lucrative. He h
ad developed their relationship, keen to gain more of the same. This person had taken John to meet his boss, the leader of the gang, someone in the upper echelon of the gang’s hierarchy. He had offered to supply detailed information on rival gangs, drug shipments, and so on. The offer had been too good for an ambitious young detective to dismiss. That gang leader had been Sergei Petrov. The pay-off had been that he would need to let Petrov know of any police investigations that might impact on his own activities. To John, this had not been too much to ask. He had not seen any harm in it. After all, he was in charge of the arrangement, he was the police officer, he could filter the information that he gave to the criminals ensuring that nothing too sensitive was included. In payment, he would receive valuable information that would lead to the arrests of other drug gang members, and maybe even shutdown their operations. His superior officers would be pleased with him as his information would result in substantial results, and Petrov would be happy because his opposition would be eliminated. Everybody would win.
This arrangement had continued for a while with John falsely thinking that he had control over it. He had even been given a small “thank you” from Petrov, an envelope of cash. Little did he know that this transaction had been filmed. Petrov now had the upper hand. In exchange for his silence, Petrov had demanded more and more detailed information from John - tip-offs, making minor offences disappear, and diverting any investigations that came too close. John could not refuse, not without losing his job and becoming one of the criminals that he so desperately wanted to put behind bars. He was trapped.
After reluctantly informing Petrov that he had an undercover police officer hidden in his midst, and Matt Carmine and Colin Peterson’s operation having gone so catastrophically wrong, Petrov had vanished into thin air. John had thought that his luck had finally changed for the better. No longer having to look over his shoulder all of the time, he had looked for new opportunities within the police service. He took a transfer to Manchester, and with a fresh beginning, he had risen rapidly through the ranks.
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