“Sean, please sit down, most of these gentlemen you have just met, but please let me introduce the remaining two members of today’s gathering.”
They might be thirty years younger than how I know them now, but they are both so well known to me that I have to hold myself back from allowing my face to show it.
“Firstly, let me introduce this gentleman sitting opposite us, our Senior Legal Counsel, Mr. Desmond Carter.”
In 1989, he would be in his late thirties or early forties, but he looks and dresses at least ten years older, in an attempt, I suspect, to give himself more of an authoritarian air. Judging by where he is sitting at the table next to the final guest, he clearly holds a senior and influential position within the organization and, although he is smiling, I know that as soon as he can he will be digging into my background and story. As it happens, he starts right away.
“Please, Clive, no need for the formality, we are all friends here. Very nice to meet you, Sean. Clive mentioned that you were with the drugs squad, is that correct?”
My cover story is flimsy at best, but if things go as planned, it won’t need to last for more than a couple of days anyway, so I reply with confidence, “Yes, that’s right, three years undercover up to now. It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Carter.”
He keeps on smiling, but the suspicion is obvious in his eyes as he asks his next question, “I have a few old friends on the drugs squad, Sean. Who do you report to?”
I had actually been prepared for this kind of questioning and, like any good undercover cop, my plan is to share as little as possible until I absolutely need to. By adding an element of cockiness to my persona, I am hoping to win over the rest of the audience.
“With respect, Desmond, I only met you and the rest of these gentlemen a couple of minutes ago. In my line of business, I work on the assumption of trusting no one, particularly lawyers. Things tend to work better for me that way. No offence, of course.”
Now whenever somebody says no offence, it is generally because they either have caused or are about to cause offence. When the rest of the men in the room start to snigger at my comment, it is clear that Desmond Carter has taken offence, but before he can respond, the final guest in the room reaches across the table to shake my hand.
“Sean, take no notice of our bulldog. Desmond has the best interests of the group at heart, but I think that we can skip the Spanish Inquisition for now. There will be more than enough time for that later.”
As soon as he finishes speaking, he looks across to Clive and as if on cue, Clive formally introduces Chief Inspector Maurice Butterfield.
“Sean, Chief Inspector Butterfield is the Chairman of our group. After I bumped into you in the White Hart, I suggested to him that you might be an ideal fit. We are always on the lookout for fresh blood.”
The more I get into this, the more things are starting to make sense and as I look across the table at Chief Inspector Butterfield, my mind wanders back to what Morgan had said after our first encounter with Detective Superintendent Clive Douglas in 2018 when I was venting my frustration at his interference in my case.
“Listen, Sean, sometimes there are bigger issues at stake than the one or two cases that we may be handling. This has gone all the way up to the Assistant Chief Constable.”
In 2018, the Assistant Chief Constable of Bedfordshire Constabulary is none other than former Chief Inspector Maurice Butterfield!
Until now, I had thought that Clive Douglas was the main architect and builder of his corrupt little empire from when I first met him in 1994, but from what I am seeing now in 1989, it is already firmly established with Chief Inspector Butterfield at its head.
With all eyes and ears focused and waiting for my response, I am conscious that I need to give the performance of my life if I want to avoid a session of Clive’s world-famous garage torture.
“That’s very kind of you, Clive, but ideal fit for what exactly?”
My statement is the moment that Des Carter was waiting for to redeem himself and he takes it gladly, puffing himself up to speak, “Come now, Sean, I said before, we are all friends here. No need to be shy. We all know that the drugs and cash you confiscated on Christmas Eve never made it back to the evidence room. Perhaps you were just busy, what with it being Christmas and all, or perhaps we share a common understanding when it comes to application of the law. Is that it, Sean?”
I make a show of thinking over his question and then respond to Butterfield with my own question, deliberately ignoring Desmond Carter, “Clive introduced you as ‘The Chairman’. The Chairman of what exactly?”
The tension in the room is obvious and before he answers, Carter whispers in his ear and then pushes across a large black leather-bound ledger he has been writing in since I first arrived in the room. Butterfield opens up the ledger so that only he can see the notes, then he quickly closes it again and takes a puff on his cigar.
“Sean, I think it goes without saying that anything that is said in this room stays in this room. You are about to be given an opportunity that few others are given. We need to know, though, can we trust you?”
Once again, I make a show of confidence, looking slowly around the room at each of the others present before I reply. Including myself, six are police officers of varying ranks, one is a magistrate and the last one is the lawyer Desmond Carter.
“Yes, you can trust me. What exactly are you hoping to recruit me into, sir?”
Butterfield looks pleased at my response and after another long puff on his cigar, he leans it on the edge of an ornate silver ashtray and stands up to deliver his well-rehearsed recruitment speech.
“Detective Sergeant Douglas introduced me as the Chairman of our group. We don’t call ourselves ‘The Group’, though, do we, Clive?” It’s a rhetorical question, of course, so he doesn’t wait for a response before carrying on. “No, we don’t call ourselves The Group, Sean. Amongst ourselves, we prefer to refer to ourselves as ‘The Network’. A network of citizens concerned about the failure of modern policing to adequately deal with the rising tide of crime in our towns and cities. As police officers, lawyers, magistrates, and others in a position of influence, we feel that we have a duty to carry forward the lessons from the past in the way that we deal with criminals. Am I making sense so far, Sean?”
Basically, I am being told that old-style police corruption and collusion with mobsters is the way forward. It is what I have suspected all along, but by the way he is explaining it, it sounds almost as if they have a God-given right to break the law. I need him to carry on, though, so I nod to indicate my understanding.
“That’s good, Sean. The way we view things, it’s better to allow a few bad apples to remain free and working with us for the greater good than it is to throw them all into prison where they can spread the infection. We are, of course, tasked with upholding the law and we take this responsibility very seriously — we just prefer to use different methods when applying those laws. Rather like the way that you let that drug dealer off with a warning and held onto his property for safekeeping.”
My show with the drug dealer had been the bait to get Douglas on the line, but now I am feeling doubly smug with myself for hooking myself the biggest fish of all and it takes all my self-control to hold back my smile as he continues talking.
“Working alone, though, is not advisable, Sean. It’s also not acceptable when we find out that there is a lone operator working on our patch. Strength and security can only be found in numbers, Sean. Strength and security can only be found in my patch as part of the Network. Think of us as a cooperative. One benefits, we all benefit. Clive is a good judge of character and he thinks you could make a significant contribution to our cooperative. If you were to join us, it would open the doors to some significant professional and financial advantages.
We would, of course, need to assess your suitability further, but how does this sound to you so far?”
His speech is clever, and just like my own tactic, he is giv
ing away only just enough for any potential recruit to understand exactly what is on offer, but nothing specific enough to implicate them in anything illegal.
“It actually sounds very appealing, sir. So, what now?”
Butterfield sits down and motions to Clive, “If you would be so kind as to explain the next steps, Mr. Deputy Chairman?” Okay, so now I know where Douglas sits in the pecking order and another piece of the jigsaw falls into place.
“Thank you, sir. Sean, the next step before we approve or reject your membership is to carry out a detailed background check. It’s nothing to worry about, but I’m sure a man in your position will understand the requirement for this. That’s okay with you, Sean?”
With any luck, I will be finished well before they start pulling my story apart, but what the hell — I don’t have any other choice.
“Of course, that’s perfectly fine and I wouldn’t have expected anything less.”
“Wonderful. We will, of course, need your real name and badge number.”
Fuck, this I was not expecting so soon. All I can do now is make up a name and number and bluff it out for a while longer, “Um, of course, it’s Se…”
Thankfully, before I can go any further, there is an unexpected but most welcome interruption from Desmond Carter, “Not here, Sean. Straight after the New Year, I would like you to come to my office and take me through your career and family history.”
He hands me his business card and asks me to give him a call on January second. “I will be taking a short golf break in Majorca from tomorrow but will be back by the afternoon of the second. Give me a call and we can arrange for something that week.”
This really could not have gone any better and the interruption from Carter allows my heartbeat to get back down to a relatively normal level as Butterfield takes charge again.
“Okay, so that’s settled then. If there are no further questions, Sean, we will ask you to leave us to carry on with our meeting. Gentlemen, any questions for Sean before he leaves us?”
The other four men in the room haven’t said a word since my arrival and, mercifully, they keep silent as I get up to leave and Clive walks me to the door.
“As long as we don’t find anything untoward during the background check, everything should be fine, Sean. You won’t regret coming onboard with us. Mary will show you out.”
As he closes the door, I can hear them passing around the whisky decanter and chatting loudly amongst themselves. No doubt, they are comparing notes and giving their opinions on my suitability. Des Carter has already taken a dislike to me and the other four gave absolutely nothing away, but Douglas and Butterfield hold the views that count most.
Ignoring the fact that I have no chance of passing the background check, I think that otherwise it is likely that they would vote me in. It’s actually a shame that I don’t have enough time to build a better cover story. If I could infiltrate the ‘Network’ further, God only knows what surprises I could uncover. Perhaps that would be worth a trip when all of this is over. For now, I need to find a way back to my prison cell.
In the main living room, the party is still in full swing, but Mary is nowhere to be seen, so I open the front door and quietly leave. Outside it is already dark, and by the time, I get to the main road it is raining again. But only lightly, which is just as well as I don’t fancy trying to explain to young Billy how I went to sleep dry and woke up soaking wet.
I don’t particularly want to involve anyone else in finding my way home tonight, so as I turn the corner into a newly built housing estate, I smile when the perfect opportunity presents itself.
The last time I had tried to electrocute myself to death was in the back of the skinheads’ car and I had failed miserably, but as I climb over the barbed-wire topped steel railings into the electrical transformer compound, I am confident of success this time around. The warning sign on the side of the main transformer proclaims ‘High Voltage, Danger of Death’ in bold black letters and as I read it, I am hoping that it is not an idle boast.
Thankfully, safety standards in the 1980s were far less stringent than they are now, so I am quickly able to force open the flimsy aluminium door that covers the main cables and loosen some of the protective sheathing. The residents of the housing estate are going to be pissed off when the power goes out, but that’s not my concern. My job here is done and it is time for me to go.
My hands are already wet from the rain, but I wet them further in a small puddle on the floor just to be sure and then I take a deep breath and grab the exposed cables.
The high voltage electricity would probably have been enough to kill me if I had managed to hold on to the cables for long enough, but the explosion that threw me upwards and impaled me on the railings was the icing on the cake of my death. Within seconds, I bleed out with final memories of a steel railing protruding from my chest and of a housing estate plunged into darkness.
Present Day – Friday, 16th February 2018
By the time, I open my eyes, Billy is already standing by the cell door waiting for it to be unlocked, but he is looking in my direction and staring suspiciously at the watch on my wrist.
He is probably wondering either how I managed to smuggle it in or how much he could get for it on the prison black market.
“That’s a nice watch, McMillan; it would be a shame if the screws or some of the other cons found out about it.”
This might be a veiled threat, but it’s also a perfect opportunity to get Billy on side and after fumbling around under the covers I, hand over what I hope is enough of a sweetener.
“Go on, take it, no strings.”
He is tempted, but also confused. It’s not every day that you are offered twenty quid and a couple of marijuana joints by a complete stranger in prison.
“What’s the fucking catch, McMillan? I’m not fucking gay, if that’s what you’re after.”
“No, nothing like that, just a peace offering. We might be locked up in here together for a while so it’s better if we get along.”
Reluctantly, he takes the money and the joints and stuffs them down the front of his shorts, but he is still suspicious of my motives.
“I’m only taking this as payback for you twatting me last night. It doesn’t mean we are friends, though. You are still a fucking pig, so don’t think you can rely on me if you get into any shit.”
This is fine for now; his appetite has been whetted and with the amount of cash I have on me his principles will crumble easily if he thinks he can make some easy money.
“All good, and understood, Billy. As I said, it’s just a peace offering. Now, what’s the routine this morning?”
“Doors open in five minutes, slop out, ablutions, breakfast and then work for the convicted prisoners. For the rest of us, it’s back to the cells and count down the minutes until lunchtime. It might be different for you, though, McMillan.”
I know already what he is intimating, but I ask anyway, “Why different for me?”
“Use your fucking loaf, copper, you’re a fucking marked man. I doubt that you will even get through breakfast without a trip to the infirmary.”
As the bolt is pulled across on the cell door, he is laughing as he turns away from me. “I hope for your sake you have a shank or some other weapon hidden down your shorts. You’re fucked, mate.”
This is probably one of the most dangerous situations that I have ever put myself in; there is nowhere to run or hide and if I do get into trouble, I won’t be waking up without a scratch. I just hope that my chat with Frank Butler last night has bought me a bit of time. I guess I will find out soon enough, and with the prison officers screaming for everyone to get out of the cells, I conceal the watch, wallet, cash, and warrant card in my pillow case and step out onto the landing for my first real glimpse of the rest of the inmates.
Surprisingly, I am barely given a second look by any of the other prisoners and then I remember that I am in the remand wing. None of these guys are convicted yet, so most wouldn�
��t want to risk getting in trouble, even if it did mean that they could have a pop at a copper. The real trouble is going to come when we get to the canteen and start mixing with the convicted Category ‘A’ prisoners.
The ablutions pass off without incident, as I thought they would, and when we arrive at the canteen, it is already full of prisoners eating breakfast or queuing at the hotplate.
A quick scan of the room gives me an estimation of over one-hundred prisoners, compared to just six prison officers on duty. If I am jumped, I won’t be able to rely on any officer to come to my rescue and, unfortunately, I don’t have that shank or other weapon Billy was joking about. There has never been a better time than now to remember what I learned on the weapons improvisation course.
I join the line at the hotplate and very quickly get the distinct feeling that I might have leprosy or some other nasty disease. The other prisoners are keeping a safe distance from me in the obvious expectation that something is going to kick off and without even turning around I can feel all their eyes watching me.
When it does eventually come, I am at the front of the queue and have just picked up my tray. I am about to hand it to one of the young guys serving when his eyes give away the imminent danger and he pulls his hand back across the counter as the danger makes itself known behind me.
“You need to keep fucking moving, copper. There’s nothing here for you.”
The accent is deep and Scottish, so as I turn I am surprised to see a huge Chinese guy in front of me instead of a stereotypical pasty white guy. To his left and right are two equally huge henchman and, as expected, the prison officers have made themselves scarce.
It’s now or never and without answering I turn back towards the hotplate and hold out my tray to the same young guy. As soon as the Chinese guy’s hand is on my shoulder, I spin and slam the side of the steel tray down on the side of his head and he goes down hard on the floor with a gaping gash in his skull. The sight of their leader bleeding on the floor buys me precious seconds and I am halfway across the counter with a carving knife in my hand before the other thugs can react. With the knife in my hand, they are suddenly not so sure of themselves and I use the opportunity to show that I am no easy target by taunting them.
The Network Page 6