STATUS DRIFT: A gripping undercover detective crime thriller, page 1
STATUS DRIFT
A gripping undercover detective crime thriller
IAN ROBINSON
Published by
THE BOOK FOLKS
London, 2024
© Ian Robinson
Polite note to the reader
This book is written in British English except where fidelity to other languages or accents is appropriate.
ISBN: 978-1-80462-183-7
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We hope you enjoy the book.
STATUS DRIFT is the second standalone novel in a gripping crime fiction series centring on undercover cop Sam Batford. Look out for the first book, CRIMINAL JUSTICE. Further details about Ian Robinson’s books can be found at the back of this one.
CONTENTS
1
2
3
4
Sensitive log entry 1
Sensitive log entry 2
5
6
7
8
9
10
Sensitive log entry 5
11
12
13
14
Sensitive log entry 10
15
16
17
18
19
20
Sensitive log entry 16
21
22
23
24
25
26
Sensitive log entry 20
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
Final log entry
Also in this series
More fiction by the author
Other titles of interest
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1
I observe the rat. It’s twitching, convulsing, foaming at the mouth. Its eyes pulsate at odds with its erratic heartbeat. I haven’t touched it. I’m just watching it die. I don’t wish to intervene in a sentient being’s death. It’s chosen this path and taking any drug has its consequences. You see, this dirty rat has just consumed a corner of my kilo of cocaine and is now having a seizure as a result. This rat has cost me money but has taught me a valuable lesson in the dark side of my business. It’s time to get shot of the last five kilos I have sat in a salt bin, in the wood by the cottage I’ve inhabited for the last month. I’m here because the police have put me here. They have a duty of care to all serving police officers, of which I am one.
I enter the adjoining garage and find a coalscuttle scoop with a broken wooden handle. I need to get rid of the rat. I clear dead leaves and bracken from the strip of corrugated iron that covers the hole where my cash is buried in an old ammunition box. I’m mindful not to disturb any creature that has bedded down in the vicinity. Why should they suffer because of a drug-addled rodent?
I started off with one hundred and ninety kilos of pure white powder and now have five kilos, less the rat’s share, to shift. I have a buyer lined up for four but I know he’ll take the five. I pick the rat up by the tail. It’s dead. I decided against the scoop in case I was careless and pierced the already open package further. Every speck of white dust is money. I look up and see a red kite hovering over the fields looking for prey. I throw the rat towards the open area of grass.
As I do, I hear the sound of an engine. It’s a car, not an agricultural vehicle. I move further into the wood and crouch down. The dyke hides the driver’s window but I can see the red roof. It’s a post office van. I hear the engine stop outside my cottage, the metal cattle gate open and close, then the sound is repeated – the engine fires up then fades as the car drives off down the hill towards the farm. The silence returns. I wonder what’s been sent. I only get mail from my employer. It’s never good news.
I raise the corrugated iron strip that lies abandoned on rotting vegetation within the wood. I dig down using an old spade. It hits metal. I clear the remaining soil by hand. The earth’s crumb disappears through my fingers. The lid opens. The money stares back at me. It’s all neatly bound and secured in waterproof bags. I break a seal and stroke the cash, grab a fistful of twenty-pound notes and close the lid. I replace everything, as I’d found it.
As I leave, I look back and check its appearance. It looks like a derelict area of wood where a tenant dumps his shit. The cocaine can wait. I observe the road before I leave. It’s quiet save for the Limousin bull observing me from the field opposite. Rain is beginning to fall, as the sky turns black. I grab some logs from the woodshed before entering my temporary dwelling. The only mail is a plain envelope and some flyers the postal service have to deliver. I have no need of continence pads so I put the paper aside to use as firelighters. The flame envelops the logs and I sit back and rip open the letter.
I’d rather read a Dear John. It’s from the promotion board. I’ve passed the inspectors’ exam. I throw the letter on the fire. The paper’s a poor grade and the fire starts spitting. I have five years to complete the rest of the process. The police have halted promotions but they have to continue letting sergeants take the exam. Inspector will be my last hoorah, if I want it. I’ve no intention of going beyond DCI. The next rank is superintendent and mine is a complete arsehole. I’m earning a good wage and keep under the radar. There isn’t any overtime but I don’t need it now that I have other income streams. The phone jolts me from my thoughts. The call screening kicks in.
‘It’s Mike, pick up!’
It’s the arsehole I was referring to. He’s also the authorising officer for my work.
I press 1. The line connects.
‘What do you want?’
‘A “good morning, sir” would be nice.’
‘Get your mistress to tell you that, I’m busy.’
‘Fuck off, Batford. You’ve been sat on your arse for a month. Something’s come up and your name’s been thrown in the pot to take it on. A courier is on their way with a train ticket. Meeting at the Yard at 0900 hours tomorrow. Wear a suit. I know you have one, it cost us a fortune.’
He hangs up. I have no choice. You don’t when you’re a detective sergeant working as an undercover officer for the Metropolitan Police.
I hear a knock at the door. I check the camera monitor. The delivery guy doesn’t wait for a signature and an envelope drops through the letterbox. That will be my tickets then. This is no ordinary cottage. It’s a safe house in a remote part of Scotland. I’m here because I fucked someone off doing my job and he wants to know where his missing cocaine is. That man is Vincenzo Guardino aka Big G. He’s already started his hunt for the robbers and he’s killed two. One of them I was close to, in a professional way.
I miss Stoner. She was a bad girl with a heart of gold. She should have been dripping in cash, not blood. News reports suggested two people had been shot dead in retribution for a drugs deal gone wrong. The murder team are no further in the investigation. You wouldn’t be when you have limited resources investigating murder in the capital. Cuts have consequences and they are kicking in. Times have changed since the public sector austerity measures were first imposed. The then Home Secretary became Prime Minister and still persisted with the draconian measures despite public backlash. Not even Thatcher touched the police and most thought she was brutal.
I put the kettle on the Aga and gaze out over the fields. I have a day to kill before my train from Edinburgh to London. I’ve enjoyed the break and the solitude. City life has ground me down. My problem is that the pace and vibe of the city are in my blood. It’s part of my DNA. I love its tension coursing through my veins. I adore the adrenalin rush when a job comes off. I also enjoy the rich pickings from the criminals I infiltrate. I have no intention of completing thirty years’ service. I need to top up my pension pot before I leave though. I subconsciously check my leg and I’m reassured at the feel of titanium. I intend to upgrade and add to my prosthetic leg collection once this next job is over. Whatever my bosses have planned for me, I always turn it to my advantage.
I watch the bull. He has no competition. He’s Mr Big in his field. Every bull has his day though. All lives have a price. The whistle indicates the water’s ready.
The thing I love about the police is they will always look after you. That’s unless you need to be further away than London for a cool-off period. There are no mod cons or city flats to escape to here. The cottage has seen better days, and let’s just say the police estate doesn’t run to cover the costs of refurbishment or maintenance beyond a working fire alarm.
Damp permeates the walls and paper hangs from the ceiling. The heating is oil and at least they’ve kept up the contract to enable that to still work. The furniture would look good in a seventies sitcom. The solitude has given me time to think. In many ways it’s been a good thing but today it hasn’t. A month alone has taken its toll. Memories have haunted me and sleep has been fitful. My left leg’s phantom pain has revisited me and haunts my mind like a feral ghost taunts a medium. The pressure of feeling hunted and getting rid of that amou nt of cocaine hasn’t been easy. I’m only here because of the death threat. The police can tick the box over duty of care. If it weren’t for this, I’d have rolled straight on to another job.
I’ve had help. How else could I accomplish such a task without appearing overloaded with class A and attracting the wrong attention? Cocaine stores well if packaged correctly but the use-by date is brief. The longer it’s stored, the greater the risk of contamination from the wrong kind of filth. A rodent is the least of my problems. A rat of the informant kind is my greatest enemy.
I’ve been lucky here. The cottage is remote and the nearest farm believes it’s a retreat for overworked city types to come and get away from it all. If only he knew the hell that could follow any one of us if it became public knowledge that this is where the police hide out after they’ve fucked off a crime lord.
The money’s been good. I’ve turned a profit on my half. I’m not a greedy man. Greed leads to complacency and that leads to capture. I’m not flash with the cash. I have a good accountant who takes care of my earnings. I give a percentage to charity too. I bring him the money and he takes care of my investments. These investments have good growth and are currently earning ten per cent each year. I can live off my salary very comfortably. If it all comes out, the police will have a job linking any of my extracurricular earnings to me. A life mixing with the criminal elite has its benefits. Politicians are top of the criminal pile but I’ve no intention of having a beer with any of them.
The coffee tastes good. I move into the living room and contemplate packing. I’ve always hated this part of any trip. Not knowing what clothing you’ll require for the job ahead, and Mike hasn’t exactly given me the best heads-up as far as that’s concerned. I decide to take what I came with, which is easy as I haven’t unpacked any of it. The two-seater sofa has made a great wardrobe. I no longer have a watch as that got used on the last job and the police have decided not to return it to me. I don’t blame them. That watch had a ten-thousand-pound price tag and the commissioner needs to save money.
Since being sent up here, I haven’t been back to London. I have a sense of trepidation. These nerves are ones of uncertainty, isolation, despite the vast swathes of people who move through the capital like they own it. I think of Zara Stone. Poor Stoner wiped out in a game of hunt the snout. She’d done well to survive as long as she had in her world of men and violence.
Who am I to infiltrate next? I have no idea. I will do what I must to survive despite my position as a servant of the King. He’s not my King. The only person I serve is myself and that in turn serves the society in which I choose to belong.
I look out the open kitchen window. I can hear a banging coming from the corrugated roof of the garage. At first I think it’s tree branches lightly tapping on the roof. But this sounds different. A definite bang every now and then, yet the wind is light enough not to sway the trees. I move out of the kitchen into the tiny hall and grab the baseball bat by the back door.
The bat of choice is a Rawlings wood composite. Fits well in either hand, feels light enough to swing repeatedly but heavy enough to do serious damage to someone’s head when it connects. I still recall my long baton training and the instructor’s emphasis on all the energy exiting from the tip, causing the most damage to an assailant.
I’m right-handed and in no mood for entertaining guests. The cottage door opens easily and without sound; the side door to the garage remains shut. The bang happens again. I move along the garage wall towards the door. I haven’t locked the side door since I arrived.
An unwelcome gust of wind blows up dust. I temporarily can’t see. I’m conscious of shifting my body weight to my left so that my balance is good. I’m not as useful on the floor, but have some techniques I can employ. I’ve made my decision to rush any intruder. This isn’t based on any theoretical training, merely the need to catch my train.
I place my left hand on the door and push the handle down. I hear the lock disengage. The banging starts up. I shoulder the door and move in at the same time. The bat over my shoulder, ready to swing. The first hit is swift, straight to my face. The next one skims the top of my head at speed. I drop the bat out of confusion, duck, then let out breath. My arms go up around my face in an instinctive defensive pose. If I die then pathology will see defence marks in the forms of gashes along my forearms. I can already feel my forearms bleeding from striation marks.
I’m up from my crouched position, sight fully restored. I fleetingly see the enormous crow that has chosen the garage as a roost. It is a strange domain as they normally choose a higher location. I guess it got trapped coming through one of the gaps in the wall. I wait. The mass of feathers exits the doorway, cawing. Its impressive wingspan inspires awe at such close proximity. Fucking wildlife gets everywhere. As I regain my composure all I’m left with is a sense of relief, laughter and an angry paper wasp queen who’s busy building her lair in the garage roof eaves. I approach her. She hovers near the entrance but appears happy to continue her intricate work with me observing.
I can see the coombes forming from within the small entrance hole. She weaves her structure with care and attention. A worthy home for her brood of soldiers. Still a fucking pest though. One sweep of the bat scatters the nest, raining wasps down into the garage like a piñata at a Mexican street party.
I have underestimated the fury of a wasp scorned and am thankful the side door is open. My exit is swift and the door closes on the angry swarm. Fuck the country life, the city beckons. I grab my belongings and after leaving the wood with my packages, sling the bag and contents on the back seat of my car and head towards Edinburgh and my train connection to the Smoke.
2
I arrive in Edinburgh earlier than expected. I take refuge in an internet café, in a side street, away from the bustle of tourists. I’m aware I could be classed as one but I regard this visit as a stopover and have no intention of sightseeing. Thankfully Edinburgh has long-term parking and for once I feel a sense of safety at being able to leave and return to find my car where it should be.
The venue isn’t much of a café at all. It’s basic, does repairs and printing if you need it. All I need is to check up on emails and contact an associate. There are a few students inside. One of them who works there stops his conversation and tells me they take the money up front for the hour session I will require. I pay him cash and he indicates the booth I can use.
‘Make sure you back up anything you need. We forensically wipe all data once each session is over. Coffee’s from the vending machine and we have chocolate in the fridge, enjoy.’
He walks back to his group and they all huddle around a laptop and continue watching shit on Netflix. I put my bag between my feet and make sure my right foot is in contact with it.
I haven’t got my phone turned on. I won’t until I’m on the train. I need my solitude. The computer is quick. This is reassuring despite the squalid look of the shop; the technology is where the money is invested. I’ve a good view of the outside world and the booths are designed that no one can see over your shoulder when you’re online.
I don’t use any mainstream search engines for my line of business. I find the anonymity of the darknet more amenable to my needs. The Onion Router (TOR) is the best way for me to make contact with the people I need to engage with. One of these happens to be my accountant. He isn’t the kind of guy you just contact by phone. He doesn’t own one. With a click on a link, I’m in and secure in my underground world. I don’t have much time for the good old US of A, but I am thankful for them setting up this wonderful system.
For the uninitiated, this was set up by the US government to share classified military information. It’s now been taken over by members of society to conduct our own lines of business and research anonymously. To shut it down would mean the internet would no longer exist. It’s called TOR because, like an onion, the information being sent or searched for travels through so many layers it’s near impossible to establish its source.
The downside is it has become a marketplace for criminality with no way of policing it. That’s why I love it. I find my contact’s message board and request a meeting. I have a substantial cash deposit to make and his opening hours are not advertised. I scan the outside whilst I wait to see that it’s sent. Water races down the window. The tourists make a break for cover. I get an automated response back. Before I close down, I wipe my browsing history from the main server and get rid of cached data too. They can’t see where I’ve been and I have no reason to doubt they will wipe the computer history after each session. Old habits die hard. I put on my waterproof coat, zip it up to my neck, and pull up the hood. The baseball cap will catch the rain. I don’t have far to go.
