STATUS DRIFT: A gripping undercover detective crime thriller, page 11
‘Put the fucking blade away, you stupid prick. Let’s grab a drink and calm the fuck down. It’s getting like an episode of Strictly.’
It’s not having the effect I’d hoped for.
‘We’ve got a job to do and this ain’t helping.’
He’s not interested in this approach. His first swipe is wild and falls way short of the mark.
‘You’re a wrong’un. I don’t know why Razor took you on, but I’m done with pissing about. You’re gonna suffer for what you just did.’
He’s got streams of snot and blood running from the base of his nostrils and over his top lip. Drips of claret are marking the road surface where we parry. There’s no doubt in my mind he’s lost the plot. I’ve taken enough and need to kill this quickly, and quietly, as curtains are beginning to twitch. He continues to pace in a circle. I replicate his movement but still keep side-on and wait.
He takes an ill-judged lunge. He’s overstretched and off balance. I use his forward momentum to my advantage and move as the knife hand shoots forward, taking his arm and pulling him to the floor. At the same time, I invert his wrist, showing his palm to the sky and bend it towards his face. His grip on the knife is still there as the blade edges closer to his eye. An increase of pressure forces his wrist down towards his face. He screams in pain and drops the knife and rolls onto his front. I make sure he stays down by pushing his now-straight arm and shoulder into the tarmac, exerting pressure on his wrist to the point where it would be easy to break. He turns his head to the left, his cheek grinding into the street’s surface.
I put the toe of my boot into his mouth to stop him screaming and muffle his addled cries. It’s time to give him his caution.
‘I’m in no mood for a ceilidh and we’ve got a tight schedule. Now you’ve got two choices: I let you up, we shake hands, and get the fuck out of here. Alternatively, I just break your arm, leave you here, and tell Razor you bottled the job and I gave you a kicking for my troubles. Either option’s good for me.’
The corner of his mouth that isn’t eating tarmac, moves. ‘I’ll take the first, I’ll take the first.’
His breathing is exacerbated with the floor show he’s performed. I pull him up. He bends over, spitting blood from his mouth where he hit the floor. He holds each nostril in turn and blows through each, expelling the contents onto a parked car. I can tell he’s had enough.
‘Just follow me,’ he says. ‘We’ll get that drink at Polish’s gaff.’
We both hear sirens in the distance and waste no time leaving the area and heading towards our first meeting.
16
The garages echo with the sound of two 1200cc engines. Our lights are off as we glide to a halt. Trigger finds the garage we want. A lank-haired estate rodent is waiting in the shadows. This one’s five ten and wearing multiple tops. Easier to change description if you leave a crime scene in a hurry. He opens the door. We park the bikes inside and leave the helmets on.
‘Who’s the feral-looking youth four units down? He nodded at you as we came in.’ I need to know. To lose the bike here would be careless.
‘Don’t worry about him. He works the cellar at the club and he’s a runner for Razor. Razor doesn’t supply here but devised a youth training scheme for when he needs things watching or moving. The bikes will be safe with him there.’
I follow Trigger up some stairs that lead us towards the block that houses Polish. Kids are out playing; residents are smoking; grime music can be heard coming from a balcony. We climb three flights of stairs; spent works litter the floor. A child of five passes us. Her street evolution has taught her to avoid the sharps. We find maisonette twenty-two. The entrance door is obscured by a large and thick sheet of steel. I’ve seen weaker doors on a tank. It’s a clear sign that visitors are by appointment only. Trigger rings the bell and looks right. The camera light above the door blinks red. The camera moves, a loud click is heard, and Trigger pulls open the metal security door. The main door is opened and we step in.
We take our helmets off. Trigger dispenses with introductions. We move into the main living room past the kitchen where meat is boiling in a pan with onions and a scent of garlic.
Our host notices me looking. ‘You like food?’
I shake my head. It was a statement more than an offer. He motions with his hands for us to be seated. A woman enters with three mugs and puts a plate of biscuits down. The mugs contain strong black coffee, the type you could stand a spoon in. Our host decants four sugars into his and sits back. Once we’re alone, business begins.
‘So, Polish, have you got what we asked for?’
Polish sips his coffee, considering Trigger’s request. ‘You know, you come here and drink my coffee, eat my biscuits, but you never call me by my name. My name is Adok. It’s because of people like you that I have big metal security door now. Ignorant English who think I take jobs and claim benefits. I do none of these things. I work hard for a living to support my family.’
Trigger spits his coffee out in laughter. ‘Bollocks! It’s because you went from cleaning offices to cleaning guns, that’s fuckin’ why.’
Adok smiles and strokes his goatee. He’s in his fifties, has a wiry build and from his handshake I can tell he would be a sure bet in a fistfight.
Adok chuckles. ‘So, before we do business, let me tell you a story.’
Trigger groans. ‘Not another of your poxy tales from the riverbank.’
‘Yes. So I just got back from a trip to Poland to see my friend. We’re at my family home and he says, “Adok. I need help with my puppy. I got him from a Russian guy at the market.” I tell him, of course I’ll help him. My friend says to me, “Adok, I have many dogs but this one is a fucking bastard.” So, we have few drinks and after I say to him, “Let’s see the dog. I’ll try and understand why he’s being a bastard.” So he drives me to his house and we go to the back garden. I look out and back at my friend and ask him, “Where is the dog?” He looks at me funny and says, “There, at the end of the garden!” I say to him, “That’s not a dog! That’s a bear!”’
Adok looks at us both. A grin stretches across his animated face. His shoulders move as he laughs. He’s slapping his leg as he recounts the story again in his mind. We say nothing and wait.
‘Is my English not good? See! You have a problem, not me. I’ll go get what you need.’
He leaves the room. I smell the coffee first before drinking it. After a short break he comes back in with a Makarov pistol. A newly rolled cigarette perches in the corner of his mouth. He shows it to Trigger who dismantles the weapon with ease. It’s no secret where he gets his nickname. He middles the guns for the syndicate. I don’t touch it. This is Trigger’s party and I’m not holding the drinks.
‘I have stripped and cleaned it. It hasn’t been fired and my supplier is good for this type, as you know. You like?’ Adok squints as he lights his cancer stick.
‘How much ammo?’ Trigger demands, as he looks down the dismantled barrel.
‘Ten rounds.’ Adok hands over a small canvas bag.
Trigger nods and pulls an envelope from inside his leathers and slides it across the table. Adok takes it, but doesn’t count the money. A trusted arrangement. We finish our coffee and leave.
Once we’re down in the garages, I front Trigger. ‘Okay. I’m going no further unless you tell me the fucking job. I’m no patsy. I want to know what the game plan is. Your shout.’
He sits on his bike. I mirror him. The garages are deserted save for a tired-looking moggy that’s seen better days. The lookout is AWOL.
‘Fair enough. A Turk’s behind on the rent, well behind. Time’s come to settle the debt. You don’t need me to tell you the Turks can be a bit testy when it comes to family. This fella’s been disowned. The nod’s been given to Razor, by the head of the family, to deal with it as he sees fit. Today is a frightener unless he kicks off. Then he’s dead. I go in, you wait outside to pick me up. We come back here and go our separate ways back to the club for champagne and Charlie.’
He makes it sound like a trip to Tesco. I have other ideas, namely: I shouldn’t be here, yet I am. He has a gun and is off his head enough to use it. I would be an accessory to murder and have little chance at getting off at court as my bike’s been stopped and recorded by police. I’d bet my pension someone would clock us at the address and note our presence. Neighbourhood watch has much to answer for. I don’t reply immediately. I need a course of action with minimal collateral damage.
‘No. We both go in and deal with the problem. You don’t know how many are in there or whether the family have changed their mind about your VO.’ A visiting order is used in prison but it may as well apply here, as we’re likely to end up on C-Wing if this all goes tits up.
He’s not impressed. ‘I do the fucking talking and you do as you’re told. It won’t take long but we do it my way.’
Trigger’s visor is slapped down and he’s already striding his bike. I take that as an agreement. I can deal with Trigger when we’re at the venue.
We set off in a loose convoy. I make sure I can see him but don’t follow close enough that cameras would link us. I have no idea where the hit is and I haven’t had the freedom to call it in to Mike or Winter. I know I won’t get the opportunity. I hope the venue is a home address and not a work premises. I don’t know the name of the target or anything about the background of the family. Turks have a strong family bond. They don’t fuck about. I doubt permission has been given to slot a relative.
Family is family. The Turks look after family themselves and don’t tend to subcontract the work. I have no family to attach myself to other than the police family, and that relationship is weak to the point of divorce. I’m the one who’s over the side with a woman called Desire, and desire for what I can have is at the forefront of my mind. I’m a lawyer’s wet dream. My position is beyond defending but I know a couple of bent briefs that would take a punt at the job.
I look ahead and see Trigger turn off into a side street in Green Lanes. I’m back in familiar territory and feel naked without any backup. Big G’s accountant, Hamer, was a regular at a club here and I’m aware Big G had interests in the area too. I keep the visor down and wait for Trigger to kill the engine. The bikes are parked up facing out into the main drag and opposite is a small café. Trigger has his visor up and looking directly at it. That’s the premises. The target must work there. He’s waiting for confirmation he’s in. I see a male come through a door to the rear of the counter, grab a tray of pastries, and go back through the same door he came through.
Trigger nods at me then sets off at a pace across the main street. Cars are at a standstill due to lights. I’m conscious that this area has monitored and active CCTV coverage. Everyone makes it their job to notice what’s happening here. The café certainly does and the camera twitches as Trigger approaches the door. There’s a room at the back and that’s why he took the food out there. Unless he’s got an addiction to cake, there must be others on the premises. I hear shouting. Trigger’s made his entrance.
I notice a small alleyway adjacent to the café and take this. The rear of the café is masked from my view by a wall. On cue, the first of the party is over the brickwork and away along the alley in the opposite direction to me. Another follows, but it isn’t the target. I’m at the section the jumpers have taken and put my back to the masonry. My visor is down. I’m aware of trying to look as though I’m meant to be here and not alien to the area. I don’t feel confident I’ve achieved my aim.
A set of feet comes over the top of the wall above me. I see the bottom of chefs’ whites. The same guy that Trigger had taken an interest in. I grab the feet and pull him down over the wall. He lands on his arse and tries crawling away, like a crab, in the direction of his compadres. I put my foot in his balls and apply pressure. Not enough to make him scream, just enough to ensure he’s got the message not to move. He stops and lays on his back muttering in Turkish. He grabs my leg and pleads for me to stop. He’s young, around twenty-five, and from the look in his hazel eyes, he’s way out of his depth. He’s strayed outside the family to start his own racket and now the next players want the court. Game over.
I lean down and grab his collar, heave him up and slam him against the wall. I don’t have much time, as Trigger will be over any minute. ‘Listen up. There’s a guy coming over that wall any second who has a bullet with your name on it. I’m the only one who can stop that.’
He nods frantically, glancing from me to the wall. He can’t see my face, which is how it will remain. He has sweat forming on his forehead and I can feel the same inside my helmet. I need us both away from here fast.
‘Where’s your phone?’
He nods to his pocket. I take out an iPhone.
‘Not your friends and family line, don’t fuck about.’
He nods towards the shop. ‘It’s in the shop, it’s in the shop.’
‘What’s the number?’
He doesn’t hesitate and vomits the number to me. I’ve been so long at this game, memorising numbers has become second nature.
‘I will call you at 7 p.m. You’ll meet me where I say. Bring enough cash to keep us off your back. If you don’t, you’re dead. We know where you live. Doing this will give you more time, now go.’
He breaks free and runs. As he gets out of sight, Trigger appears round the corner having exited the shop. He raises the pistol but doesn’t fire. I feel relief. We get back to the bikes and head back to the club.
17
Razor has a face like a revenue officer whose most wanted has been given a rebate. We’re in what I have come to know as “The Bunker”. It’s his den. The same one I was in earlier this morning. This time the air is thick with the fumes of disdain emanating from Razor’s pores. He’s pacing like a caged lion awaiting his midday feed. He stops and goes behind his desk and takes a seat. A house butler hands him a cigar box. Razor takes a cigar and leans in to the proffered lighter. He takes a lungful and expels the smoke, his pursed lips hostile to the gathered crowd. It’s as if a faulty smoke grenade’s misfired enough for a weak effect. Trigger has said nothing. The bike’s radio mic was killed on the way back. Snowy and Kat have their respective places in the room. I’m done with the games and kick things off.
‘I don’t know about all of you but I’ve got plans. Let’s get this done and dusted.’
As anticipated, the fuse was short enough to let Trigger explode.
‘Get things done and dusted? You stupid prick! You fucked everything up out there and you know it. From the off you had the filth on you. You wouldn’t fucking listen to common sense and let me handle it. To top it all, you let the Turk go. Now your plans can go fuck themselves, sunshine, because you’ve cost us big time.’
He sits down after his speech. His shirt collar is open at the top button. He’s left room to breathe. I lean on the pool table because a cue is on the surface and I may need it. Snowy is at the door, Kat is sat close to Trigger. I’ve had worse times in the dock. I know my notes for this jury. I intend to present them, leaving His Honour, Razor, in no doubt as to where the guilt lies.
‘You done? Now let me explain how I see things. I got here as I was told to. I was met by Trigger and waited whilst he did a drift of snow and a double of Club Scotch before being told to follow him on the bike.’
Razor’s eyes shift to Trigger, his lips’ tension on the tight-rolled cigar becoming more pronounced.
‘I follow him whilst he draws attention to us by doing childish moves through traffic that only a novice on a job would pull.’
Trigger takes the bait. Before he can get up, Razor waves him to remain seated. I carry on regardless.
‘He gets the attention of Plod at a set of lights. I know he’s going to get a tug and would get nicked because of the toot in his system. I make off and Plod go after me. I had to create a diversion, as Trigger was the only one who knew where we were going and what the job was. I get away with my ruse and we then link up. Trigger fancies himself as Bruce Lee and decides to pull a knife on me; so I take him out. With me so far?’
Razor is up. Trigger shifts in his seat. Razor’s assistant pours him a double Scotch and Razor moves towards the pool table and me. I remain where I am. I’m about to continue when Razor picks up the cue and lines up the white and takes a shot that breaks the pack. I say nothing. He’s heard enough.
‘How did the Turk get away?’
Razor is looking at Trigger but the question is directed at me.
‘Trigger went in the premises where the Turk was meant to be. He told me to wait for him to leave. I did what he asked. I saw a load of people come out the back and away. I had no idea who was the one you wanted. That’s it. I did my job. He fucked up. End of.’
I look at Razor. His round blue eyes pierce mine. He’s looking to see if I’m lying. He knows Trigger, he doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know that I’m sponsored by His Majesty’s Government to lie for a living. I’m very good at my job. I maintain his stare of indifference with mine.
‘Trig. Come up here.’
Trigger gets up and appears happy with himself. I may have misjudged the situation and brace myself for what’s to come. It’s not the first time I’ve been subject to a kicking. I feel confident my presentation was convincing. I hope so, as I’d engineered the whole job to cause a rift between the group. Trigger is the weak link despite his ability to handle a weapon.
Trigger approaches Razor. Razor smiles for the first time and opens his arms in preparation to embrace. Trigger has the same intuition and goes in for the man hug. I move away. I need distance if this is to come on top for me. Bromance is not my thing. The cue is gone. Razor had predicted my move. I’m left with bottles and a cue rack that’s out of reach. No phone signal and no phone as it’s in his deposit box. I’m fucked. My luck has run out. I remember my military training and the advice we were given if we were captured: if you are breathing, you have a chance.
