STATUS DRIFT: A gripping undercover detective crime thriller, page 5
‘Some other mug waiting to be fucked over by you? You’re an arsehole. A complete fucking arsehole. You will die on this one, babes. You’re way out of your depth. Always trying to scratch that itch. This itch is the mother of all rashes, darling, and you are far from a chemist.’
I put my head in my hands but can’t shake her away.
The entry door swings open and a biker comes in still wearing their crash helmet. They don’t remove it and head towards the counter and order. They’re scanning the room. If this was a bank, I’d be nervous. I don’t make eye contact but survey the car park. Their bike is next to mine. A Triumph Bonneville Thruxton R, top-of-the-range 1200cc powerhouse in Diablo red.
This subject has cash; of that there is no doubt. The bike costs over ten thousand pounds and the leathers are a cool grand’s worth. The biker stands stock-still with their legs shoulder-width apart. I know they’re not surveillance, the bike is way over budget for them. The rider’s five nine, athletic build, self-assured. The rider orders a coffee to go. The gloves come off to pay and I note from the hands the biker is female. I relax. If it was Big G’s goon, I’d be dead.
She takes the coffee and makes her way outside to her bike. I remain and observe. The helmet’s still on as she places her drink on the floor. Never putting anything on the seat is a good sign. She either wants a hot drink or doesn’t want a wet arse. Now it’s time for the reveal. From her presentation I’m assuming she’s heading to the Ace Cafe. Her left hand is clean of jewellery. The only addition is a leather wrist cuff. She’s either not married or just doesn’t wear that shit. She takes the underside of her helmet in her thumbs and slips it back over her head.
I stop drinking as the photo that Winter had shown me earlier comes to life. Kat Mills. I feel a tingle at the nape of my neck as my neurons fire in recognition. This is good, very good. She’s drinking and sat over her bike on its centre stand. She’s looking at mine and taking it in. She reaches out and touches the tank, tactile, feeling the tank’s smooth contours. Her fingers gently stroke the paintwork, then she retrieves her hand quickly as though she’s been shocked.
She’s everything the picture displayed and more. I tell myself she’s not my target. Razor is, but I’m a heterosexual male and it’s in my evolutionary DNA to look. I’ve been on many deployments, surrounded by some of the most beautiful women, but none have caught my attention in the way she has; not even poor old Zara Stone could compete with Kat Mills for looks. I take the decision not to go out. I’d rather wait to see if the others arrive. I inform Winter though. I press the speed dial and she answers on the third ring.
‘Winter.’
‘It’s like summer here. A beautiful vision of serenity.’
Winter’s moving paper and swearing. ‘I’ve got a pen. I take it your cock stirrer is at the café?’
‘Close, but no cigar. I’m at the Macky D’s on the 406. How’s things with you?’ I keep the conversation light in case an undesirable is overhearing me.
‘All good this end. You’ve got cover, but at a distance, as you requested. No one from my side is at the café.’
I check the window and Kat is still outside. ‘Good. I forgot to ask how your old man is? Still got the fish?’ An old reference to her husband’s penchant for caring more about his fish than her. Cruel, I know, but in a warped way it shows I care.
‘He’s living elsewhere, with his fish, thanks for asking. Not that you give a shit and I’ve no idea why I told you.’
She pauses and I look down at my coffee. She clearly wants to talk. At least that’s the thought in my Neanderthal mind. There’s never a good time when you spend your life out chasing scum.
‘Sorry to hear that. Maybe we could do lunch sometime and you can tell me more?’
‘I’d rather starve. Stick with the job and remain focused.’
The line goes dead. I smile. I’m back in the game. I watch as Kat removes a phone from her jacket pocket. She places it to her ear and listens as she looks around. She blows a kiss down it, leans down and takes her helmet off the floor. I down the remaining coffee and grab my lid. As I go to get up, the car park comes alive with the sound of three motorcycle engines. There’s no subtlety here as the bikes come into the bays near the entrance adjacent to Kat.
They stop. Kat gets off her steed and walks over to the lead bike. The rider nods at her as she punches the biker’s arm by way of greeting. The rider removes his helmet. It’s Razor. The crew is complete and all have identical rides. The other two flank him. All have their engines running. The rear two are restless, eyes darting about. Razor talks to Kat over the din. They separate and Razor waits for her to get on her bike. She joins them and they disappear in a symphony of noise.
When I’m happy it’s clear, I leave via a side entrance and go towards the bike. I check the bike over. Nothing has changed; it doesn’t look like anyone’s fitted a tracker whilst it was out of sight for a brief moment when I went for a piss. I mount the bike, drop the stand, and head towards Wembley and my first encounter with the firm.
The roads are busy. I enjoy weaving my way through the exhaust fumes. I’m on my mirrors looking for follows but none appear. It’s early in the job and not even Winter would be that foolish to go against my judgment at this stage in the game. The throttle is light and a joy to twist. The engine responds with a low, powerful howl as the machine cruises past buses and travellers stuck in their metal-encased hell. The sun is low; my tinted visor comes into its own. The tint’s enough to elude the rays and confuse an outsider looking in.
As I approach the café, it’s getting busy. I can see my targets have arrived. They’re off the bikes talking. All admiring each other’s machines. I ride past first. I turn around under the bridge and pass briefly before heading back. The café’s on my right. I’ve seen the spot I will choose to park up. It’s neutral so as not to piss off any of the regulars. I have plenty of time for that. I can’t see any of my mob and that’s a good sign. I use the time to phone Winter. She answers promptly.
‘Winter. You’ll have to speak up. I can barely hear you under that bridge.’
I’m reassured. ‘That’s all I needed to know. There will be no further contact until I’m away.’
I don’t give Winter the opportunity to respond. I hang up, pocket the phone and walk towards the gathering crowd, happy that I’m covered.
The café itself is full. The long table is occupied. The evening is pleasant enough to be outside despite the falling temperature. We’re in leathers and a slight breeze and reduced heat is a welcome pleasure. I open my jacket to let out heat and not trap in any moisture. I see Kat again. She catches my glance. She’s with a crowd that includes Razor and his cronies. Razor’s a bald, thick-set, low-slung, well-muscled bruiser. Now is not the time to make any move towards them. I don’t know them and they don’t know me. It would be like crashing a party with no coke. A poor show. This mob loves the limelight despite their preference for sharing shadows. They clearly adore the attention they and the bikes are getting. That is until someone approaches them with a phone and points it in their direction.
Razor turns his back. Only the bike is captured in front of him. The mountainous back of Snowy moves across and the cameraman moves away. Message received. Snowy is huge. His muscles defined in his leathers and there is no mistaking how he spends his time. It must be a shock to him to be outside a gym. His six-foot-six frame supports his bulk well. Trigger is the opposite, with a taut face and a wiry physique. He’s a touch under six foot in height. He too looks after himself but spends less time on his hair than Snowy, as his head is buzz cut.
Snowy runs his fingers through his blonde locks and returns to his bike. Razor is more relaxed now. The routine is a well-rehearsed one between the two of them. Kat has disappeared. I walk between the bikes nodding casually in recognition of the owners. I see her in a queue. I take this opportunity to go inside. Proximity is everything. I can see how getting close as an outsider is going to be tougher than I thought.
She’s relaxed and more at ease here than in McDonald’s. There is one person in front of me and then that person gives up and leaves. I maintain an appropriate distance whilst the queue moves forward. I can’t see the others. I’m conscious of my hands beginning to sweat. I’ve put the gloves in the helmet that I’m carrying. It’s not the temperature in the room but my internal temperature setting off again as I get closer to contact.
She smells of leather and pine. Reminds me of a posh car air freshener but one you’d want to replace. In that moment of thought she turns and smiles. I smile back and nod in recognition, nothing more than that. It isn’t an acknowledgement of attraction but more one of “Hey, we’re at the same place, into the same thing, waiting in a fuck awful line to be served.”
‘Hello again,’ she says as her eyes meet mine.
I respond out of politeness, more than a need for conversation, but seize the moment. ‘Hi. Sorry, have we met before?’
She moves backwards as the line shifts. ‘Not exactly. You were in McDonald’s. A girl notices these things, you know. I saw you arrive on the same bike too. Nice.’
‘Ah. It was you! Always interested in a fellow biker. I hope I wasn’t that obvious. I did see you touch my bike though. Not that I have a problem with that.’
‘Bikes are a tactile thing for me. That’s why I like it here. Haven’t seen you before though. New hobby?’ She’s acting cool, just pleasant conversation, which is good for me.
‘A return after some time out.’
I don’t add anything more. Let her explore if she wants to. She doesn’t. Just nods in confirmation of the answer. We’re at the bar now and both ordering at the same time. She’s got more drinks than she can carry.
‘Can I help with those? I’m Billy No-Mates so only getting the one.’
She looks back at the crowd she has to work through and decides positively on my offer.
‘Sure. Why not? Take that tray if you can.’
I put my drink on it, pushing my arm through the crash helmet visor. Now is my opportunity. I intend for it to pay off.
I manage to balance it as best I can and dance my way through to the exit. She moves with confidence and people part as she disrupts the crowd. She is well ahead of me by the time I reach the external door.
6
The nondescript OP van remains stationary as the detective in the rear picks up the radio and sets down the camera they’d been using, on the ply-lined floor.
‘DI Hudson, from observation point. Are you receiving? Over.’
‘Go ahead,’ Hudson responds.
‘Batford is out of venue and carrying drinks towards main targets. He has made contact with subject Kat Mills, over.’
‘Contact with Mills received,’ Hudson says.
There’s a brief period of radio silence. DI Hudson leans back in the front seat. His lounging is brief.
‘Batford is now approaching main targets, thirty feet away. Subject Mills is with main group and they’re looking in Batford’s direction, over,’ the detective says.
‘Received. Keep commentary going.’
‘Subject Snowy is moving towards Batford along with subject Trigger. View of Batford obscured by subject Snowy. View is lost! View is lost! No eyeball of targets, over.’ The detective sounds flustered.
Hudson sits up. ‘Let me know when you have renewed contact, over.’
A short pause ensues. Hudson sips coffee from a Styrofoam cup.
‘Active message from OP.’
‘Go ahead, go ahead,’ Hudson says, his voice rising in tone.
‘Subject Snowy has Batford by the neck. He’s lifting him off his feet. State action.’
‘What do you think the situation is?’
‘Looks like he may throw him. Crowd has gathered we can’t get outside team in though.’
‘Stay where you are,’ Hudson says. ‘I’ll get uniform to drive by.’
‘Received. Standing by as directed.’
7
As a rule, I’m not used to being lifted off my feet. When you fake a stumble and send a tray of drinks crashing into your targets you can’t expect a civil response. I’m apathetic at this point. I’m dry and Snowy has lifted me out of the debris of glass and spent alcohol. He’s prevented from throwing me by Razor.
‘For fuck’s sake, put him down. You’re making a scene.’
Razor is right. Snowy should do as directed or I’m about to show him why. He doesn’t see his boss’s reasoning. His grip isn’t relaxing.
‘He’s just slopped a tray of drinks down me and he thinks it’s funny.’ Snowy’s brow is taut. He blows a stray hair out of his eyes as his hands lock around my throat.
I’m not thinking anything’s funny right now. I am thinking I could have thought my strategy through more. I don’t give a fuck what the state of play is with the operation, no man takes me by the throat and doesn’t receive a lesson. Petty, I know. All cops are supposed to be trained to take all kinds of shit. I’m one of those cops but all cops have a limit. A crowd of bikers have gathered to see what the commotion is.
I have no idea how many know this group and who would wade in should I kick it all off. Some are aware I tripped and sent the drinks surfing into Snowy. What they haven’t realised is that I’d faked it. Leaving the drinks, and being told thanks, now piss off, would lead to nothing. Without information and knowledge the operation is dead.
Snowy hasn’t taken heed of Razor’s message. Time to deliver mine. Raising both arms to the sky, I windmill them down and up through his with my hands together in prayer, opening them as the forearms drive through his arms and release his grip. I drop and remain on my feet. He responds with a right hook. I duck back and use his motion to two-hand push him into the bikes behind him. It’s worked; he’s overbalanced and topples onto the saddle and due to his size goes down with the bike. As I expected, the crowd circle increases in circumference as they step back. The next move, I hadn’t anticipated. Kat steps in as Razor advances towards me, forming a protective barricade between us.
‘Leave it. He fucking tripped and that stupid arsehole deserved what he got. He’s not on the door now and didn’t listen to you. He should have let go when you told him. We don’t need any more attention.’
She has her hands out against Razor’s chest. His ribcage rises and falls, breathing like a rhino on speed. Eventually he sees her point and his face eases from the contortion of rage it was exhibiting towards me. The crowd have seen enough and go back to their smaller groups. There’s a siren approaching. I know I don’t have long. Razor has shot Snowy the same look as me. He keeps himself busy picking the bike up. I take my chance at addressing the main man.
‘Hey, it was a mistake. I’m sorry for the damage and the scene. Whose bike is it? I’ll see them right on repairs.’
He steps forward and Kat moves aside. Razor’s invaded my personal space. We’re nose to nose.
‘That bike’s mine, you jumped-up little prick, and I’m telling you the repairs will be way out of your league. You’ve crossed the wrong man, my son.’
‘Look, I can hear sirens. Let’s just say we’re not aware of each other. I’m more than able to cover your costs and as a sign of good faith, take this as a goodwill gesture. Give me your number and I’ll settle the rest.’
I reach into my leathers and hand him a wad of cash. All twenties and folded like a dealer. He’s looking at the cash and I know he’s clocked the way the cash is presented. He pockets the money, all five hundred notes’ worth. The siren grows louder and stops. The Old Bill has arrived. I hear the open and closing of two doors only. We both say nothing as two uniforms approach.
The older of the two arrives first. He’s in his mid-twenties and seems like a sensible guy. I step in.
‘Evening, Officer. No idea why you’ve been called, as we’re all good here. Completely my fault, spilt some drinks and fell into the bike knocking it over. Just about to get this gent’s number so I can sort out the bill for the repair.’
The copper’s having none of it. ‘Well that’s not the report we had. A fight in progress and you two fit the description.’
‘Fight? There’s no fight here, look – can you see any blood, any bruises? I think someone’s wasted your time.’
He takes a look at the two of us and the crowd that has now gathered. Snowy is up and away into the throng so as not to be picked out; a struggle for him due to his size but so far so good.
‘Well it all seems in order apart from the bike there. I’ll see you swap numbers then I’ll be off.’
Razor looks at me then gets his phone out. It’s a pay-as-you-go, cheap ten-pound job. He’s giving me his dirty line. It will be untraceable and he knows it. I get in first.
‘What’s your number?’
Razor reluctantly gives it up whilst the copper looks on.
I type it into my phone and I can see he’s noted I have a similar shit product. I call the number he’s given. It doesn’t ring. The copper looks at Razor, eyebrows raised.
‘I must have put the wrong number in, can you repeat it back?’
Razor does and the 995 becomes a 998. I punch it in and call again. His phone comes to life with the ringtone Back in Black.
I take the blame. ‘Must have been me. You’ve got my number now. I’ll be in touch and arrange payment for the damages. Anything else, Officer?’
‘Not from me. Nice to see two people sorting things out in a civilised way. Enjoy the rest of your evening.’
With that the two coppers leave and get back in their patrol car. Snowy is back now and as the cops set off I consider my exit. Razor has other ideas and he begins to look over his bike. The side stand is fucked, the throttle handle damaged along with the exhaust. The fuel tank is scratched and dented. It’s rideable but he’s not seeing that right now.
He’s crouched down surveying the carnage. His right shovel-hand wipes the top of his bald head. His broken nose didn’t come out on the surveillance photo but is prominent when you’re centimetres away from it. Trigger is in the background not intervening and appears to be the lookout. Some fucking lookout. He didn’t even tell us about the Old Bill. Once Razor’s done, he heaves his lump of a frame up and delivers his speech.
