STATUS DRIFT: A gripping undercover detective crime thriller, page 7
There’s basic equipment here. Enough for me to manage and space to chill out after deployment. Mike has left a bottle of Scotch. I open the top and pour a large measure into a mug bearing an image of Homer Simpson. I throw my coat over the banister rail and sit on the edge of the bed. There’s no bedding, only a sleeping bag. I detach my leg and place it against the wall. The stump looks red. The knee is still great and that’s the main thing.
Thin curtains are drawn. The moon invades the darkness through the cheap fabric, creating a strange shadow of my prosthetic foot and shin in the air. I raise my stump and observe its form. I’m used to seeing this now. I wonder what my life would be like if I hadn’t lost my lower limb to the gunman. I had him in my sights but didn’t pull the trigger quick enough. The choice to kill was a bigger issue then. The job was keen to prosecute at the twitch of a trigger finger.
I could clearly see my assailant but his pistol was down as he was coming out the jewellers. I saw him raise his shooting hand but didn’t react quickly enough. He got a shot off first and my shin took the bullet. He went down without getting another chance and didn’t live to see a courtroom. The saving to the taxpayer in court time was offset by the public inquiry over the lawfulness of the kill. We won in the end. It was clear-cut. I got compensation, which was lucrative but not enough to ease the loss.
I sit back and take in the moon through the gap in the curtain. It sits above the top of the roofs owning the night sky. I unload four Tramadol from their plastic coffins and down them with Scotch. It doesn’t take long for each poison to take effect. The moon turns to darkness.
10
Winter waits patiently in a small conference room in a Holiday Inn at a service station off the M25 as the other occupants get comfortable. Seeing them settled, she opens the meeting.
‘Good morning,’ Winter says. ‘You know A/DI Hudson from the last meet.’
‘Morning,’ says Alex Kennedy.
‘Tell me what you learnt from last night at the Ace Cafe.’
‘They were all there. All chilling out, laughing, joking, looking at all the bikes and having fun. No drama at first. All very relaxed.’
Winter hands over a photo of DS Batford. ‘What about this person?’
‘Oh yeah, he was there all right.’ Kennedy taps the image. ‘Made a fool of himself and nearly got a good kicking for it.’
‘Tell me what you heard. Anything that may be of use to us?’
‘Nothing. It wasn’t that kind of meet-up. They were relaxing and enjoying some down time amongst the bikers – that was until he came along.’
‘What happened?’
‘The guy in the photo covered Snowy in a load of drinks. Snowy got the arse and went to batter him. The guy remained cool though. Snowy had him by the throat. The guy was telling him to put him down and let go but Snowy wasn’t having any of it. Razor said the same but Snowy didn’t listen. Then the guy just took Snowy out. He got out of the hold and sent him into Razor’s bike. Snowy and the bike went over. Razor reacted but it calmed down as the police arrived.’
‘We know what happened when the police got there but what else? What was said?’
‘The guy in the picture got a wad of cash out. Looked like five hundred in twenties from the size. He gave it to Razor and told him he’d be good for the repairs. Razor took the cash and the fella’s bike as security. They swapped numbers and arranged to meet tonight at Razor’s club. Razor’s expecting two grand in cash to cover damages and the guy gets his bike back. If all is good he can stay and enjoy the party.’
‘Did the man in the photo give a name at all?’
‘No.’
‘Okay. I need you at the club tonight. Here’s two hundred.’
‘Two hundred? You’re way off the mark with that kind of money. This lot aren’t small time, they’re big. Two hundred will get you a cheap bottle of champagne. I need a grand, minimum.’
‘That’s all there is,’ Winter says. ‘Sign here on this receipt. Call me as soon as you can to let me know you’re out. DI Hudson will make arrangements for our next meeting.’
With that, Alex Kennedy leaves the room and exits the main building.
‘Anything else for this evening?’ DI Hudson asks Winter. ‘Thought I’d see the wife for lunch.’
‘I didn’t know you were back together? Of course. Go, but make sure you get everyone up to speed about tonight’s deployment. I want the outside of the venue covered. Foot capability and one vehicle if they all leave together and only if Batford’s with them.’
Hudson acknowledges the request, grabs his coat and leaves. Winter remains to make notes.
Sensitive log entry 5
20th September, 0900 hours
A good start. Contact has been made and Batford’s got himself noticed by the criminal network, albeit by unorthodox methodology.
I am aware that police property has been appropriated but this is a Met Police problem.
I have conducted a consultation with a band E lawyer within the Crown Prosecution Service. They have advised to continue the operation despite Alex Kennedy being present and handling money during a drugs supply. There is insufficient evidence to arrest Detective Superintendent Hall, at this stage.
I am overjoyed my intuition has proved correct.
For the first time, I feel I may have misjudged DS Batford. He’s certainly unorthodox in his approach but to date has not been caught with his hands in the till.
I remain open-minded. I have found him more approachable on this operation despite his disregard for authority or rules of any kind. Approachability doesn’t amount to warmth.
Entry complete.
Klara Winter DCI
National Crime Agency
Senior Investigating Officer
Op Kestrel
11
The concierge to Mike’s Thameside apartment building nods at me. It could be by way of recognition or out of politeness, I don’t know. He doesn’t attempt to ask questions as I move towards the lift. He’s paid enough to keep his mouth shut about who visits the building. Mike has invested in a flat in a block that hides celebrities and lawyers who can afford such luxury and location. Mike has one of the cheaper flats but that’s what you get when you invest dirty money in an area that’s beyond your reach.
Mike’s called the meeting. I’m hoping he’s brought enough cash to cover me for tonight’s sojourn. I’d explained on the phone it wouldn’t be cheap. He knows the kind of money we’re talking when I say that. The job isn’t keen on handing out charity for cops like me to go and be entertained by criminals, but hey, it’s part of my role. In the end the commissioner wants results to feed to the Home Secretary, who in turn feeds the prime minister, who then throws the scraps to the public by way of false promises backed up by dubious statistics. It also helps to remind the Home Secretary that criminals have expensive tastes and good staff don’t come cheap. The security of the country isn’t a raffle, more of a lucky dip. So to send me out with two grand and some spending money is small change in the end.
I reach Mike’s floor. The female lift announcer’s automated voice purrs on my arrival. The noiseless metal door opens. I check left before turning right towards the flat door. Mike hates me calling it a flat. He refers to it as his “London residence” or “The Residence”. He can be such a cock. As I arrive, his door is open. I can hear Mike on the phone. I wait and look through the two-inch gap. He’s pacing around like a circus bear. His voice fades in and out as he moves around the living room. He’s had a few, as there’s a half bottle of Scotch on the small bar and a pool of spent drink at the base of a glass tumbler. Nice to know your cover officer is fit and prepared to back you up when you’re out on the street.
He has yet to be called upon by me. That’s more my choosing than his. He was good in his day. But his day has long gone and the dark side has him in its cloak of fame and misfortune. He finishes his conversation and throws his mobile on the new three-seat leather sofa. I can tell it’s new. The receipt’s on the bar. It was delivered today. The cost is irrelevant. What is relevant is that he paid on a card. He’s losing his grip on the realities of his situation. A card is a tracing device whereas cash is king. It’s criminality for dummies and Mike should be way past the first chapter by now.
I enter. He looks over and nods at me to take a seat. I choose to stand. He goes to the bar and gets me a glass. I’m okay for one. I don’t intend on driving tonight. I’m a law breaker but some I have respect for. ‘So who was that on the blower?’
‘Fucking Winter. That’s who. Here, take this.’ He hands me a good measure and we move to the balcony. The doors are shut but the view is spectacular towards Battersea Power Station.
‘What did she want?’
‘To know if I was all right with tonight’s deployment and if I would be out too. I set her straight, as you heard. She asked if you’d mentioned the two grand you’d need for tonight and that it would have to come out of the Met’s covert policing budget. It was a statement more than an ask. I told her it was all good.’
I could see from the way he knocked back his drink it wasn’t.
‘Where’s the money then? I’ve not got long. I went to the street the club’s in today and had a look at the area and surroundings. Smart place your mate is running, very smart. I’m surprised you haven’t stuck some money in it.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ He’s all flared nostrils and monobrowed. ‘I know Razor as a snout and nothing more. What he does, he does, and what I do, I do. Here’s your cash for tonight and flash money.’
He hands me an envelope. I make a point of counting it in front of him. It’s a thousand short.
‘Are you having a laugh? Fifteen hundred quid? I told you two grand for the bike repair and a grand flash money and you give me enough to get a good kicking and a bus home. What’s with this…? Oh hang on… You’re having a laugh… very good. I’ve bitten, now give me the rest.’
Mike’s silent. His head is down. He’s staring into his drink as he swirls the ice around with the rotation of his wrist.
‘The commander wouldn’t authorise anymore. Trust me, I was practically begging which isn’t me, as you know. She says you shouldn’t have got yourself in that position and you were lucky to be staying on the job after the show you made. She’s refused to pay the bag of parking tickets that you submitted too. You’ll have to cough up for those yourself. Where’s the bike by the way?’
‘Pay them myself? Fuck’s sake! The tracker still shows where I left it. At the Ace Cafe. They wouldn’t know how to ride it anyway.’
A smile forms on our faces and Mike relaxes. The beauty of an adapted bike.
‘Go to the kitchen, in the top cupboard is a box of cereal. There’s two grand of mine in there. Take it and have a good night out. I want to know what Razor is up to in addition to what he’s telling me. Must be something we can spin to our advantage.’
I do as instructed and find the packet of Honey Loops. Mike would never be a porridge guy or a fresh fruit man. I take the cash and dust off extraneous sugar. It’s the amount he said it was.
I come back to the lounge to notice the city lit up like a birthday cake. I’ve always loved London at night, from up high. Seen it many a time in this state and I never tire of the view. I feel safe surrounded by the plastered breeze block and steel beams that entomb Mike’s world. He’s sitting reclined; remotely slides back a false wall that reveals a 105-inch Samsung TV. He has his back to me in a cinema chair that’s fit for a king. I check my phone. I have an hour to get to my destination.
‘Where’s the clobber for tonight?’
He doesn’t turn around, just points with his Scotch glass towards a spare room. He’s been good enough to leave it hanging. I may be mistaken but it looks pressed. It’s a two-piece. It will fit well with a pair of handmade shoes to match. I don’t do off the shelf. Those days are gone. I’m good to go. I remove my leg and hop into the shower, leaning against the wall for support. I make sure I don’t cover the jets that are inset to the wall. I sit on a stool and relish the comfort the water brings.
I have time to think, consider my options and get in role for the evening’s entertainment. I never go in with a plan or a preconceived notion of how the night will play out. The shower TV shows me the time. I kill the jets and get up. It’s slippery and I don’t want to fall.
I lean against the mirrored mantel tiles and for a moment take stock of my body. The tattoos, once pristine, are beginning to show signs of fading. I can see the back piece in the rear mirror and the dark priest stares back at me through hooded eyes. The cigarette burns and belt welts are still consistent reminders of my youth. The depths of the scars differ according to how long my foster father held them down for. The welt marks from the belt show the same signs of ferocity. I wear these badges knowing all too well how they were earnt. It’s not the only thing to catch my eye.
Specks of white powder dust the surface of the black marble sink surround. I know Mike isn’t a talc guy. He doesn’t cut the stuff either, he just moves it on. I make a mental note. I’d be surprised if he’s had anyone back here to party and more so if he’d let it snow. My thoughts are shattered by the sound of gunshots. They’re coming from the living room. A steady rattle of automatic fire and smashing glass. I hit the floor. My breathing rapidly increases. The blood pumping in my ears. I roll away from the bathroom and into the bedroom and remain on the floor. I grab the clothes I’d laid out on the bed. I’m not getting dragged out in my birthday suit. I get fully dressed as the shots continue, the noise masking any I’m making.
It’s gone quiet. I can’t understand where the gunfire could be coming from as we’re too high up and not overlooked for someone to use an automatic weapon. I may have missed the flat’s door opening when I was in the shower though. I stand and press myself against the wall and listen. It’s then that Mike enters the bedroom.
‘What in the fuck are you doing?’
I look blank. We enter the living room and I see Call of Duty on the big screen.
I’m relieved. ‘Aren’t you too old for that shit?’
He has the kind of smile a drunk develops as the alcohol permeates the veins and enters the brain’s synapses. He puts both hands on my face and pats my cheeks.
‘Looking smart, my son. You look the fucking part and more. You need some gold though, this lot like a bit of bling. I’m thinking nothing fancier than this neck chain.’ He puts the chain round my neck and it hangs appropriately just above my upper chest. ‘Now then let’s take a look at you.’
He steps back, nodding his head in approval, and moves back towards the bar. He’s swaying slightly and would be described by a probationer as “unsteady on his feet and smelling of alcohol”. He’s pissed and he’s my cover for tonight.
‘I’m using my own pseudonym. I don’t give a shit what the commander thinks. She’s not out there. My legend on the street is solid. It’s a question of my credibility that I am who I say I am.’
Mike turns towards me and takes a sip from his fresh glass. ‘You what?’
He’s not impressed. But neither am I.
‘You heard. If Big G wants to come for me then let him come. Winter can take him out and all ends well. I’m not running, Mike. Big G needs to know that. It won’t look good if he suspects I’m a cop and having him hear I’m back will help that. Anyway, the chances are slim to none, so that’s my decision.’
‘Don’t forget who you’re talking to. You don’t have the right to make those kinds of choices! I’ve got limited numbers of undercover officers all over London running from north to south, and back again, all fucking night long and you’re playing the big gun?’
His voice is raised. He’s now a drunk looking to fight. Raised voices in this block will result in the police being called. Neither of us needs that. His face is crimson. He’s breathing heavily. I watch him as he stops leaning on the bar and starts towards me. I know he’s my superintendent but right now he’s a threat and being a prick. I choose a pre-emptive strike and Mike goes to the floor on the first punch to his kidney. He starts to rise again and another punch to his temple renders him useless.
I check his pulse, he’s still breathing. I drag him to his new sofa and put him in the recovery position. His shirt is undone around the neck. I stick a large Indonesian wooden salad bowl on the floor under his mouth in case he vomits. I feel better now. I do like the man. I make a mental note to call him during the night. I leave his work phone on the loudest ringtone under his ear. He grumbles as I move him to position the phone. I take that as a good sign.
I take the glass tumbler he’d used and put that back on a side table. I check my appearance in a floor-length mirror before I leave.
I struggle each time I transform myself into another person. Although I relish the role, it’s not conducive for someone who struggles with their own identity.
I do a last check on Mike; his chest is rising and falling. He’s snoring like a gorilla with a cold. That’ll do for me. I’ve seen worse in custody. Not on a sofa in a London pied-à-terre. I exit his residence and the door automatically locks behind me. A female occupant of advanced years meets me. We exchange pleasant nods of greeting as she heads for the same lift. I don’t, as a rule, enjoy the company of strangers in such a confined space.
We wait outside the lift door and I dutifully press the button. It’s rising from the ground floor so will take a short time to arrive. The woman reapplies some dark lipstick in the mirrored lift door and I do my best to ignore her. It’s to no avail.
‘I haven’t seen you before, young man; are you new to the block?’
‘No, just visiting. How about you?’
‘Lived here for five years now. Bought one of the first ones off plan and so glad I did. Most wonderful people here, so polite and courteous. Most are out all day and rarely cause a nuisance at night.’
