The Dark Heart, page 13
‘I’m ditching this burner in a few days, but you could send a WhatsApp, and we’ll get the message. I’ll talk to Robbie when he gets out and maybe he’ll call you. Is your brother looking for business?’ Jed stared hard, seemingly studying Charlie. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling.
‘Depends on what’s on the table. You know his rep. He’s big time, man.’ Charlie hoped he wasn’t overcooking it. These really did look like proper people, and it was a chance to show his brother that he wasn’t just a useless junkie.
‘What do you reckon we are, Charlie?’ Jed lowered his head, and looked across his eyebrows at him, his face as hard as granite.
Charlie felt a shudder of fear begin to tickle the nape of his neck. ‘You look serious enough to me, man. Stay in touch, eh?’
A huge grin spread across Jed’s face, and it wasn’t reassuring, and it wasn’t comforting. It was hard, harsh, and no part of it reached the big man’s eyes. Charlie had seen eyes like that before, and always on the faces of serious, dangerous people. Killer’s eyes. One thing was for sure, no way was he underestimating Jed. There was a long silence, that in reality was no longer than ten seconds, before the big man spoke. ‘Be lucky, Charlie, stay out of jail and spend the two hundred wisely.’ Jed nodded, stood, turned and strode off, his huge back almost blocking the light out, as he loped off, his legs having to circle slightly as his thighs were so huge. Clearly someone not to mess with. His fingers played with the banknotes, and his stomach quivered knowing what was next. He picked up his phone and composed a text to his brother.
Sorry man, got waylaid. Fucking cops tugged me. Just got out of Berwick nick, all some bullshit.
The reply was instantaneous. Tell me you weren’t carrying the money? Mam is going mental.
Charlie’s fingers tapped a reply. No, it was before I got to yours. I’ll get it now.
Hurry up, man. She’s being a fckn nightmare.
Charlie’s fingers hovered over the keys, wondering if he should mention the meeting with Jed, and Robbie. He nodded to himself. Here was an opportunity to look good. Maybe an intro of a decent-looking firm. He tapped out a message. Just had an interesting meeting with some jock in a boozer in Berwick. Big money men. I’ve got a number, we need to have a chat about them, you wanted a Scottish connection?
The reply was instantaneous. You need to watch your trap, man. Busy now, meet me later on this evening in the Wick. The message clear. A meeting later on in Alnwick.
Charlie grinned; his brother would love this. Some smart-looking chaps from Scotland, maybe this would get him some respect, which was usually sadly lacking from his brother.
He looked at the scratched and fading fake Omega on his wrist. He had plenty of time. He dialled a number from memory, which was answered immediately.
‘Charlie, man. You okay?’ said the croaking, droney voice. Creaky was a heroin dealer who had a trap house just a mile away from where Charlie currently was.
‘Creaky, I’m in Berwick, can you sort me out?’ he said, feeling the desperation begin to ratchet as it always did once he knew he was about to score.
‘’Course I can, man, ’course I can. Come round now.’
Charlie grinned with relief. A quick score from Creaky, maybe a livener, then back to Mam’s with the dosh. After that, oblivion beckoned.
29
Robbie yawned as he sat down onto the wafer-thin mattress, taking an exploratory sip of the tea that the chirpy jailer had handed to him as he had ushered him into the cell. It was weak and lukewarm. He grimaced and laid it gently down on the sticky, worn flooring. He sighed and arched his back, feeling the ache in his lower back muscles, probably the result of an excessively tough deadlifting session the previous day.
Despite his predicament, Robbie felt no nerves, in fact he was almost enjoying the brief moment of silence after a hectic twenty-four hours. He knew it wouldn’t last long, the way things were progressing, and he suspected that life was about to get very interesting, and probably a lot more demanding. He was ready for it.
His fingers went to his wrist, feeling the skin where his watch would normally be, now that the Rolex was tucked away in a property bag in a police store, no doubt being ogled by the cops that had booked him in. Rolexes had that effect on people. The fact that a small timepiece on a gaudy bracelet could be worth more than a cop earned in a year was always intriguing to Robbie.
One thing was for sure. There was no way he was getting that watch back. The cops would be very keen to keep hold of it. He smiled at the prospect. A watch could be as much camouflage as the ridiculous Stone Island jacket, fancy trainers and cheap jeans made expensive only by the Armani label on the back pocket. An image created with sweat-shop-produced designer wear that only really differed from Primark because of the price tag.
But it served a purpose. People like him had to dress as the customers expected. To dress in supermarket clothes was akin to wearing a sign around your neck that said ‘no mark loser’.
And Robbie wasn’t a loser.
Robbie was a mid- to high-level narcotics trafficker, shifting kilo numbers of high purity cocaine and heroin from northern England into Scotland, ostensibly to fill the vacuum that was left when another network of top-level drug dealers were taken out by the cops in Scotland.
Footsteps in the corridor made him look up towards the cell wicket, which rattled and shook as whoever was on the other side of the door tried to work the sticky, old-fashioned mechanism that had probably been in place for close to a hundred years by the look of the thickness of the chipped and peeling paint.
A voice, shot through with frustration, was just audible outside the door as it muttered muffled expletives in a hard-edged Scottish accent. ‘Fucking bastarding shite of a thing. This place is a bollock of a bawbag cop shop.’ The wicket rattled and clanked. A smile stretched across Robbie’s face at the familiar voice.
There was a brief pause, and then a thump from the bottom of the door as the person the other side delivered a swift kick, followed by a muted grunt of pain. ‘Ach, my fucking foot, piece of shite thing,’ rang out as the voice got louder.
Robbie’s smile widened, and he had to stifle a chuckle, just at the point that the voice went from an angry mutter to a bellow. ‘Will some bastard come and open this total fud of a fucking door? It’s pushing me awa’ the fucking line, man.’
There were more footsteps squeaking down the corridor, followed by a jangle of keys, and then the heavy cell door swung open with an arthritic creak.
A hefty man, with untidy hair, wearing a shabby, ill-fitting suit, and a grubby and creased white shirt filled the doorway. His shiny blue tie was managing to be both askew and too short, and his meaty features surveyed Robbie with a scowl. A silence filled the cell.
‘I cannae believe you’ve dragged me down to this bastard shite-heap of a polis station on a shagging Sunday, in the fucking middle of bloody nowhere, you utter dobber,’ he said, his twinkling eyes betraying his furrowed brow, bristling eyebrows and angry demeanour.
‘Hello, Ross,’ said Robbie.
‘You look like a ponce, Craigie. What’s with the bloody earring? Think you’re David bollocking Beckham, eh?’
‘Camouflage, boss. Has it worked?’ said DS Max Craigie, hitherto known as Robbie, the drug trafficker.
‘Aye, like a bastard spider to a flame.’
‘Moth to a flame. It’s spider to a fly,’ Max said, a smile spreading wider on his face.
‘Ach pish off, numb-nuts. The surveillance team picked him up as he left. Straight on the phone to the number you gave him, and he met up with big scary Jed in the boozer a wee while ago, then scored. He’s name-checked Stringer already. Hook, line and sinker, pal. Bloody good idea of mine, eh?’
‘I’ve a distinct memory that it was mostly Janie’s idea, but it’s looking good. Now what?’
‘Bollocks, she heard me discussing it with someone, and then stole it, the bloody thief. Typical “high potential development” behaviour, that is, ripping off someone else’s idea as your own.’ Ross furrowed his brow, but his eyes told the usual tale.
Max shook his head. ‘So we’re looking good?’
Ross nodded. ‘The wee junkie is two-hundred-quid richer, so I imagine he’ll be out of his box on skag by now. We’ll give him a day or two to spaff all his cash, and then we’ll make contact, dangle a carrot and see what happens. You ready to get out of here?’
‘Aye, place stinks of pish and sweaty feet, and I told Katie I’d be home tonight in time to tuck wee Evie into her bed.’
‘Damn straight. You look after that wee toot, you don’t get a second chance at this stuff, you know.’ Ross’s face softened.
‘I’m trying, but my DI is a bloody slave-driver,’ said Max, standing up.
The soft and sensitive look immediately changed to his usual scowl. ‘Aye, well, there’s a bloody job in Traffic with your bloody name on it if you like?’
‘Hours would be better.’
‘You’d be shite at it. Right, let’s piss off then. Custody office is fully cleared, apart from the lovely Sergeant Hattie Jaques, who knows the score, unlike all the rest of the woolly suits. We’ve done it all above board, so anyone looking at the paperwork will see that audit trail and will see that Robbie fucking Oliver, or whatever your stupid cover name is, was in custody for money laundering, and was bailed out. Once this job is done, we’ll cancel the bail and it’ll be like you were never here.’
‘So, no further action like all your other cases.’ Max chuckled.
‘Piss off, I have a great charge record and anyway, Janie is on the custody sheet for this so it can be her failure. Come on, Hattie is waiting to “bail you out”, and we can all go home.’ Ross mimed quotation marks with his fingers.
‘Hattie Jaques? Are you on first name terms?’
‘No. I’ve no idea what her first name is, but she reminds me of Hattie Jaques. You know, “Ooh, matron”.’ Ross guffawed in a terrible impression of Kenneth Williams, but then stopped when he saw Max’s blank face.
‘Tell me you know who Hattie Jaques is?’ said Ross, his eyes hardening.
‘No idea. Is she an ex-lady friend?’
‘No, you fud, she was the portly matron in the Carry On films.’
Max just shrugged. ‘Not a clue, Ross. Remember how much younger I am than you.’
Ross just exhaled. ‘I can’t bloody stand working with millennials. Carry On was the basis of everything that was great in British humour back in the day. Come on, let’s go. Janie’s in the car in the yard.’
‘No, I’m not. I’m here,’ said Janie Calder, appearing in the doorway, grinning.
‘Are we all clear?’ said Ross.
‘Aye, just your bird Sergeant Jaques there, and she’s all set. Want to hear the news from Norma back at HQ? She’s been monitoring Charlie Dent’s phone.’
‘Go on, and never refer to her as my “bird” again. Mrs Fraser would give me fucking pelters if she heard you. Anything from the office?’ said Ross.
Janie smiled. ‘As soon as he split from big scary Jed he sent a text to a number that was cell-sited in Alnwick. It replied straight away. Want to know the interesting thing?’ Janie smiled.
‘Why do you always do this? Is it a fast-track fud thing to pose daft questions? Of course, I want to bastard know.’ Ross exhaled in exasperation.
‘Well, it’s a brand-new burner, bought just a few days ago. Want to know what Norma found out?’ Janie grinned.
‘I’m definitely transferring you to the bloody Outer Hebrides, you soppy mare. What?’
‘It was bought with a bank card registered to a Mrs Marjory Dent.’
‘What, as in scary matriarch of the Dent family, the only person that Stringer claims to fear?’
‘Aye, the very same.’
A big grin stretched across Ross’s face. ‘Nice. I’m glad I had the genius to poach that cake-eating analytical ninja from the NCA, despite her petulant gobbiness. Looks like we’re on, and all set up in a day and a half, thanks to my inspired bloody leadership, and can-do attitude. You ready for this, Max?’
‘Damn right I’m ready,’ he said, trying to ignore the nagging feeling of unease that was beginning to rise in his gut.
‘How about you, Janie?’ said Ross, staring hard at the detective.
‘Aye. Why not, if it becomes necessary. Have to break my undercover cherry, eh?’
‘You did a bit up that Munro last year,’ said Max, stifling a smile.
‘Aye. Walked up a hill and nothing bloody happened, a great top-level infiltration, that was.’ Janie shook her head, smiling sarcastically.
Max clapped his partner on the shoulder. ‘This one will be different, that’s for sure.’
Ross nodded, his face firm. ‘Then let’s get on with it. Operation Sentinel is go.’ Ross made a chopping motion with his hand.
‘What, like Thunderbirds?’ said Max, his eyes wide in surprise at Ross’s excited outburst.
‘Eh?’ said Ross, his brow furrowed.
‘Like “Thunderbirds are go!”’ Max mimicked Ross’s chopping hand.
‘Piss off, Craigie. Come on, let’s get weaving. Operation Sentinel is now active. Is that better for you, you soulless bugger?’ Ross’s smile was full of sarcasm.
‘Aye. Let’s go.’
30
‘So, who the fuck was he, then?’ Stringer glared at Charlie, as they sat in the front room of Mam’s place.
Charlie shrugged, shifting his elbow on the crocheted arm protector of the floral armchair he was in. ‘Some rich-looking Jock.’ His stomach was roiling, a mix of nerves, and the need for a fix growing stronger by the minute. He’d allowed himself a quick toot of the brown at Creaky’s place, but it hadn’t been enough. It was telling that he hadn’t smashed the lot, but such was his fear of his big brother that he’d stopped after the first hit of the acrid smoke. He’d do the lot once Stringer was finished with him. His brother wouldn’t notice, as he’d probably be knee deep in some mental dark-web load of shite, convincing himself about Jewish bankers, or the great replacement theory. He’d tried to get Charlie interested, claiming the reason he was addicted to skag was the Jews. Or maybe the Muslims. Or possibly the WEF (whatever that was). Whatever. Charlie didn’t really give a monkey’s.
‘How’d you know he was rich?’ Stringer’s steely voice dragged him from his skag-induced reverie.
‘What, apart from the ninety grand on the table?’
Stringer glowered at his brother. ‘May not have been his, man. How else?’
‘Rolex, Armani jeans, Stone Island jacket. He was minted, man. And the way the big unit in the pub went on, it was like ninety grand was fuck all. He knew you by reputation, and he knew you’d been behind the door.’
‘Who?’
‘The big guy in the boozer. I only exchanged a couple of words with Robbie, like I said, but he looked the real deal.’
‘What was his name?’ Stringer said with a sigh.
‘Jed.’
‘Jed what?’
Charlie shrugged.
‘See his car?’
Charlie shook his head.
Stringer let out a snort of irritation. ‘Fuck’s sake, man. Think he’s a player?’
‘I’d say so. Robbie was cool as a cucumber, like it was all no bother, being nicked with ninety bags. Not a massive fella, but he looked hard, Stringer. Proper hard. All in the eyes, man. And the big bastard in the pub looked dangerous.’
‘What’d he say?’ Stringer’s eyes didn’t move from Charlie’s and were like two laser cutters, boring into his.
‘He said that if we WhatsApp him, they’ll get the message, although he also said he’s ditching the burner, so I don’t know how.’
Stringer narrowed his eyes, as if considering this fact. ‘He sounds careful. I like that, but not as fuckin’ careful as me. Let me think about it.’
‘From what he said, they had lots more bunce hidden away, and me giving them the lowdown meant they could secure it. Maybe there’s another drink in it for us, Stringer?’ A wave of nausea gripped Charlie’s stomach, vice-like and intense, but other than a tensing of his cheek muscles, he gave no sign of unease. Stringer would go fucking nuts if he knew.
Stringer leapt to his feet, his face darkening, and he loomed over Charlie, his face hard, and jaw tight. ‘We don’t need a fucking drink, man. We’ve a shipment coming in, and we need fucking wholesale customers who are gonna buy weight. I’ve a fucking huge debt with some very bad bastards from Amsterdam, and I need to turn fifty keys of Charlie into bunce very bastard quickly, and a decent price on the key so I can pay them for the line of credit we have on the shipment, you understand me?’
‘Defo, Stringer, man. They looked serious.’ Charlie nodded, enthusiastically.
‘Any photo of him?’
‘Not in the cells.’
‘Not him, you muppet. Jed, the bloke in the pub,’ Stringer almost shouted.
‘I couldn’t. He was a big, scary bastard.’
‘Why didn’t you get a more info, or at least a photo of the bastard I could show around? We’ve no idea who they bloody are, and the names could be shite, for all we know.’ Stringer’s face had reddened, and his eyes had become hard and steely.
Charlie looked downcast, his eyes focusing on his stained Converse. ‘Sorry, Stringer.’
‘You fucking let me know if the bastard calls.’
‘Are we calling them?’
‘I don’t fucking know. I’m gonna ask around and see if anyone’s heard of them, that’s a first, but you need to watch your bloody mouth, brother.’
‘You want the number?’
‘Of course I want the number. Send it to me, and then delete it from your phone, last thing I want is you bloody texting them while ripped to the tits on brown.’
Charlie nodded, and quickly sent the number to Stringer, who looked at his handset when the phone pinged.
‘Now fuck off, and stay off the skag. I cannat deal with Ma moaning to me about you.’ Stringer leapt to his feet and stormed out of the room.
Charlie sighed with relief when he heard the front door slam, and the big burble of the Mercedes spark to life. His hand went to his pocket where the wrap of brown was, and he felt the familiar tingle of anticipation in his stomach. Maybe just one little hit, just to calm the nerves.
