a couple more questions. How many people are usually in the car?’
‘Only two. More than that and the pigs notice.’
‘What, like we did down the road? So where are you going to re-supply tonight?’
He shook his head. ‘I can’t tell you that. If you turn up after what happened today, they’ll know I talked and they’ll fucking kill me. No way.’
I realized that I’d overplayed my hand and tried to reassure him. ‘I’m not going to turn up, mate, I just wanted to make sure you were telling me the truth, that’s all. Don’t worry about it. I’ll let you get on home now. Remember, not a word about this conversation from either of us, okay?’
He looked at me suspiciously, then lumbered off down the alleyway at what he laughingly thought was a run. My gran could have caught him and she’s been dead for years.
I waited until he was long gone, which took some time, before heading back to the car. I had a plan in mind, but I knew that first I would need to explain to Kev how I had been caught up in a drug bust while I was supposed to be at the hospital visiting Jimmy. Although he’s as relaxed as supervision can get without falling over backwards, there are some things that even he has a hard time believing, and I knew if I wanted to have my little chinwag with the dealers that night then I needed to look whiter than white.
I dropped the car back without getting grilled for my part in the earlier arrest, Kev understanding that you don’t ignore an assistance shout, no matter what.
I faffed around the office for the rest of the day getting no real work done, and studiously avoiding looking at any kind of intelligence that related to Davey or his business. I didn’t want anyone thinking that I was going to go out looking for revenge, and I was fairly sure that at least one person in the office would have been tasked to keep an eye on me.
I was more than a little nervous about my plan for that evening, especially on the back of the evidence being swapped. It would take very little for someone to decide that it was me who had done the fiddling and haul me in for questioning. If anyone saw or even suspected that I was going to have a chat with some of Davey’s boys, I would be for it.
Four o’clock rolled around with agonizing slowness and the moment the hands hit the right position I barrelled out of the office and down into the car park.
Fifteen minutes later I was home and getting changed, selecting my wardrobe with care. I chose a pair of faded blue jeans, an old beige jacket that I never wore but was currently vaguely in fashion and a plain blue T-shirt.
I drove across town to The Avenue, the day still warm enough that I began to wish I hadn’t worn the jacket. Late afternoon sunlight streamed in through the windscreen, a golden glow suffusing the air and making me feel as if I were trapped in amber. All too soon I was parked up outside Moulsecoomb Library, facing the end of The Avenue with a clear view of Ludlow’s house. When I say Ludlow’s, I mean the council’s, as God forbid should a drug dealer pay unsubsidized rent, that just wouldn’t be on. Instead, our taxes go towards paying for their umpteen kids and their bloated wives, getting fat off the fruits of our labour while hubby is out peddling death to desperate addicts. And my friends wonder why I’m so cynical.
As I sat there waiting patiently and trying to look as if I belonged, the nerves hit me again, far stronger than they had that morning at court. My palms were sweaty enough that I couldn’t have turned the wheel had I needed to and I had a lump in my throat the size of a melon. Part of me – a small part I might add – was telling me that I wasn’t going to achieve anything by doing this. I had a sudden fear that they would just laugh at me and tell me to piss off and that I should just drive back home and get on with my evening. I buried the nagging voice, concentrating instead on what I could say that would make them worried enough to stop dealing without actually threatening them. I couldn’t think of anything, but I’ve always done my best work on the fly and I was fairly confident that I would find something at the right moment.
Besides, if it all went wrong, I figured, I could book myself on duty. That’s the great thing about being a police officer. If you see something illegal while you’re off duty, you can deal with it and, technically, it puts you on duty. I’ll give you an example:
Say I’m down the pub with some mates and I bang into some bloke and spill his pint, so he takes a swing at me. At that point, I’m still off duty. If I swing back at him, I’m still off duty. But if I decide to arrest him instead, or if I identify myself as a police officer, I’m instantly on duty and covered by all the insurance and regulations that come with it.
So if it all went bent that night, I knew I would just tell the powers that be that I was out for a walk when I saw a suspicious vehicle and went to stop check it. They might not like it, but it was all legal and they wouldn’t be able to touch me. Hopefully.
An hour or so later, just as I was beginning to think about going home and eating something to calm my rumbling stomach, a green Nissan estate pulled up outside Ludlow’s house and beeped the horn. Subtle. I wrote down the registration, or the index as we call it in the police, for later use and sat up slightly straighter as tubby George waddled out of the house and up to the car, whereupon the passenger handed over a large package and took a roll of notes in exchange.
You might think that it’s a little unbelievable, being that blatant, but doing it in plain sight like that makes them more invisible than meeting in remote locations or taking Ludlow around the block in the car. Just another shady deal in Moulsecoomb.
The car pulled away, and I knew that the only way out of the estate was back past my position or down one of two side roads that I also had covered from where I sat. In a few moments my quarry drove back past me, heading north on the Lewes Road. I pulled out and followed, leaving two cars for cover between myself and the target vehicle.
I also drove in the other lane of the dual carriageway so that they wouldn’t see me unless they looked back and left, which drivers rarely do, even paranoid ones. I could see that there were two people in the car, both in the front, both male. Another bout of nerves hit me as I began to wonder if I was lying to myself and really I was looking for a fight to salve my wounded ego.
We carried on heading north for a few minutes, and I was nearly caught out as they did a sharp left turn into Wild Park and followed the gravel track that leads to the café. It was closed that time of night, so I could only assume that they were meeting someone else or picking up drugs from a stash point. I drove past and pulled up in a lay-by slightly further up the road before doubling back on foot with a choke chain held loosely in one hand.
I kept the chain in the car for emergencies, as it made a brutal weapon in close quarters but was totally legal to own and carry. It was also the perfect surveillance tool. How many people do you see walking in parks every day with a lead but no sign of a dog? Dozens, I’ll bet.
I ambled up the path, occasionally calling to my non-existent hound, and got up to the Nissan without so much as a raised eyebrow from the occupants. It was parked at the side of the café, well hidden from the main road with the engine off and both the windows wound down, while the occupants enjoyed what smelled like very good quality weed. As I drew nearer, I could see that the passenger was a man whom I knew well but who didn’t know me.
That’s the joy of my particular job: you know all the faces, places and cars, and no one recognizes you in turn unless you blow
