The Crime Trade (5 page)

About the same time, he'd decided to call himself Stegs. Although he'd never admit it now, it was short for Stegosaurus. He'd been interested in dinosaurs as a kid, and his two favourites had been Triceratops and Stegosaurus (two even-tempered plant-eaters who preferred to be left alone, but who, like Dirty Harry, could hit back hard if attacked). He felt he could identify with that. Since neither Triks nor Trice had a very cool ring to it, he'd gone with Stegs, claiming to those who asked him about it that it was his grandmother's maiden name. He'd also changed his whole demeanour. He strutted instead of walked, he answered back to the teachers, he became a bit of a joker. For a long time, though, he couldn't get either the name or the image to stick, but he persevered, did a few detentions for his backchat, got a couple of kickings for the way he didn't get out of the way for the bigger boys, and eventually even the teachers started addressing him as Stegs. It taught him a valuable lesson: you can be anyone if you try.
Stegs Jenner did not look like a typical police officer. At five foot eight, he only just beat the height restrictions, and his face,
even at thirty-two, was chubby and boyish, topped tiff by a receding mop of fine gingery-blond hair that had the curious effect of making him look both his age and a dozen years younger at the same time, like one of those illusionists' acts. Blink and he was twenty; blink again and he was back to thirty-two. But Stegs Jenner talked the talk, and he walked the walk, and he wasn't afraid to put his head into the lion's mouth, which made him an invaluable asset to SO10, Scotland Yard's specialist undercover unit.
He'd been a copper since the age of nineteen, and plainclothes since twenty-four. His full-time posting was still in the area where he'd grown up, the north London suburb of Barnet, but he'd been attached to SO10 for the previous six years, and probably half his time was spent seconded to them on undercover assignments, which is the way it works in the Met. No-one's full-time undercover. You could be meeting Colombian drugs dealers one day to discuss a multi-million-pound deal, and hunting for stolen office equipment the next.
Not that Stegs was going to be doing too much of anything for the next few days, at least not work-wise. He'd been officially suspended (thankfully on full pay) until a preliminary internal investigation could take place to see whether he'd acted improperly or not. They hadn't let him go until half-nine that night, at which point a very pissed-off, newly arrived assistant commissioner of the Met had formally told him that he was not to report for duty until further notice and not to speak to anyone about what had happened, other than those directly involved. The assistant commissioner (a middle-aged accountant look-alike with silver hair, an immaculately pressed uniform and a very long nose) had then stood there for a few seconds, waiting, it seemed, for Stegs to say something, presumably along the lines of 'I'm sorry for causing you all this inconvenience'. Stegs hadn't given him the satisfaction. Instead, he'd given the bastard a look that said, 'If you think you can do better, you get in there and talk to people who'd flay you alive if they knew your true identity. Then maybe you'd actually be earning your money, instead of waltzing around passing the buck to the junior ranks.'
After they'd finished with him, he reluctantly phoned the missus. She must have seen something about the operation on the news because she'd left three increasingly worried messages on the mobile. She didn't know what role he'd been playing, of course, or where he'd been playing it, but she knew he did undercover work, and the news that an undercover officer had been killed would probably .have seeped out by now, so he felt duty-bound to let her know he was all right.
She answered on about the tenth ring, and in the background he could hear Luke screaming and crying.
'Oh, Mark, thank God you've called. I've been worried stiff. Are you all right?'
She always called him Mark. She didn't like the name Stegs, and he sure as fuck wasn't going to let her call him Monty, so they'd had to come up with something that was acceptable to both of them, and after much discussion it turned out that Mark was it. It was how he was known to all her friends. One day he was sure he was going to end up being diagnosed as a schizophrenic.
He told her he was fine but very busy, and she asked him if he'd heard about the incident at Heathrow. He said he had.
'It makes me so scared, Mark, thinking of you out there all alone. I don't want baby Luke growing up without a father.'
Stegs was touched by her concern, in spite of himself. He told her everything would be OK, but neglected to mention that he'd been suspended on full pay. He'd been advised by his superiors that no correspondence would be sent to his home address
regarding what had happened, and that all contact would be made on his mobile or his encrypted email address, so there was no point mentioning it, particularly as he had no intention of hanging around the house all day with her and Luke.
'Are you coming home then?' she asked him. 'I know Luke wants to see you.'
That he seriously doubted. Luke was never pleased to see him. He always gave him the evil eye when Stegs tried to pick him up or play with him. At eight months old, he was definitely his mother's son, and treated his dad like some sort of usurper whenever he came into the room. Stegs loved the kid (of course he did, he was his flesh and blood) but, though he never liked to admit it, he didn't like him much, and was never in any doubt that the feeling was mutual.
'I've still got some paperwork to clear up here,' he told her. 'I'll be back later on but don't wait up for me, I don't know what time it'll be.'
She sighed loudly down the other end of the phone. 'I can't do this all on my own, you know. Bringing up a baby's hard enough when there's two of you, let alone one.' As if to confirm quite how hard, Luke's crying went up a couple of decibels as she brought him nearer the phone. Tell Daddy to come home, Lukey,' she cooed at the infant. Fat chance of that, Stegs thought. If he could speak, he'd be 'telling him to fuck off, no doubt about it. 'Tell him he's making Mummy miserable.' Luke had clearly been brought right up to the mouthpiece now because Stegs was forced to hold the phone away from his ear as the howling increased still further. 'Seriously, though, Mark,' she continued, coming back on the line. 'It can't carry on like this. It's too much for me.'
'I know, I know,' he said, and made his excuses, citing the usual: workload, lack of staff, etc. But it didn't sound convincing, and he knew it. She told him she understood all that but that maybe he ought to think about changing careers so that he could help a bit more, and he said he had to go, that his boss needed to see him. 'We'll talk in the morning,' he said.
She sounded down as she hung up the phone with Luke's wailing continuing in the background, and it made him wonder why she'd wanted to have kids. He'd tried his hardest to convince her that they were better off continuing as they were, childless but reasonably well off, with her nurse's and his copper's wage, but she'd been adamant, and he knew that part of the reason for her desire probably stemmed from the need for some companionship, given the fact that he was hardly ever there. You reap what you sow, and he was reaping.
He drove back to Barnet on the M25, but instead of turning off on to the East Barnet road and heading home, he carried on going until he reached a pub just off the Whetstone High Road. He found a parking spot about fifty yards away and walked through the driving rain to the battered front door. It was ten to eleven.
The One-Eyed Admiral had a one o'clock weekly licence but was one of those places that was never going to be that popular because (a) it never looked very clean, and (b) it had never been able to rid itself of its low-life clientele, probably because they were the only people who'd frequent it. It wasn't a rough place, but one look through the smoky haze at the middle-aged petty criminals clustered round the tables and the fruit machines told any self-respecting punter that it wasn't a pub he wanted to be seen in. Which was one of the reasons Stegs liked it. Because he knew he'd always get a seat at the bar, and people wouldn't pay him too much attention.
He'd been going in there for years, ever since he'd been introduced to it by a small-time gun dealer who'd been a regular. Stegs had been undercover at the time, investigating the dealer,
whose name was Pete, and the One-Eyed Admiral had" been their main meeting place. After Pete had got nicked, along with several of the other customers, Stegs had continued to drink there now and again (no-one had ever suspected that he'd been the one who'd put them behind bars), and it was always the place he adjourned to when he needed time to think. They knew him as Tam in here, and thought he was the son of Irish immigrants hailing from County Cork.
The pub was busier than usual and all the tables were full, although there were still seats at the bar. Stegs nodded to a couple of blokes he recognized, then took a seat at one end - his usual spot, if it was free - and waited for Patrick, the barman, to come and take his order.
'All right, Tam. Long time no see,' grunted Patrick in that less-than-charming manner of his. He'd been here for years and Stegs had never seen him smile once. 'What'll it be?'
'Pint of Stella,' said Stegs, thinking that he should be thankful A for men like Patrick. A lot of barmen'll take it as an invitation to talk if you sit at their bar, and talking was something Stegs had done enough of for one day. At least he knew Patrick would leave him alone.
He took the pint when it came to him, and handed over the exact money. He gulped down at least a third of it, savouring the much-needed taste of alcohol, before putting the glass down ; on the bar and sparking up a Marlboro Light. The missus was always on at him to give up the fags, even though she continued to smoke three Silk Cut Ultras religiously every evening (giving her teeth a ferocious clean after each one). Stegs never smoked in the house any more; apparently the residue on his breath could potentially be harmful to an infant (hence the missus's tooth cleaning). It was the same with the booze. Next she'd be telling him not to eat curries.
He dragged on the Marlboro and looked at the clock on the wall- Two minutes to eleven. Gill Vokerman would have been told by now what had happened to her husband, and Stegs wondered how she'd be coping. Badly probably. They had two kids: Jacob and Honey (not a name Stegs would have chosen -too gooey). Jacob was six and Honey either two or three, he couldn't remember which. Gill was a committed Christian, so maybe her beliefs would help get her through it. He hoped so. She'd always struck him as a stoic sort, one who could call upon the old 'spirit of the Blitz' to help her through adversity, but losing a husband suddenly, violently and unexpectedly was as adverse as you were likely to get. He was going to have to go and see her, offer his condolences. It wasn't going to be easy, especially as she didn't like him anyway. Yokes had told him once that she looked upon him as a bad influence, although quite how he'd deserved that accolade, he didn't know. Perhaps Yokes had blamed him for the occasional night the two of them had stayed out late. That was the problem with their job. You spent so much time living on the edge, acting out roles in environments where things were always on a knife-edge, that you had to be able to unwind. That meant sinking a few beers, coming in late, sometimes not making it in at all. Whatever Gill Vokerman might have thought, there was no way round it. If you couldn't unwind with your mates, you'd go mental.
He was going to miss Yokes, who'd been a good mate to him. They'd known each other for about three years, ever since they'd been thrown together on an assignment to trap a team of luxury-car thieves. That particular case, in which the two of them had posed as potential buyers with heavyweight contacts in the Middle East, had lasted close to two months, and with its successful conclusion (four members of the team had ended up with prison time totalling twenty-three years), so their partnership
had been cemented. They'd worked together wherever possible since and each had learnt to cover the other's back in even the most dangerous situations. When you're an undercover copper, everything's based on trust. If you're working with another SO10 operative you've got to know that they won't crack whatever the provocation, that they'll continue to hold on to their identity even with a gun against their head, and it takes a special kind of person to be able to handle that sort of pressure. Vokes was one of them, so was Stegs.
One time, eighteen months ago, that capability had been put to the ultimate test. The two of them had been working on an assignment to infiltrate and gather evidence on a south London-based coke and cannabis smuggling gang led by a psychotic thug named Frank Rentners. Rentners, an ex-boxer who'd served time for manslaughter, had ambitions to tie up the dope and coke market in his patch of south-east London, and he ran a sophisticated and lucrative operation in which the drugs were brought in on lorries overland from Spain among consignments of fruit and veg. At the time of the assignment, it was estimated that Rentners and his crew were turning over close to a million a year in sales, and were expanding fast thanks to their policy of undercutting (quite literally in one case) the competition.
Once again, the two of them had posed as buyers from the provinces looking to set up an ongoing business relationship with Rentners to purchase quantities of his imported gear. An informant had introduced them to a small-time player called Jack Brewster who knew someone else within the gang. This is usually how it works in the criminal world: word of mouth. Somebody knows somebody who knows somebody else. It's a good way of working because so many people get involved that by the time the bad guys are nicked they're not sure who it was who actually grassed them up. That was the theory anyway.
Brewster, who'd had no idea that the people he was representing were police officers, had been promised a commission by Stegs and Vokes if he could get his contact within the gang to set up a meeting between them and Rentners. Feelers had been put out and eventually Rentners had agreed to see Stegs, Vokes and Brewster in a pub in Streatham for an initial chat. If all went well, then they'd take it to the next step: a test purchase.