The Crime Trade

22

Luke woke up at three a.m., and cried for twenty minutes until Stegs shut him up with a bottle of milk. He then slept all the way through until 7.15, which was late for him and, on that day at least, late for Stegs. As soon as he heard the characteristic hungry cries that always ushered in a new morning, Stegs took a look at the spare room’s alarm clock, caught the time, and cursed. He needed to speak to Tino and get the next stage of the plan moving.

In the fog of his newly wakened state, he had a sudden rush of doubt that he was doing the right thing. He could pull out now. It wasn’t too late. Pull out and forget the whole thing. But as the conscious world and all its problems invaded his brain, he knew that that was bullshit. It was far too late. The events about to unfold had a sense of inevitability about them, themselves the result of things that had happened and had been said a long time ago. There was no way round that.

He pulled on some smartish clothes, knowing that he had an appointment with the PCA later that morning where he’d be grilled about his part in Wednesday’s debacle, and hunted round for his mobile, finding it on the shelf above the bed. The missus was calling him. Telling him to go and get some milk on for Luke. ‘I’m on my way,’ he called back, switching on the phone and asking if she wanted a cup of tea. She said she did, and he hurried down the stairs while she went in to coo over her favourite member of the household.

While he prepared the milk, Stegs dialled Tino’s number.

The Dutchman took a long time to answer — so long that Stegs was beginning to get worried — but finally he picked up the phone and spoke, his voice a nervous whisper. ‘Ja, hello.’

‘Tino,’ said Stegs, switching on the kettle. ‘Where are you?’

‘In the apartment, and there is no need to speak so loudly.’

Stegs smiled to himself, knowing he’d been successful. ‘Is she there?’

‘Ja, she is here. What am I going to do with her?’

‘Is she asleep?’

‘She is.’

‘Did you give her a good dose of the drugs?’

‘Two tablets.’

‘Blimey. What time was that?’

‘About two.’

‘Good, she’ll be out for a few hours yet.’

‘But what am I going to do with her, man? She is going to wake up some time.’

The microwave bleeped, telling him the milk was ready. ‘Don’t worry about that,’ he said, removing the bottle. ‘I’m coming over.’

‘When?’

‘As soon as I can get there. A couple of hours tops.’

‘Well, hurry, man. It is important.’

‘This is London, Tino, world centre of transporting non-excellence. I’ll be as fast as I can, and I’m not coming that far, but don’t expect me in ten minutes with croissants.’

‘What happens if she wakes up before you get here?’

‘With that sort of fucking dose, I’ll be pleased if she wakes up at all.’

‘Oh shit, man. What are you saying?’

‘It’s all right, I’m only joking. If she wakes up, give her another dose, but a small one this time.’

‘How? She will not trust me again.’

‘You’re an actor. Improvise.’ The kettle boiled and Stegs filled the two cups. ‘I’ll be over soon.’

He mashed the tea, then took it up with the milk to where the missus sat in their bedroom, cradling an irritated-looking Luke in her arms. Luke had a hungry eye on the missus’s tits but there was going to be no luck there for the little man. The missus had stopped breastfeeding three months earlier, her nipples ravaged and torn, but for Luke the happy memories lived on.

The missus smiled at him when he came in. ‘Thanks, love,’ she said as he handed her the milk and put the tea down on the bedside table. ‘You look in a good mood.’

He grinned at her. ‘I’ve got a feeling today’s going to be a new beginning,’ he said, and one way or another he knew it was true.

Tino was staying in an apartment he’d rented on a week’s let between Baker Street and Marylebone High Street, just north of Oxford Street and the heart of the West End. He’d told Stegs he’d found it on the internet. It was costing?300 for the week, which Tino didn’t think was too bad a deal. At least he hadn’t thought it a bad deal when he’d first arrived, but then at that time he’d assumed he was soon going to be a few grand richer. Things since then, however, had not turned out quite how he’d expected. And, unbeknownst to Tino, they were about to take a significant turn for the worse.

It was nine o’clock by the time Stegs arrived. Having no desire to pay the congestion charge, he’d driven to High Barnet station and caught the Northern Line followed by the Circle, crammed in with all the commuters, wondering how anyone could ever tolerate battling their way to the office like this every day. His missus wanted him to become like these people, and though he’d felt more sympathetic to her point of view when he’d woken up a couple of hours earlier, by the time he’d got off the train at Baker Street he’d decided that he’d far rather get a divorce than travel like this five days a week. He might have been finished in the police force, but that didn’t mean he had to start life as an office drone. Not if things went according to plan, anyway.

Tino’s high-rise apartment block was just off Paddington Street, and though it looked all right from the outside, Stegs recognized it as being ex-council. Very cheeky. Some scrote had probably bought the place for about ten grand back when old Ma Thatcher was trying to sell off the public housing stock in order to create a property-owning democracy, and now the lucky bastard was renting it out as a city-break holiday home to Continental holidaymakers for three hundred a week. There is no such thing as justice, and anyone who says different is sadly fucking mistaken.

There was no entry phone, so Stegs walked straight in and took the lifts (which at least didn’t smell of piss) up to the third floor and Tino’s urban pied-a-terre. He found the right apartment and knocked quietly on the door. This time there was no hesitation. Tino answered near enough immediately, and fair dragged Stegs inside.

‘All right, all right, what’s the problem?’ Stegs hissed as they came into the lounge. Not exactly spacious, but clean and well decorated in various shades of blue.

‘I think she may be coming round,’ he hissed back.

‘I told you, give her another dose. You’re either going to have to keep her under for a couple of days, or you’re going to have to entertain her and make sure she doesn’t phone home or demand to leave. It’s up to you. But if she does get out of here, then you’re in serious trouble. Even more serious now, especially as you’ve drugged her with Rohypnol. They call that the date-rape drug over here now, you know.’

Tino looked very worried. Stegs didn’t think he had much in the way of backbone, which under the circumstances was no bad thing.

‘You are a bad man, Mark,’ he said, his voice thick with regret rather than anger. ‘I wish I had never met you.’

‘You wouldn’t be the first person to say that, Tino. Nor, I doubt, will you be the last. Still, at least I don’t earn my living fucking girls in the arse.’

‘You make it fucking everyone in the arse. At least the ones I fuck get paid for their troubles.’

Stegs ignored the insults. Like threats, they’d always slipped effortlessly off him. It was one of the reasons he was so good at his job. And why he was always prepared to take risks.

‘Where have you got Sleeping Beauty?’

‘She’s in the bedroom.’ He pointed to a door in the corner of the room.

Stegs patted Tino on the shoulder. ‘Well, lead the way, my friend.’

Tino gave him a look of disgust, then turned and walked over to the door, opening it slowly. After checking that she wasn’t awake, he moved out of the way and Stegs peered in.

Judy Flanagan lay on her back in the double bed, her head tilted to one side, long red hair splayed out around her. She was snoring vaguely and he could tell that she was naked under the sheets. The room smelt of sex. Clearly Tino and she had made merry before he’d drugged her. Fair enough, he thought, but it pissed him off too. That smell hadn’t been in his bedroom for a long, long time.

He walked slowly up to the bed and peered down at her for several seconds. She lay there peacefully, her breathing regular, air whistling out of the flattened nostrils. Tino was wrong, she wasn’t coming round. She had at least a couple of hours in her yet. He put on a pair of plastic scene-of-crime gloves, then took the scissors from his pocket and cut off a sizeable lock of her hair. Then he leant down and removed the silver charm bracelet from her right wrist, noticing as he did so that her nails were impeccably manicured and painted a violet colour. Obviously a girl who looked after herself.

He put the hair and the bracelet into a plastic freezer bag he’d brought with him, placed it in his pocket, then looked around the room, quickly locating her handbag, which was hanging over a chair. Still wearing the gloves, he went over and rifled inside the bag until he found what he was looking for. He switched the phone on and saw she had a message. He recognized the number. Her parents. Probably worried about her. He felt a momentary twinge of regret that it had come to this, but forced it out of his mind. The innocent always suffer. It’s the way the world works. He was just doing what he had to do.

He put the phone in the other pocket of his jacket and crept out of the room.

Tino shut the door as he came through and glared at him. ‘What is going on here, man? I do not want to hurt her, do you understand that? She is a nice girl. She is, how you say, sweet. If anything happens to her-’

‘Nothing’s going to happen to her,’ replied Stegs calmly, his voice a whisper. ‘You’re going to look after her for a couple of days, give her a little bit more of the Rohypnol so she doesn’t recognize you or give you any hassle, then, when you get the word from me, you’re going to let her go.’

‘I don’t like this.’

‘I know you don’t. You didn’t like it on Saturday either, but that’s not my problem. You do as you’re told, and everything’ll be fine. But do me a favour, eh? Stop fucking moaning about it.’

Tino took a step nearer Stegs. The Dutchman towered above him. If he’d wanted to, he could have made life difficult for Stegs, but Stegs wasn’t worried. He had the run of Tino, and he was a good judge of character. This boy had gutless-when-it-came-down-to-it written all over his face.

‘Let me tell you something, please, Mark. Do not try to deceive me. I will be very angry if you do.’

Stegs looked him right in the eye and gave him a twinkling smile, the type you give your girlfriend’s mother when you meet her for the first time. ‘Take a fucking hike, Tino. And don’t forget. If she gets out of here, it’ll be 2010 by the time you see the outside world again. That’s a long time without female flesh.’

He turned and walked away, leaving Tino standing in glowering silence.

Ten minutes later, Stegs went into a phone box on Baker Street and telephoned the Flanagan household. The wife answered, her tone nervous, and, hearing no background noise, Stegs immediately hung up. He then phoned Flanagan’s mobile, remaining in the phone box but this time using his daughter’s phone. It was picked up quickly.

‘Judy, where are you? I told you to phone your mother if you were staying out the night.’

Stegs could tell Flanagan was in a car somewhere. Probably on the way to the O’Brien incident room. He might have been the one who’d overseen the disastrous Operation Surgical Strike, but he’d done a good job of passing the buck to those under him, and had consequently avoided suspension. Which was typical of the bastard.

Stegs put the voice-suppressor to his lips and spoke. ‘This isn’t your daughter.’ The words were high and robotic, not unlike those of a Dalek. He had to stop himself from adding ‘Exterminate! Exterminate!’

There was a sharp intake of breath at the other end. Stegs could almost taste the other man’s shock. ‘Who are you?’ said Flanagan, emphasizing the ‘are’.

‘We have your daughter. She is quite safe. As long as you do what we say, absolutely no harm will befall her and she will be released shortly.’

‘What is it you want me to do?’ asked Flanagan, his voice calm but strained.

It was, thought Stegs, ironic that the head of Scotland Yard’s SO7 unit, which among other things dealt with kidnappings, should be the victim of a crime he himself had soothingly described as extremely rare when he’d appeared on Crimewatch a few months earlier. Not rare enough, Flanners, my man. Not rare enough.

‘I need you to supply me with a simple piece of information. Your daughter will be released as soon as we have received this information and checked its authenticity.’

‘Listen, I can’t-’

‘Can’t’s not a word I want to hear. You will supply this information,’ he said, emphasizing the ‘will’. ‘Otherwise your daughter dies.’ Exterminate!

‘How do I know you have her?’ Flanagan was less calm now. Only just keeping a lid on his emotions.

‘I have posted a letter to your home address. It is for your attention. Inside it is a lock of your daughter’s hair as well as her charm bracelet. The one she wears on her right wrist. She says it was a childhood gift from her mother.’

He was breathing heavily. ‘What is it you want?’

Stegs didn’t pause. ‘I want to know the whereabouts of Jack Merriweather.’