City on Fire, page 22
Tony Evans was first, as Sir Ben knew he would be. Then came Arjun Sharma, the regional prison director, who was two minutes early. He told them to help themselves to coffee while his temper frothed as they waited for Nicola Merrion. A full ten minutes late the CEO of Lifechoices jabbed the intercom on the gate and Sir Ben despaired. She looked like she’d jogged there.
‘I’m so sorry I’m late,’ said Nicola, wiping the sweat off her brow.
‘Just go through. You really are trying my patience.’
Nicola did as she was told, and Sir Ben couldn’t help but notice the smug looks on Tony’s and Arjun’s faces as they nodded to the latecomer.
‘Right, sit down,’ said Sir Ben, taking the chair at the head of the table. The three others obeyed with only Tony appearing relaxed.
‘Bring me up to speed. Nicola?’
She dabbed her brow again, flashed a smile and locked onto Sir Ben’s gaze. ‘Well, we’ve no Synthopate, and with no access to methadone and Subutex our patients are dropping like flies. The reason I was late was the offices were besieged with dealers openly serving up right outside. People are coming to us for help but, as we can’t provide it, others are.’
‘And you ran rather than drove,’ muttered Tony.
‘Sounds like at least someone’s doing their job properly,’ said Sir Ben, to Tony. ‘How many days’ gear have you got left?’
Tony kept a poker face then hunched forward. ‘Well, thanks to them being acquitted, we’ve got six of the best dealers operating different sectors of the city. The brown needs to be pretty pure, around sixty-five per cent, so they are keeping it just at that but cutting it in with fentanyl to make it go further and take out the weak quicker. I reckon we’ve got a couple of weeks based on current demand and I’ve told them not to just serve it up to the same old faces.’ Sir Ben nodded approvingly. ‘We need to attract a whole new client base, including those who Nicola’s got clean.’
‘Great stuff. A fortnight sounds perfect. It’s a shame we are going to lose some potential Synthopate customers in the meantime but once I open up the supply lines again, demand will be raging. Think you can cope, Nicola?’
For once she looked unsure. ‘I don’t know. These are good people who are dying. They are on a long programme. A bit like snakes and ladders. It takes ages to make progress, but one slip and they’re back to the beginning. I’m not sure we have the capacity to start so many people from scratch again.’
‘You’ll cope,’ said Sir Ben. ‘Just be ready. I’ve explained the delays to my staff as contractual issues but once I turn the tap on, you need to handle everything we throw at you. By then I should have distracted the local police well enough so they won’t be the problem they were.’
‘But Jo Howe’s like a dog with a bone. She’s already left half a dozen messages for me demanding I do something.’
‘Talking of which. Arjun, how’s her hubby getting on in Belmarsh?’
‘He’s had better days. Unfortunately, someone’s already leaked that he’s married to a police officer so that didn’t go down well.’
‘Good,’ said Sir Ben. ‘Make sure the governor keeps him in general population for now. I wouldn’t want him hiding away in the vulnerable prisoners’ wing. Keep turning the screw.’
‘I’ve already ordered that.’
‘And how are we fixed for getting more dealers out on the street? Is our package still attractive?’
Arjun’s grin fell away. ‘Some are so desperate that they’ll take a few quid whatever the risk, but others are getting a little nervy.’
‘Nervy?’
‘Even though we are spreading the offer thinly across the southern region prisons, so as not to spook anyone, word’s getting out that it’s one job and you’re gone.’
‘Eh?’
‘Let’s just say it’s not escaped the bush telegraph that some who’ve taken the money have ended up dead. As I say, most will grab whatever you throw at them but maybe we can ease off on the disposals?’
Sir Ben thought about it. This endless supply of labour was only any good if it remained endless. Maybe Arjun was right and a few should be allowed to become ambassadors of the scheme. Who better to allay fears than those who’d been through it?
He nodded. ‘Yes, we’ll do it. For now just focus on those we can trust to deal drugs. That’s the priority, but soon I’m going to ask you to find some proper muscle.’ Arjun looked worried. Sir Ben continued. ‘We all need a payday and anyone who stands in our way needs to learn not to. Understood?’
All three nodded.
‘Right, I need to stir the hornets’ nest,’ he said, rising to his feet to signify the meeting was over.
Sam Parkin was very careful not to allow his frustration to creep into his voice whenever Sir Ben tasked him. He’d been living on a precipice ever since he’d given the police the concocted story about Darren Howe buying titbits from detectives. When the time came for him to give evidence at the Old Bailey, he would happily perjure himself despite the inevitable battering he’d get from Howe’s defence counsel. His only worry was if they pulled something out of the bag that would shine the light on him. A couple of days in the witness box was one thing. Prison was another.
On the face of it, the article Sir Ben had demanded was straightforward but the tone would be tricky. The boss was after substance, but Sam had become accustomed to clickbait counting more than truth. He read it over one last time.
The City of Death
Special Report by Sam Parkin, Editor
If your kids are heading to the once charming and idyllic city of Brighton and Hove, whether to study, work or play, take my advice and send them to Bournemouth instead.
Today the Journal can exclusively lift the lid on the disastrous policing of this ‘London by the Sea’, and reveal why, over a few short days, it has once again regained its long-held moniker of being the drugs death capital of the UK.
What was hailed as being the panacea to drug crime and deaths, Operation Eradicate, is nothing but a vanity project conceived and jealously guarded by the city’s controversial police commander, Chief Superintendent Joanne Howe. Fuelled by her own shameful guilt following the death of her sister Caroline in a stinking city squat, Mrs Howe – wife of disgraced journalist Darren who is currently in Belmarsh Prison on remand charged with corrupting police officers – has turned her own failings on the public of Brighton and Hove by refusing to clamp down on druggies and, contrary to the law, diverting them to namby-pamby treatment programmes.
Mrs Howe, who seems to thrive at the centre of corruption scandals, has propagated Brighton’s dubious image of a permissive party town by openly advocating the legalisation of drugs.
Well, her obstinance and naivety has come back to bite her. It’s no surprise that her whole approach was built on sand and, rather than curing addicts, she’s left nearly a dozen dead over the last few days.
Her house of cards was destined to collapse, and it took just one ace being removed – in this case a short-term cut in the supply of a heroin substitute trial drug from Respite Pharmaceuticals – and crashing down it came. Within a few hours of these druggies being unable to get the props that hold them together, a new batch of heroin was on the streets and they started dropping like flies.
Sources on the ground have told the Journal that the few police who are left – Brighton is experiencing unprecedented sickness levels, but that’s another story – are haring around from body to body while the mortuary is overflowing.
Howe has previously banged on about her aim to reduce the demand and thus suck the oxygen from the drugs market. Well, all she seems to have achieved is to have sucked the life out of vulnerable and troubled young people. Only time will tell how many more must die before this preening officer is removed or she sees sense and returns to the job we pay her to do.
Sussex Police declined to comment.
Sam pressed submit and sat back, waiting for the plaudits to pour in.
Sir Ben couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw the piece, the moment it appeared. He scan-read it first, then seethed over it slowly, hoping he had misread it. Why the hell did he mention Respite and the Synthopate trial?
He knew it would trigger a storm, but now feared it wouldn’t be the one he intended. Sure enough, ten minutes later, Respite’s chief financial officer was on the phone.
Sir Ben didn’t give him a chance to state the obvious. ‘Yes I’ve seen it and yes he’ll pay for it. What’s it doing to the share price?’
‘It’s free-falling. Thirty per cent down already and there’s no sign of a parachute this side of London closing. Why the hell did he mention us by name? He might as well have put out a bankruptcy warning.’
‘Jesus,’ muttered Ben, taking the phone into his mother’s room partly to check she was still breathing, and partly to remind himself what this was all about. He’d come too far to let Parkin blow it out of the water. Creaming money off Respite relied on there being money to skim from in the first place.
‘Leave Parkin to me. I’ll get the article taken down too. In the meantime, get some proactive reassurance out there and make it look like it’s business as usual. I want the stock to bounce back today or you’ll be looking for another job by the morning.’ He ended the call and walked over to the bed.
‘Don’t worry, Mum. I will sort this and we’ll get you the treatment you need. I promise, it’ll be fine.’ He leant forward and kissed her on the cheek.
It was Clarissa Heard, Jo’s press officer, who drew her attention to the article. Usually Clarissa would just email or WhatsApp the link but today she came to her office.
‘How dare he bring up Caroline and Darren? Surely there are laws against talking about ongoing cases.’
Clarissa tilted her head to one side. ‘He’s been careful. My advice is to say nothing and let it die.’
‘But he’s attacking me and my family personally. And he’s lying about Eradicate. How can we not fight back?’
‘You know why. You’ll just bring all the trolls and that will be ten times worse. Honestly, you’ve had this before and you know, silence is golden.’
Jo huffed as she read the screen again. ‘You know why he’s doing this, don’t you? He used to be Darren’s boss but sacked him for this bollocksy allegation of corruption. He’s using his venomous mouthpiece to rub the salt in.’ She read over it again. She stopped three paragraphs from the end and read it out loud.
‘“Her house of cards was destined to collapse, and it took just one ace being removed – in this case a short-term cut in the supply of a heroin substitute trial drug from Respite Pharmaceuticals – and crashing down it came. Within a few hours of these druggies being unable to get the props that hold them together, a new batch of heroin was on the streets and they started dropping like flies.”’
‘Did you spot that Clarissa?’
‘Spot what?’ said the usually whip-smart press officer.
‘That bit where he’s linking the lack of Synthopate with a new batch of heroin. How does he know they might be linked?’
‘He could be guessing,’ said Clarissa. ‘We know he only has a casual relationship with the truth.’
Jo pondered on that, then read it over again. ‘No, he’s not guessed this. He knows it and, unless I’m mistaken, we’ve not released this to anyone. That means, unless Nicola Merrion has, which I doubt as she and her staff would rather eat their own poo than talk to the press, he’s got some inside information and I reckon Respite are the key.’ She thumped out a WhatsApp to Gary and Bob.
For the first time in weeks, the fire in Jo’s belly ignited.
37
If Scotty wasn’t to learn of Spanners’ arrest, then hardly anyone else could.
Given the soaring supposed sickness – the average team’s attendance rate was hovering around the forty per cent mark – Bob was hardly awash with choices. The public had yet to spot the shortfalls, such was their low expectation of the police since the cuts, but the force was in a critical state.
If he timed the arrest right, he’d get away with two, maybe three, officers surprising Spanners on a quiet street. If not, it would mean a whole police support unit battering some squat’s door down. He’d struggle to find three officers, let alone the twenty-plus he’d need. So he chose a wilier approach and hoped the ex-squaddie didn’t kick off.
When he arrived at work on the following day, the station seemed even emptier than usual. Time was getting on and the longer he waited, the more chance word would get out. He’d gleaned from Scotty that Spanners was an early riser and liked to stroll along the lower promenade before the crowds hit the beach. It wasn’t perfect but it was the best Bob could think of. All he needed was to find an arrest team.
He was rechecking the duty state when Gary strolled into his office. ‘All fit then?’ the superintendent asked rhetorically.
Replying in whispered tones, Bob said, ‘Not really. Have you ever seen the place so empty? Talk about tumbleweed.’
Gary looked at the empty desks outside Bob’s office. ‘We can’t go on like this. The chief needs to be making an example of one or two of these bloody skivers. That would get them back to work.’
‘They’re scared. For themselves and their families.’
‘It’s a tough job, Bob. They can always leave and make room for some less feeble recruits.’
Bob shook his head. ‘Anyway, looks like we’ll have to leave it to another day.’
‘Will we bollocks,’ said Gary. ‘I know who can do it.’
Fifteen minutes later, Bob and Gary were squeezed into a dark blue Toyota Yaris, on the patch of promenade which separated Marmalade’s nightclub and the shingle beach. At this time of the morning they were less conspicuous than they would be later, given the army of cleaners scouring their way through the various clubs, bars and restaurants that occupied Brighton’s Victorian beachfront arches.
‘You sure you’ll recognise him?’ said Gary, fiddling with the in-car stereo.
‘I hope so but remember this was your idea.’ Bob switched off the ignition to stop his boss finding Talksport. ‘And it’s helpful if we keep a little quiet while we wait … sir.’
‘This is why I never became a detective,’ said Gary.
‘They’d never have had you.’
Bob expected some quip back but instead, Gary said, ‘Is that him?’, pointing to a middle-aged man dressed in ripped camouflage trousers, a blue crew neck jumper and flip-flops.
‘That’s another reason why you stayed in uniform.’
The man walked past them, not even noticing the car was occupied.
‘Rude,’ said Gary.
Over the next half hour, twenty or thirty unlikely suspects wandered past and Bob started to wonder whether he’d relied too much on Scotty’s casual reflection on Spanners’ habits. More to make a point to Gary than in any sense of optimism, Bob was determined not to give up too soon but the cramped car, Gary’s attempts at humour and a mounting inbox all chipped away at his resolve.
He was about to give in when a huge dustcart filled the road ahead, lights flashing and machinery gobbling up last night’s detritus. It must have come down an unseen ramp but was slowly making its way towards them. Bob realised he’d come off second in any duel. He glanced in the mirror to reverse out of the way.
‘Gary, behind us.’
‘What?’
‘Slowly turn round and have a look at that bloke walking this way.’
Gary snapped his head round as if reacting to a gunshot. Bob tutted.
‘Could be,’ said Gary.
‘Almost certainly is. Let’s chance it and if we’re wrong, call it a day. On my count, open your door and get straight out. Whoever’s side he comes round grabs him.’
‘Got that.’
Bob kept watching, hoping he could time it to perfection. ‘Looks like your side,’ he said as the man ambled between the car and the club. ‘Ready. One. Two. Three. GO!’
The doors were flung open and both men leapt out. Bob ran round the front in case the suspect made a dash for it but by the time he got to Gary’s side, Spanners – he was sure of that now – was wedged by his throat against a garish orange sign.
‘Get the fuck off me,’ Spanners croaked, Gary’s face catching more than its fair share of spittle.
‘You dirty fucker,’ shouted Gary as he squeezed tighter.
‘Boss, leave him,’ called Bob as he pulled at Gary’s shoulder to stop him killing their target. Thankfully Gary acquiesced and Bob shoved him out of the way. ‘You Spanners?’ said Bob.
‘Who wants to know?’ Bob flipped open his warrant card wallet and almost instantly he saw the fight evaporate from Spanners’ eyes. ‘What the fuck do you want?’
‘I’m arresting you for supplying class A drugs.’
Bob had barely finished the caution before Spanners said, ‘You’ve got the wrong bloke. You do know I’ve been helping you. Ask Sergeant Scott.’
‘Listen, sweetheart,’ said Gary. ‘Two bits of advice. Firstly, keep your mouth shut until you’ve got a solicitor. And secondly, if you can’t do that, be very careful who you tell that you’ve been helping the police out. There are some serious health and safety issues associated with outing yourself as a grass.’
Bob took his handcuffs from his covert harness, pulled Spanners’ arms to the rear then clipped the cuffs. ‘Are they OK?’
‘Not really.’
‘It’s not too far to custody, so providing you behave yourself they’ll come off as soon as we get there.’
Spanners nodded a grudging understanding and allowed Bob to help him into the back seat, behind where Gary had been sitting. ‘Boss, can you get in the back next to him? Behind me?’
‘You’re kidding, right? Chuck me the keys. Sorry, privilege of rank.’ Bob gracelessly did as he was ordered and slid in the back seat, his knees crunched into his belly.
As Gary pulled away, Spanners stared ahead. ‘I think I know what this is about.’
‘Save it,’ said Gary.
Bob said, ‘Oh, do you?’
‘Those deliveries. I told Scotty about them as soon as they happened.’ Bob left a silence. ‘You know I’m dead now anyway, don’t you?’
