Find Them Dead Page 3

  ‘I’m very sorry, Mr Starr, the car’s owners will of course be compensated for any damage done during the examination if the car proves to be in order,’ Clive Johnson said.

  ‘Can I have a smoke?’

  ‘I’m afraid this is a no-smoking area.’

  ‘Well, can I go outside then?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, not at this moment,’ Johnson said. ‘We need you to be in attendance to observe what we are doing.’

  There was no hiss of escaping air as the officer sliced the blade deep into the tyre wall. For some while he worked the blade around in an arc, until finally he pulled away a large flap of rubber.

  In the gap it left, a plastic bag filled with a white powder was clearly visible. The officer reached in to pull it out and held it up, showing those present what he had found.

  ‘Most people fill their tyres with air, sir.’ Johnson moved forward towards Mickey. ‘I believe this package contains controlled drugs and I’m arresting you.’

  Mickey stared at him for a fraction of a second in complete blind panic. Trying to think clearly. A voice inside his head screamed, RUN!

  Mickey shoved the officer harshly sideways, sending him stumbling into the wall, and sprinted forward, racing through the shed. He heard shouts, a voice yelling at him to stop. If he could just get out of here, out into the dark streets, he could disappear. Hole up somewhere or steal a car and get back to Stuie.

  His foot hit something painfully hard, a fucking wheel brace, and he sprawled forward. As he scrambled desperately back to his feet, someone grabbed his right arm, his prosthetic arm.

  He twisted, kicked out backwards with his foot, felt it connect and heard a grunt of pain.

  His arm was still being held.

  He spun. Two men, one with the big glasses. He lashed out with his left arm, punching Four-Eyes in the face, straight in the glasses, sending him reeling backwards, then he lashed out at the other, much younger man who was still holding his arm. Aimed a kick at his groin, but the officer dodged it and Mickey lost his footing, tripping backwards, falling, his entire weight supported now by the man holding his arm.

  As he staggered back, trying desperately to keep on his feet, he picked up the wheel brace and registered the momentary shock on the officer’s face. Then he rushed him, headbutting him with all his strength, and heard a crunch as he did so.

  The officer, blood spurting from his shattered nose, fell to the ground. Mickey sprinted again, past a parked van with amber roof lights, and out through the far end of the shed into chilly early morning air and falling rain, into darkness and towards the lights of the town beyond.

  Safety.

  A voice yelled from the darkness, ‘Stop, Police!’ Flashlight beams struck him, and an instant later two police officers, one a man-mountain, hurtled from seemingly nowhere towards him. Mickey swung the wheel brace at the big one’s head but too late; before it could connect, he felt like he’d been hit by a fridge. A crashing impact, the momentum hurling him face-first to the ground. An instant later there was a dead weight on top of him. A hand gripped the back of his neck, pushing his face down hard onto the wet road surface.

  Instantly, using all his survival instincts and martial arts training, Mickey kicked out backwards, catching his assailant by surprise, and in the same split-second reached up, curled his left arm round the man’s thick neck and gave a sharp pull. With a startled croak, the man rolled sideways as if he was as light as a sack of feathers.

  Freeing himself, Mickey rose to his feet and, before the startled officer could react, slammed his powerhouse of a southpaw fist into the man’s jaw. As the officer staggered backwards in agony, Mickey sprinted again towards the lights of the town. He overtook several foot passengers and reached the junction with the deserted main road.

  Thinking hard and fast.

  Glancing over his shoulder.

  In the distance, he saw bobbing flashlights. People running, but a good few hundred yards behind him.

  He was about to cross the road when headlights appeared. Hesitating in case it was a police car, and ready to melt back into the darkness, he saw it was an Audi with German plates. The driver clocked him and slowed to a halt, putting down his window.

  Mickey stared in at a serious-looking man in his thirties in a business suit. In broken English, the man said, ‘Hello, excuse me, I’ve come from the ferry but think I have taken a wrong turning. Would you know the direction towards London?’

  Mickey slammed his fist into the side of the man’s neck, aiming it directly at the one place that would knock him unconscious instantly. He opened the door, unclipped his belt and shoved him, with some difficulty, across into the passenger seat. Then he jumped in, familiarizing himself in an instant with the left-hand driving position, and accelerated hard away, ignoring the insistent pinging of the alarm telling him to fasten his belt.

  Something more insistent was pinging inside his head.

  Get home to Stuie before the police get there.

  In his red mist of panic, he figured so long as he got home, everything would be all right. He and Stuie, they were good. They were a team.

  ‘I’m coming,’ he muttered. ‘Stuie, I’m coming. Going to scoop you up and we’ll head north up to Scotland, lie low for a bit. I got friends there on a remote farm. We’ll be safe there.’

  And maybe safe in this car. Had anyone been close enough to see him taking it? He’d have to chance not. He’d call Stuie, who always slept the sleep of the dead, and tell him to get up, pack a bag and be ready to leave the moment he arrived. The way to get him to move fast would be tell him it was a game and that he could bring his chef’s hat!

  He put his hand down to the front pocket of his jeans to tug out his phone.

  It wasn’t there.

  6

  Monday 26 November

  Shit, Mickey thought, trying to concentrate on driving, panic rising again. Shit. What numbers did the phone have on it? It was a burner he’d bought a couple of weeks before the start of the trip.

  There was a groan from the passenger seat, which he ignored as he concentrated on navigating through the outskirts of the town, away from the harbour and towards the A26.

  A couple of minutes later, driving like the wind, he shot out of the industrial area and onto the long, twisty, rural part of the road, checking his mirrors constantly. There was nothing so far. Just more of that darkness.

  A bus-stop lay-by loomed up ahead. He braked hard and swung into it. Then he ran round to the passenger door, bashed the German unconscious again and dragged him, out of sight, into dense undergrowth. Not great but the best he could do, short of killing him. Returning to the car, he drove on at high speed. Thinking.

  What a mess.

  All his great plans down the toilet.

  Jesus.

  The boss was going to be furious – but that was the least of his problems right now.

  He carried on, flat out up the winding country road that he knew well, 70 . . . 80 . . . until he reached the roundabout at the top. Right would take him towards Eastbourne. Left towards Brighton on a wide dual carriageway taking him directly to Stuie in Chichester. They would head north towards London and the circular M25 around it. And then towards Scotland. Find a service station and steal or hijack another car there.

  He turned left, checking his mirrors again. Nothing. Only street-lit darkness. Wide, fast, empty road ahead now for many miles. He floored the accelerator and the car pushed forwards – 80 . . . 90 . . . 100 . . . 120. He slowed, approaching a bend, aware of the roundabout ahead. Right would take him through the Cuilfail tunnel into the county town of Lewes, straight on along the fast road, past the University of Sussex. He carried straight on over the roundabout, accelerating hard, still nothing but darkness behind him. Thinking.

  Suddenly a sliver of blue appeared in his mirrors. Like the glint of a shard of broken glass. Had he imagined it?

  Then it appeared again. More insistently.

  What?

  H
e drove on as fast as he dared, crossed another roundabout, then accelerated along a fast, straight stretch, the needle passing 130 then 140 kph. He only slowed a fraction as he took a long right-hand curve and powered up a hill.

  The slivers of blue in his mirror were getting brighter. Gaining. Strobing in all his mirrors.

  Shit, fuck, shit!

  Cresting the top, he raced down the far side. In two miles or so was another roundabout, off a slip road to the left. That would give him three options – towards Brighton, towards the Devil’s Dyke or towards London.

  Which would they be expecting him to take?

  He held the accelerator to the floor.

  The lights behind him were gaining. Closing.

  Then, to his horror, just ahead of him, blocking off two of his options – to go straight on or take the slip road – there was an entire barrage of blue lights.

  Taking his chances, he powered straight on.

  As he shot through, between all the flashing lights, he heard a series of muffled pops and the car suddenly began to judder, snaking right, then left, then right again. Out of control. He’d driven over a fucking stinger, he realized.

  The car was shaking violently. Swerving right towards the central reservation, then left, towards the verge. Somehow, he got it straightened out and carried on, with a loud flap-flap-flap sound.

  The blue lights were right up his rear now and the interior of his car was flooded with blazing headlights.

  He ploughed on, wrestling with the steering wheel in sheer panic, the car slowing despite keeping the pedal to the metal.

  More headlights in his mirror now. A marked police estate car suddenly pulled level with him on his right, then darted in front of him, replaced seconds later by another identical car on his right.

  The one in front braked sharply.

  He stamped on his brakes, too, swerving left, right, left, the Audi totally unstable again. As he pulled away from the verge on his left, he banged doors with a loud, metallic boom with the car to his right.

  Headlights in his mirror dazzled him. Flashing. Flashing.

  Right up his jacksie.

  He was totally boxed in, he realized. Fucking T-packed.

  Trying to think.

  Running on what felt like four flat tyres. Maybe even just rims now.

  The car in front was slowing. He rear-ended it, then slewed to the right, banging doors once more with the police BMW alongside him.

  Slowing more.

  He looked desperately right, then left, for a gap. Something he could swing through.

  His brain raced.

  Had to get away. Take them by surprise?

  He wrenched the steering wheel hard right. Banged, with a loud clang, into the BMW again, and an instant later, with no time to brake, slammed into the rear of the police car which had halted in front of him.

  Before he could even unclip his seat belt, his door was flung open and a police officer in a stab vest loaded with gear was standing there, joined a second later by a colleague. He was yanked, unceremoniously, from his seat and pushed, face-down, onto the road surface.

  ‘Michael Starr?’ a male voice said.

  He twisted his head to look at the man, and retorted in what he knew was a futile act of defiance, ‘Who are you?’

  PC Trundle of Sussex Road Policing Unit introduced himself, then arrested and cautioned him.

  ‘Save your breath, I know the law,’ Starr retorted.

  ‘Do you?’ said Trundle’s colleague, PC Pip Edwards. ‘Then you should know better than to be driving with four flat tyres. Tut, tut, tut! You could get a big fine for that.’

  ‘I’m guessing that’s not why you’ve stopped me.’

  ‘Really?’ Edwards retorted. ‘That’s pretty smart thinking. Ever thought about going on Mastermind?’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘There’s someone at Newhaven Port wants a word with you, matey boy. Because we’re kind, obliging people, we’re going to give you a lift back there – so long as it’s not inconveniencing you?’

  7

  Monday 26 November

  As dawn was breaking outside, Clive Johnson sat in his office with the bag of white powder he’d removed from the spare tyre, listening on his borrowed police radio to the update from the Road Policing Unit. He was wearing forensic gloves, video recording what he was doing and ensuring that he was protecting possible traces of DNA, fibres and fingerprints. He slit the bag open and performed a brief chemical analysis on a sample of the contents. It tested positive for cocaine – and a very high grade.

  He knew that the current street value of this drug in the UK was around £37,000 per kilogram. Which meant, if he was right in his calculation, judging from the weight of the Ferrari, there could be close to six million pounds’ worth of drugs inside that beautiful vehicle, maybe even more.

  And the car wouldn’t be looking quite so beautiful by the time every panel had been removed and its bare entrails exposed.

  Twenty minutes later, cuffed to an officer, Mickey was frog-marched back into the shed and up to the Ferrari where the Border Force officer who had first questioned him was now, once again, standing. He had a piece of sticking plaster on his bent glasses, one lens of which was cracked, and was not looking as friendly as before. ‘Decided to come back, did you? Very obliging of you.’

  ‘Haha,’ Mickey said, sourly.

  ‘I won’t keep you too long, Mr Starr,’ Johnson said. ‘But as a formality I do need you to witness our continued examination of this vehicle.’

  Much too late, Mickey knew, he tried reasoning with the man. ‘Look, see – I just got hired to transport the car – I didn’t know there was nuffin’ in it.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Johnson said. ‘Did you not have the slightest inkling?’

  ‘Honest to God, no. I’m just a driver, right, hired to transport the car. I don’t know about any drugs. I’m totally innocent.’

  ‘Which is why you assaulted me and ran away, is it?’

  ‘I – just got scared, like.’

  ‘I suppose I do look a bit scary, don’t I?’ There was a hint of humour in the Border Force officer’s voice. But not much.

  Clive Johnson stared hard at Mickey. ‘Mr Starr, I believe these packages contain controlled drugs. I am also arresting you on suspicion of being knowingly concerned with the illegal importation of a Class-A drug.’ He cautioned him. ‘Is that clear?’

  ‘Clear as mud. I need a fag. Can we go outside so I can have one?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, and I’m not one to preach,’ Clive Johnson said, ‘but you really ought to think about quitting. Smoking’s not good for your health.’

  ‘Nor is being arrested. You should try prison food.’

  ‘Well, if it’s not to your taste, have you ever thought about making better career choices?’

  8

  Tuesday 27 November

  It had been many years since Roy Grace had gone out on patrol – being a proper copper, as he called it – and he was loving it. It was all part of the learning curve on his six-month secondment to London’s Met Police. And he was finding front-line policing in one of the most violent areas of London to be a real baptism of fire – and a million miles from the very different vibe of his usual patch, the county of Sussex.

  The Violent Crime Task Force had been set up by the Prime Minister, in conjunction with the Mayor of London and the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, to curtail the knife crime epidemic in the city. The unit worked hand in hand with the specialized Metropolitan Police units, fighting Serious and Organized Crime. Knife crime was directly linked to one of their top priorities, tackling the vast and brutal so-called ‘county lines’ drug-dealing empires, which now had a near monopoly on Class-A drugs throughout the UK.

  ‘County lines’ was the generic name given to gangs – or Organized Crime Networks – bringing drugs on a large scale into different regions of the country. Their principal method of operation was to coerce children and vulnerable ad
ults, either through bribery or brutalizing violence, into hiding, storing and distributing drugs, weapons and cash.

  These disposable human couriers were equipped with untraceable pay-as-you-go phones – deal ‘lines’ – giving no link back to their direct bosses if they were caught. They would travel, largely by train, often dispatched to different counties, moving quantities of cocaine and heroin to the local county line ‘lieutenants’. These lieutenants would break the drugs down into individual ‘wraps’ for the street dealers, who would regularly carry the drugs in their body cavities.

  Much of the current wave of street violence, Grace knew, came from turf wars between county lines gangs. The gangs themselves were modelled on the Mafia structure, with a ruthless capo, known in street parlance as the ‘Diamond’, at the top, and a lieutenant beneath him, known as the ‘county line head’. And like the Mafia, they were highly efficiently run businesses, willing to torture and kill anyone stepping on their toes.

  It was a former boss in Sussex, Alison Vosper – then an Assistant Chief Constable, now Deputy Assistant Commissioner of the Met – who had offered him this six-month posting in the role of Acting Commander. He had accepted it, liking the challenge and thinking he might learn a lot from it, which he could apply down in Sussex. And as an added sweetener, it put him on level ranking with his current boss there, ACC Cassian Pewe.

  He missed the camaraderie of his team in Sussex, despite being only a few weeks into the posting. But he was determined this unit would make a difference to the appalling murder rate in London.

  Earlier this week, Alison Vosper had phoned, sounding him out about extending the posting for another six months, but Grace was not at this moment enthusiastic. The job up here was taking him away from home too much; he’d barely seen his family during the last month. Added to which, back in Sussex he had two separate murder trials coming up of suspects he had arrested, one starting next spring, set down for Lewes Crown Court. He was going to need time to prepare for them.