Stuart sighed. ‘When it’s dark. Best I can do.’
Stuart stopped talking. Mickey looked at him. Knew that was as much as he was going to get from him.
‘Thanks, Stuart.’ He took out some money, peeled off a couple of notes, handed them over.
Stuart took them, looked at them. ‘That it? I risked life and limb to get this for you, Mr Philips.’
‘Really? When it’s dark. Hardly the most accurate thing you’ve ever given me.’
Stuart sighed. Waited.
Mickey peeled off another note. Handed it over. Stuart took it, made it disappear inside his jacket like the others. Mickey had budgeted for the third note. It was a ritual they had got into. The way they transacted business.
‘Be a bit more specific next time,’ Mickey said, turning to go.
Stuart stopped him, hand on his arm. ‘Mr Philips.’
Mickey turned.
‘You want to watch yourself. They’re bad people, this lot. Very bad people.’
‘So why haven’t I heard of them before this, then?’
‘Because they’ve got some very heavy protection, I’ve heard. That’s what makes them so bad.’
‘I’ll be careful,’ Mickey said, and walked off the bridge.
Stuart stayed where he was. Lit another roll-up.
Stared down at the speeding traffic once again.
95
The place was at the bottom of North Station Road. It had been an old warehouse, converted to a hotel and Indian restaurant. But to Phil it still looked like an old warehouse. Stuck on a corner in between a car exhaust centre and another business in terminal decline, and opposite a row of greasy-looking fast-food outlets, it appeared that the minimum of renovation had been done.
The restaurant at the front was in darkness, the double doors locked. It looked to have been a long time since anyone had entered through them. Phil and Don, with the two suited men behind them, were marched down the side of the building and through a door marked ‘Welcome’ that clearly didn’t mean it. It was the hotel entrance.
‘Move.’
They moved.
The men hadn’t spoken all during the journey. Phil had resisted showing them his warrant card at the house. Depending on who they were – or who had sent them – that might not be the best thing to do.
He had tried to engage them in conversation in the car, get them to open up, find out where they were going. Nothing. No response. Instead he had sized them up. One more laid-back, treating it all as a job. The other one, with sore-looking red eyes, seemed more angry. Regarding the whole thing personally. He would be the one to look out for.
‘I know this place,’ said Phil, going through the double doors. ‘Been raided loads of times by Immigration. Well, not just Immigration. Plenty of agencies.’
‘Shut up and get inside.’ The red-eyed one becoming exasperated. Irritated.
Phil and Don entered. There was no one about. A dimly lit hallway and an empty reception desk. Red Eye indicated upstairs. Phil and Don shared a look. Knowing they had no choice, they climbed the stairs.
A vacuum cleaner had been left on the landing along with a pile of bedding and towels for laundry, very dirty, very worn.
‘Nice,’ said Phil. ‘Very ambient.’
Red Eye grabbed hold of him, turned him round. ‘That’s enough of your lip. Now get in there.’
He gestured towards a cheap, plain wooden door. Number six. Phil opened it, entered.
It was an unimpressive hotel room. Cheaply furnished, badly maintained. Worn carpet, dirty bedcover, threadbare net curtains. In one corner, made from plastic sheeting, was an ill-conceived en suite shower room, mildewed at the joints. On the bed was a woman, mixed race, light-skinned, cheaply dressed, with a small child clinging to her.
Red Eye closed the door behind them. He turned to the woman on the bed.
‘Recognise these two?’
The woman looked very scared as she answered. Scared but defiant. ‘Should I?’
‘You tell me. We found them breaking into your house.’
The woman’s eyes jumped wide in shock. Then she recovered, examined Phil. He knew she had identified him as police.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t.’
‘Good.’
Red Eye put his gun away, motioned Phil and Don to sit on the bed. They did so.
‘Right,’ said Red Eye, ‘you’re no friend of hers.’ It was clear from his tone what he thought of the woman. ‘That might be a good or a bad thing, depending. So who are you, then?’
‘I’m going to put my hand inside my jacket,’ said Phil, ‘and bring it out very slowly.’
The two men shared a look. It was clear they realised from his words what, if not who, he was.
He produced his warrant card. Showed it to them. ‘Detective Inspector Phil Brennan. This is Don Brennan, my… ’ He hesitated. Looked at the old man. Then back to the other two men. ‘Father. And an ex-detective. Brought in to advise on a current case. And you are?’
The two men looked at each other, then back at Phil and Don. They too reached into their jackets, produced warrant cards.
‘Detective Inspector Al Fennell,’ Red Eye’s partner said.
Detective Sergeant Barry Clemens,’ said Red Eye. ‘SOCA. Serious Organised Crime Agency.’
They put their warrant cards away.
Phil nodded. He had been expecting something like that, his suspicions having been raised on the journey. He hadn’t got a gangster vibe from them, or even a common criminal one. He’d wondered if they were from some special security outfit. He wasn’t far wrong.
‘Do you often kidnap fellow police officers at gunpoint?’ he said, feeling anger rise at his treatment. ‘Is that your standard operating procedure?’
‘You’d broken into a house we had under surveillance,’ said Fennell, his voice dispassionate, eminently reasonable. ‘We had no idea who you were. We brought you back here for questioning.’
‘SOCA?’ said Don. He turned to Phil. ‘Aren’t they supposed to tell you if they’re in the area?’
‘Yes,’ said Phil. ‘They are.’ He looked at the two men, clearly not happy. ‘So? I’m a DI in MIS. If anyone should have been informed about your presence it would have been me.’
‘Ordinarily, yes,’ said Fennell.
‘And if it had been any other kind of operation, you would have been,’ said Clemens.
‘But?’ said Phil.
‘This one’s different. More delicate.’ Fennell.
‘Especially,’ said Clemens, ‘given who you are and where you work.’
‘Not to mention who you work for.’
Phil frowned. They were confusing him. ‘Are you two a double act?’ he said. ‘The way you finish each other’s-’
‘Sandwiches,’ said Don.
The woman on the bed laughed. Phil smiled. Fennell and Clemens just looked irritated.
‘All right,’ said Phil. ‘Why should who I work for make a difference?’
‘Do you know Detective Chief Inspector Brian Glass?’ asked Fennell.
It wasn’t the question Phil had been expecting them to start with, but somehow it seemed like the right one. ‘Yes,’ he said, guardedly. ‘I do.’
Don wasn’t so guarded. ‘And he’s a bastard.’
