get by, to survive.

During the eighties and the nineties, city life had changed for the worse, and many of his relatives had moved away from their London roots. Nowadays the family only came together for special occasions such as christenings, milestone birthday and anniversary celebrations, weddings and, increasingly as the elder generation dwindled, funerals.

◆◆◆

The continued presence of uniformed officers in high visibility jackets was bad for business, and it was hardly surprising that the working girls who had shown up in this part of Commercial Street had all buggered off pretty sharpish once they’d been spoken to. After all, drug habits didn’t pay for themselves. Word had obviously got out that plod was there for the night because no new faces had turned up in ages.

Steve Bull and Charlie White decided to go for a little wander. They headed south-east along Commercial Street for a while and then branched off into the side streets. They had just discovered a narrow lane that looked like it might be a cut through to Spittalfields and were debating whether or not to take it when they spotted Sandra Dawson, who was leaning against a wall at the far end, smoking a cigarette.

“Is she one we’ve already spoken to?” White asked.

“No, she’s fresh meat, if you’ll excuse the pun,” Bull replied.

“Aye, well, we’d better go and have a word in her shell-like,” White said.

Sandra looked up when she heard the echo of approaching footsteps, and immediately clocked the two men walking purposefully towards her as police officers – they couldn’t have been more obvious if they had flashing blue lights strapped to their heads and were shouting, ‘nick, nick, nick…’à la Jim Davidson. Under normal circumstances, their presence wouldn’t have bothered her in the slightest. After all, she was just having a quiet fag and minding her own business so they couldn’t even do her for soliciting. However, because she still had the two rocks of crack in her coat pocket, Sandra panicked. Being arrested for prostitution was one thing, it went with the territory, but a drug bust was something else.

And so, as the two detectives strolled amiably towards her, Sandra did something very stupid. Making no attempt at subtlety, she tossed the wrap containing the two rocks into the gutter and ran off. They were slow to react, which gave her a few seconds head start, but when Bull finally sprang into action it didn’t require much of an effort to catch her up. In the meantime, White stooped to retrieve the evidence.

“What was the point in running? You’re bloody old enough to know better,” Steve said, taking a firm grip on her arm as she reached the other side of the road.

Sandra Dawson was thinking the same thing herself. One of her stilettos had caught in the grill of a drain cover as she negotiated the road. It had snapped off, and she now stood lopsided. Sandra shrugged her shoulders, feeling extremely silly. “Gawd knows love. I don’t suppose you’ll believe me but it’s not mine. I was just looking after it for a mate.”

“What’s not yours?” Steve asked.

White dangled the wrap in front of Bull’s face. “Crack,” was all he said.

The two detectives exchanged troubled glances. Tyler wasn’t going to like this. They were supposed to be coming across as non-threatening, trying to gain the working girls trust. This incident wasn’t going to help their cause.

“What happens now?” Sandra asked, racking her brains for a way to explain the drugs without grassing her friend up.She was unaware that Tracey no longer needed her protection.

“It’s simple, love,” Bull informed her miserably. “You’re nicked and we’re going to get our backsides kicked.”

“Less of the ‘we’ if you don’t mind, Stevie,” White was quick to point out. “You nicked her, old son, not me.”

“Thanks a lot, Whitey,” Bull said as they marched her back to their car.

◆◆◆

By eleven-thirty, a low ceiling of cloud had completely blocked out the moon. Luckily, the neon vapour of a hundred streetlights was more than capable of compensating for its absence. Plenty of cars were still whizzing up and down Commercial Street, but all pedestrian activity had dried up ages ago, and with nothing to do the uniformed officers had huddled together by their carrier waiting for further direction.

It had been a long and extremely tiring day, and Tyler was painfully aware that this was probably just the first of many to come. As he needed the team back at the office for an eight o’clock meeting, he reluctantly decided to call it a night.

A Shamrock green Ford Transit mini-bus drove past the police carrier, catching Tyler’s eye. It had the logo ‘The Sutton Mission’ stencilled along the side. The driver was a middle-aged man with greying hair. Several dishevelled looking men were dotted amongst the rear seats, all looking back at Tyler with the vacant stares of the downtrodden. A thought occurred to him as the mini-bus receded from view. Winning the street workers over was going to be a slow, laborious, task. Sure, local sector and divisional vice officers would be able to point them in the right direction, but what they really needed was someone who the street workers knew and trusted to act as a go-between. The Sutton Mission was probably a local charity. There would be others like it. Perhaps he should explore the merits of using one of these charities as an intermediary.

As he slid into the rear of the Omega, Jack noticed a black BMW slowly cruising towards them. The driver, an enormous black man with dreads, appeared to be looking for someone in the various recesses that dotted the sidewalk. As the car drew level Jack noticed the tight cluster of vertical scratches on the driver’s face.

Even if the uniforms hadn’t been out there with him, Jack knew he stuck out like a sore thumb, but the stranger slowed long enough to give him a cold, arrogant stare nonetheless.

The BMW then increased speed and within seconds it vanished from view,

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