dozen angry men armed with baseball bats-or worse-and a good reason to use them, he would stand little chance. He was acutely aware that this group were responsible for the death of the unfortunate nightwatchman. If they found out that he was a police officer trying to infiltrate them, he guessed that he could expect to meet the same end.
And this time, it wasn’t just Eaton or Williams he was going to meet. As a prospective new member of the group, Bronson knew there would be other people checking him out. Curtis had claimed that there was no chance anyone in the group could possibly know who Bronson really was, but sometimes the cosmic joker rolled the dice in a certain way and the long arm of coincidence stretched out, tapped you on the shoulder, and the impossible happened. Bronson firmly believed that Sod’s Law had just as much force and validity as any other rule of life, and frankly wouldn’t be surprised if half the members of the group he was trying to infiltrate had met him before. Sometimes, that was just the way things worked out.
And that was why he’d taken another precaution before coming to this meeting. Bronson had told Curtis that he’d never been to this part of London before, and that was true, but it didn’t mean that he didn’t know anybody in the area. For years, he’d kept in sporadic contact with a man he’d gotten to know while he was in the army, a former sergeant named Dickie Weeks, but who everybody in the unit knew as “The Fixer.”
Weeks had finally been thrown out of the army after one of his more optimistic schemes had been uncovered by a senior officer who couldn’t be persuaded-or bribed-to look the other way. The only reason he had avoided prosecution was probably simple embarrassment on the part of his superiors-in open court the full extent of his various wheeler-dealings would have been exposed to public scrutiny, and the reporters from the tabloids would have enjoyed a serious feeding frenzy. Because Weeks had managed to spirit away the better part of a quarter of a million pounds’ worth of army gear and dispose of it for cash to people who appreciated having access to that kind of equipment.
The man was, by any definition, a treacherous thief, but that didn’t stop almost everyone who met him from enjoying his company because Weeks was, whatever his faults, a thoroughly likable man, with a ready smile and quick wit. Bronson had never commanded him, but on a couple of occasions he had appreciated the rogue sergeant’s ability to obtain precisely the right equipment at precisely the right time, no questions asked. And that morning he had arranged to meet Weeks before his lunchtime rendezvous at the pub.
The cafe Weeks had suggested-in a parade of shops on the west side of Straight Road, north of the main Gallows Corner intersection-was easy enough to find. When Bronson pushed open the door, accompanied by a melodic tinkle from a small bell attached to the door frame, he immediately spotted Weeks sitting at a table for two in the far corner, his back to the wall and the remnants of a full English breakfast on the plate in front of him. It was counter service only, so Bronson ordered a mug of black coffee and a bacon sandwich before walking across to join his former comrade in arms.
“Diet going well?” Bronson asked, gesturing to the congealing fat and bits of bacon rind decorating the plate in front of the other man.
“You know me, Chris. Eat like a bloody horse and I never seem to gain an ounce.”
That was both true and irritating. Weeks was a big man-almost as bulky as Bronson-but despite having a prodigious appetite for all the wrong food, he never seemed to put on weight. If there was a scrap of divine justice in the world, he would have weighed a quarter of a ton and be suffering from a variety of digestive-system-related maladies. As it was, he radiated health and was, Bronson knew, extremely strong.
Bronson, in contrast, did have to watch what he ate, steering clear of what had become the traditional diet of most Britons-pizza, pasta, curry and fish and chips-because he knew that all the excess calories made straight for his waistline and took up permanent residence there. On the other hand, he had the frame to take it. He stood over six feet tall and was, in a word, wide-heavily built with broad shoulders. He exuded an air of barely restrained menace that he’d found useful in his early career as an army officer, and even more useful as a policeman. As his encounter in the pub he’d visited with Eaton and Williams had demonstrated, his physical presence could be quite intimidating.
Bronson sat down opposite Weeks and took a bite of his sandwich.
“Before we start, Chris,” the former sergeant said, keeping his voice low and taking a quick look around the interior of the cafe to make sure that nobody could overhear their conversation, “just so you know, I’m wearing a wire and that’s linked to a recorder in my car that’s already running. Miracle of modern technology, really. In this business, I don’t trust anybody, not even you. If I even think there’s any sign of entrapment, if you’ve been set up to try to take me down, I’ll be out of here real fast, but you won’t be following because you’ll have a bullet through your leg. And that’s if I’m feeling generous. Piss me about, and it’ll be in your gut instead. Do we understand each other?”
Bronson nodded. “No entrapment, Dickie, no funny business. I’m here because I need help, and you were the only person I could think of who could get me what I wanted. And I don’t blame you for being suspicious. In your position, I’d be just as paranoid.”
Weeks allowed himself a brief smile. “Yeah,” he said. “And just because I’m paranoid, it doesn’t mean some bastard isn’t out to get me. Anyway, those are the rules. If you’re straight with me, there won’t be a problem.”
“You have my word,” Bronson replied.
“So you’re in trouble again?”
Bronson shook his head and chewed his sandwich for a few moments before he responded.
“Not exactly. I’ve got a bit of a nasty job on, and I just thought I needed an insurance policy.”
“And the powers that be didn’t think you needed to be tooled up?”
Bronson shook his head again. “I didn’t even ask them because I know what they’d say.”
“And that would be ‘no,’ I assume.”
“You assume correctly. They get very sniffy when it comes to firearms. You wouldn’t believe the number of forms you have to fill in before they’ll issue you anything more lethal than a bloody truncheon.”
“But you did the course, didn’t you? I mean, you’re an Authorized Firearms Officer, right?”
Bronson nodded. “Yes. Because of my army training I did the AFO course quite soon after I joined, and I’m also a qualified SFO-Specialist Firearms Officer-which means I have the dubious privilege of being able to enter premises known to be occupied by armed criminals. Not that there’s a lot of call for that kind of thing in Tunbridge Wells. But that’s not the point. This op I’m on means I’m going deep undercover, and at the moment the only thing I can do to protect myself is take my mobile phone out of my pocket and hit the number nine three times. By the time an Armed Response Vehicle could get to me, the chances are I’d just be a mess on the floor. And I’m not wild about that possibility.”
“I take your point,” Weeks said. “So you want something to give you an edge, just in case the shit hits the fan. And that’s why you called me.”
Bronson grinned. “I could tell you I was pining for the pleasure of your company, Dickie, but you and I both know that wouldn’t be true. What I’d like from you is something small so that I can hide it easily, but with enough power that I can use it to finish any argument that anybody else starts.”
“Always happy to oblige an old comrade. I brought along a selection, actually. They’re outside, in the motor. And it’ll be cash, Chris-you know the rules.”
Bronson nodded. “Just remember I’m only a struggling copper, not some wealthy East End villain. I can’t afford to pay top dollar for what might become a throwaway weapon.”
“I was rather hoping you might bring it back when you’ve finished whatever you’re doing. If you do, I’ll give you half what you paid for it.”
“Half? That’s not much of a deal, Dickie.”
“It’s the recession, mate. Affects every business, even mine. But as it’s you, I’ll lop a bit off the price and you can have two-thirds back. Can’t say fairer than that. Oh, that assumes you don’t use the weapon in a killing. If you do, you’ll be keeping it, because I can’t move it on.”
“I bloody hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“Getting squeamish in your old age?” Weeks asked with a smile.
“Not really. I was just thinking about all the extra paperwork I’d have to do.”
About five minutes later, the two men walked down Straight Road, turned left into Colchester Road, the A12, and immediately crossed to the south side. The Gidea Park shopping center was located on the corner of the road, and Weeks led the way into its car park.
