Black Coke (10 page)

Nathan leaned closer. The knee, elbow and shoulder joints were all knobbly and gnarled, with streaks of black. The eyes had large black spots in them and the ear lobes were dark blue.

‘Nathan?’

‘Get forensics. We’ve got a body.’

North London, UK
8 April 2011

‘W
hy did you let him go?’ Cedric snapped down the phone.

Nathan slammed shut the door to the small office they’d been given in Islington police station. It was barely larger than a broom cupboard. It had two metal-framed chairs and a battered wooden table with three legs propped against the wall.

‘We didn’t let him go.’ Nathan picked up a mouldy coffee mug from the floor and placed it on the table. ‘He escaped.’

‘Why did you let him escape?’

‘It’s not as if we did it deliberately.’

‘I want him picked up by close of play tomorrow.’

Cedric clicked off. Nathan sighed. It wasn’t like Cedric to lose his temper. Probably trouble with George again. He twiddled a plastic ballpoint pen round his fingers while he stared out of the window at the trees outside. Catching a few drug dealers and addicts in a crack house was not going to get them anywhere. He needed to get to the top of the chain, to Amonite, to the big boss himself. But how?

His mind went over everything he knew about international drug smuggling. Since the end of the big cartels in the 1990s, drug smugglers had moved away from large centralised groups to numerous smaller ones, run as decentralised networks, which were much harder to infiltrate. They split up the different aspects of each operation, such as the production, the loading, the transportation, the distribution and the payment. Competition among groups—the farmers, the transporters, the wholesalers, the dealers—kept operational costs down and profits high. Front 154, however, seemed to be a move back to the large cartel model. The big guns, the helicopters, the vast ambitions. Yet it surely couldn’t plan to control everything itself. What would be the point?

Steve barged in, making Nathan jump.

‘Alright?’ Nathan said.

Steve plonked himself on a chair and put his feet on the table, a smug look on his face. The table wobbled.

Nathan pointed to Steve’s feet. ‘I wouldn’t do that if I was you.’

‘I can’t believe they gave us this tip.’ Steve pulled his feet back and waved his hand at the worn-out carpet and the pale green walls. ‘Shows how important they think this all is. Anyway, the scroties are all banged up. Sent the lads home. They’re knackered.’

Nathan twirled the pen in his hands.

‘What’s up?’ Steve said, cleaning his ear with his finger and then studying his fingernail. ‘Not your usual happy self?’

‘I’m getting grief from my boss. He wants Tony found by tomorrow.’

‘That’s typical.’ Steve got up. ‘It’s nearly midnight. Why don’t you get some shut-eye. We can try again in the morning.’

‘What did forensics say?’

‘Huge levels of a chemical in their blood that matched that Black Coke.’ He sat down again. ‘The poor fella overdosed.’

‘And the cash?’

‘Half a mil. Enough to buy 30 keys.’

‘Sounds like a pilot run. I’m guessing the Front’s planning on bringing in tons of this stuff. But how?’

‘Dunno. That’s for Customs and Excise to figure out.’

Nathan shook his head. Steve’s reaction was typical of law enforcement agencies. Always passing responsibility over to each other. He decided to press on with his thinking. He picked up a ball-point pen and a blank sheet of paper on the table. He scribbled the word ‘Colombia’ and circled it.

‘That’s where the productions starts.’

He wrote the word ‘mid-point’, circled it and drew a line connecting it to the word ‘Colombia’. Then he wrote the words ‘USA’ and ‘UK’, circled them, and connected them to the word ‘mid-point.’

‘Amonite’s going to be setting up transportation to this mid-shipment point, either by plane or boat. Most likely it’ll be the Bahamas, Cuba, Haiti or Jamaica. If we can find the mid-point, we can crush her whole operation.’

Steve yawned.

‘The Bahamas would be a good one,’ Nathan continued. ‘Seven hundred islands, half of them uninhabited. Forty miles from Miami, so easy access to the USA and could also ship over to the UK.’

‘What about the pirates?’ Steve said.

‘What pirates?’

‘Didn’t you see that report last week from the DEA? Some South American cartels are moving away from going through the Bahamas because of the Haitian pirates causing havoc there. They zoom around in these big fat boats, pounce on them, shoot them to pieces and nick their drugs.’

‘Okay, so maybe Cuba? The Americans can’t enter the flight zone around it, so the DEA can’t check it out. Plus Cuban government officials are easily corruptible.’

‘You never stop, do you?’ Steve rubbed his eyes. ‘I’m gonna crash.’

A thought struck Nathan. Tony might know where the mid-point was. He stepped over a pile of papers on the floor and turned to the map of north London pinned to the wall. On it were red drawing pins marking the known crack houses: dozens of them across Islington, Hackney, Haringey and Camden.

‘Tony could be in any of these by now.’

‘Yeah, I guess you’re right.’ Steve got to his feet. ‘No point worrying about it now.’

‘Or could he?’ Nathan put his index finger on the crack house they’d busted earlier, just near the bottom of Dalston Road. He drew a small semi-circle with his thumb. ‘He could’ve gone straight to this one in north Hackney or that one there near Old Street.’ He turned to Steve. ‘What d’you reckon?’

‘At this time of night? Everyone’ll be wasted.’

‘Yeah, I suppose so. Anyway, we’d need back-up.’

Nathan looked around for his rucksack. All of a sudden, he felt exhausted again. Steve was right. Better to get some sleep and try again tomorrow.

‘Ah, here it is.’ He found his rucksack under the table. ‘Coming?’

Steve was staring at the map. His fists were clenched.

‘Steve?’

‘Back-up’s for wimps.’ Steve punched his fist into his palm. ‘Okay, bring it on. Let’s start with Old Street. It’s closer.’

‘Nah, I’d better get home.’ Nathan put on his jacket. ‘Caitlin’ll be worried.’

‘Just a second ago you were well up for it.’

‘And you were telling me to get some sleep.’

‘I’ve changed my mind. Better to strike while the iron’s hot. I’ll drop you off at home afterwards.’

Nathan rubbed his eyes. Now that the buzz of the day had worn off, his gut instinct was telling him this was a mistake.

‘Like it or not, I’m going anyway,’ Steve said, heading for the door. ‘Teach that fat bastard a lesson.’

Nathan bundled out of the room after Steve and through the reception area, where a bored looking desk sergeant was doodling on a notepad.

‘Wait.’ Nathan grabbed Steve’s arm. ‘Tomorrow.’

Steve shook himself free. ‘I’m going now.’

The desk sergeant shot them a curious glance as Steve exited the police station. Nathan hurried after him. He couldn’t let Steve deal with this alone. They piled into Steve’s unmarked car in the car park. Minutes later, they were speeding down City Road towards Old Street.

East London, UK
9 April 2011

I
t was the early hours of Saturday morning and drunken party-goers were spilling out of late-night bars and clubs around Old Street, shrieking, shouting and throwing up. Three cops were trying to split up a fight between two shaven-headed men in the middle of the pavement. Smashed beer bottles were littered on the floor around them. Ahead, a group of girls in mini-skirts was swinging round a lamp-post, singing and yelling and waving half-empty bottles of wine.

‘Booze-fuelled England, eh?’ Steve said with a grin.

Nathan shrugged. The previous government’s decision to relax the drinking laws had been misguided and foolish. Twenty-four hour drinking was not a good idea in a country where bingeing was such a problem.

Steve turned into a side-street. He squeezed the car into a tight parking spot and jumped out. There it was, standing out like an eyesore. The windows were all bricked-up. Spray-paint graffiti was scribbled on the walls. Dance music pumped out of the front door, which kept opening and closing as people came and went like a steady stream of ants.

Nathan led the way through the front garden. His hands were sweaty and his heart beat hard in his chest. Two plainclothes cops turning up in a crack house in the middle of a party was a recipe for disaster. He’d tried convincing Steve to turn back in the car, but Steve had only got more stubborn.

He caught the front door just as a crack-head was leaving. He slipped in and came face to face with a black doorman straight out of a hip-hop video with his red bandana round his forehead.

‘You want Ricky or you want Bigboy?’ the doorman said, leaning forward in a white plastic chair, lit cigarette hanging from his lips.

Nathan ignored him. He pushed through, Steve on his heels. A thick layer of smoke burnt his lungs and stung his eyes. People milled around with wide, blood-shot eyes, arguing and yelling. A young man in a blue cap was slumped against the wall, a needle in his forearm, eyes closed. Sitting on the bottom of the stairs, a gaunt-faced prostitute was giving a blow job to a fat man in a sharp suit who was dragging on a crack pipe.

‘Charming,’ Nathan said.

A hand gripped his shoulder. ‘What you want, man? Ricky or Bigboy?’

Steve shoved the doorman against the wall. ‘Don’t you fucking touch us, mate,’ he hissed, then eased off. ‘Where’s Tony?’

‘Okay, chill.’ The doorman lifted his hands. ‘Bigboy’s upstairs.’

Nathan looked around the hallway and front room. The walls had gaping holes. Someone had smashed the furniture to bits.

‘Rival gang’s my guess,’ Steve whispered in his ear with a chuckle. ‘Word’s out that Black Coke’s stronger than crack. Everyone wants in on it.’

People were slouched over chairs or lying on the floor. Prostitutes were hanging off the richer looking addicts, begging for drugs. A fridge was open, revealing boxes of Durex, syringes, crack pipes and a half-eaten bowl of mouldy pasta. A muscular white guy in a tank-top with a bald head and a gold chain round his neck eyed Nathan and Steve dubiously.

Nathan turned to Steve. ‘We’ve done the recce. Let’s come back tomorrow with back-up.’

‘Let’s find Tony.’

Steve pushed past the crowd hanging around the staircase and climbed to the top landing. Nathan followed him, increasingly annoyed at Steve. They shoved their way into a bedroom that was heaving with crack-heads snorting drugs on the window sill, the floor—anywhere with a flat space. On the wall was a ripped poster from the film Sin City.

In one corner, sitting at a desk with scales, Tony was handing out small stash bags of black powder to a line of addicts in exchange for cash. One of them glanced round. It was the man with the Guns N Roses t-shirt from the raid earlier.

‘It’s the pigs!’

He whipped out a gun.

Damn. This was exactly the situation Nathan had been dreading.

He crashed into the Guns N Roses man, sending him sprawling. The gun bounced under the bed. Tony swung round, a hunting knife in his hand. Addicts swarmed everywhere, pushing through the doorway, charging down the stairs. The Guns N Roses man shoved Nathan away and raced for the doorway. Nathan let him go. He had to focus on catching Tony. He forced his way through the mass of panicked addicts, ducking low, out of Tony’s line of sight.

Tony was shouting. He backed into a corner, the knife in front of him. Nathan sprang on him. Tony lashed out. Nathan sucked in his stomach. The knife grazed his jacket. He dodged sideways and grabbed Tony’s knife-wielding hand. He twisted it until the elbow cracked. Tony howled in pain and collapsed. The knife fell to the floor. Steve picked it up and reached under the bed for the gun, a 9mm Browning, which he tucked under his belt.

‘Thought we wouldn’t find you?’ Steve fingered the blade and looked down at Tony.

The room had emptied. They could hear everyone swarming through the front door and onto the street like cockroaches fleeing a burning dump.

Nathan let go of Tony and stood a few metres back. Maybe Steve had been right about barging into the crack house. Tony might not have been around the next day. Now they had him, and they’d make him talk.

‘I can’t hear you,’ Steve said, towering over Tony. ‘Speak up.’

Tony whimpered, tears in his wide eyes. His lips were blue and his jaw was gurning. ‘I ain’t done nothing wrong.’

‘Tell that to the judge.’

‘It’s not my gear and it’s not my house.’