Black Coke (13 page)

Next morning, Nathan was listening to the Radio 4 news at breakfast. He hadn’t slept particularly well again, his mind thinking about Steve and preparing what he’d tell Cedric today.

‘Police are investigating the spate of violence that erupted in a series of crack houses in North London on Friday night and the early hours of Saturday morning,’ the newsreader was saying. ‘A policeman is in a critical state and a suspected drug dealer is dead, according to an anonymous source who spoke to the BBC.’

The mug of coffee stopped half-way to Nathan’s mouth.

‘Fingers are being pointed at an undercover agent from the Serious Organised Crime Agency for setting up a high-risk operation that backfired.’

Nathan slammed the mug back on the table, spilling coffee everywhere.

‘This will add to existing pressure on Soca to—’

‘Hi Nathan.’

Caitlin had appeared in the doorway.

Nathan turned up the volume on the radio, but the news had moved onto the next item. He pushed past her without saying a word. He grabbed his bag, his keys and jacket.

‘What’s wrong?’ Caitlin said. ‘I wasn’t that drunk last night.’

He left the flat without saying a word. As he headed for his car, his mind boiled with fury and indignation.

Who the hell had leaked the news to the BBC?

And how dare they say it was all his fault.

Central London, UK
11 April 2011

N
athan rushed up the stairway and through the double doors onto the second floor of Soca. Eyes lifted from computer terminals and gawked at him as he stormed through the rows of desks towards Cedric’s room in the far corner.

Florence, Cedric’s secretary, flicked out the palm of her hand like a traffic warden.

‘He’s busy,’ she said without looking up from her desk, which guarded the entrance to Cedric’s office. She looked like a peacock in her purple dress, lash of red lipstick and bony beak of a nose.

Nathan stepped forward. He had no time for this.

Florence shot up. ‘He’s just been on the phone with George.’

‘Let me through.’

‘He’s not in a good mood.’

‘Nor am I.’ Nathan weaved past her.

‘Hey. You can’t—’

Nathan flung the door open.

Cedric was standing in front of a white board next to his desk. He swivelled round, black marker pen in hand, eyebrow raised. His tie was loose and his sleeves rolled up. He had a stubble on his chubby face and dark flabby bags under his eyes.

‘What the hell’s going on, Cedric?’ Nathan said.

‘And good morning to you too.’ Cedric gestured to Florence, who was huffing and puffing in the doorway. ‘It’s okay, Flo. I’ll deal with it.’

She backed out. Nathan gave a reverse kick that banged the door shut so hard the wall vibrated.

‘Did you hear the radio?’

‘Nathan, have a seat.’

‘No.’

‘Lower your voice. Let’s discuss this reasonably.’

‘You were the anonymous source blaming me.’ Nathan jabbed a finger. ‘And you’re telling me to be reasonable?’

‘You sure you don’t want to sit down?’ Cedric tugged off his tie and threw it onto the back of his leather chair. ‘You look knackered.’

Nathan stayed standing.

Cedric shrugged. ‘Would you like a cuppa?’ He walked over to a coffee machine on a small table in a corner. ‘My wife got me this contraption for my birthday last week. Fifty-five already. Would you imagine that? Shame you weren’t around for the party. You’d have enjoyed it.’ He fiddled around with the buttons. ‘Can’t for the life of me figure out how this works, though. Ah, here you go.’

Steam erupted from the machine like from a volcano.

Cedric backed off. ‘Hmm. That’s not right.’ He touched another button. The machine gurgled.

Nathan felt the anger seeping away from him. Cedric had a way of defusing situations that was annoyingly effective at times.

‘Here, let me do it,’ Nathan said.

‘Ah, thanks.’

‘We’ve got the same one at home.’

Nathan poured two cups of coffee. He handed one to Cedric, who went to sit at his desk. He looked at Nathan over the rim of the mug. Nathan sank into the armchair and rubbed his eyes.

‘How’s Caitlin?’

‘Fine.’

They stared at each other.

‘The anonymous source wasn’t me,’ Cedric said eventually.

‘So who then?

Cedric shrugged. ‘Tell me what happened.’

Nathan recounted the events surrounding Tony’s death. Cedric looked away, as though deep in thought.

‘Nathan, I’m sorry about all this.’

‘Is Amonite the boss?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘But you know more than you’re willing to tell me, don’t you?’

‘I can’t really explain at the moment.’

Nathan shook his head wearily. ‘Has the mission to Colombia been approved?’

‘I’m working on it. You have to trust me.’

‘Does George want another failed investigation?’

‘I’m not sure he thinks in those terms. He’s a politician. A careerist. Quite the opposite to you.’

A thought struck Nathan. ‘Was he the anonymous source?’

‘I wouldn’t dare speculate.’

Cedric glanced at his computer. He raised a finger. ‘Just a sec.’ His eyebrows furrowed and his face darkened as he read something on his screen.

Nathan sipped his coffee and looked around the office. It was bland and functional, with no windows, just grey walls and the desk. No family pictures, no children’s drawings, no awards. Typical of Cedric’s self-effaced manner. The white board had a spidergram scribbled on it, with names of key crime bosses circled and linked to each other by lines like a web.

‘Good to see you’re using my mapping technique.’ Nathan pointed. ‘Amonite not up there?’

Cedric shook his head.

‘Why not?’

Cedric looked past Nathan and was about to say something when Nathan spoke over him: ‘I can’t believe you’re letting George walk all over you like this.’

‘Did someone mention my name?’ said a clipped voice behind them.

Nathan spun round. There, in the doorway, was Sir George, tall, straight-backed, shark-eyed, smirking.

‘Well, well, well.’ He glided towards them. ‘It’s our star agent. I hear you’ve been causing trouble again.’

Nathan picked up a paper clip from the desk and fiddled with it. He felt like punching the smirk right through George’s smug face. George bent closer, revealing wrinkles on his forehead that even the rumoured face-lifts couldn’t hide.

‘What do you have to say in your defence?’ he said.

‘I didn’t realise I was on trial.’

George turned to Cedric. ‘Have you told him?’

‘Told me what?’ Nathan looked from one to the other.

‘Tell him, Cedric.’

‘I’m really sorry, Nathan.’ Cedric’s shoulders sagged. ‘You’re suspended.’

‘What?’

‘We’re investigating your responsibility in the attempted murder of Steve Willinston,’ George said with a triumphant smile.

Cedric twisted the computer screen round and pointed to an email entitled: ‘Nathan Kershner investigation.’ There was a long list of bullet points with phrases such as ‘errors of judgement’ and ‘disciplinary measures’ in bold and underlined.

Nathan felt like he’d been whacked in the stomach. Weeks of fatigue mixed with anger and shock, tightening his throat, drying his mouth, clouding his mind. Suddenly, he felt certain that George had leaked the news to the BBC. He gritted his teeth in frustration.

George was speaking to Cedric: ‘I want this investigation into Mr Kershner to be a top priority.’

Cedric stammered a reply. Nathan reached over to the keyboard and scrolled through the email, trying to focus on the words.

According to reports from Islington police station, Nathan Kershner and Steve Willinston were seen arguing over whether to storm the crack house that very night. Mr Willinston wanted to wait for the next day, but Mr Kershner was persistent. He was putting undue pressure on Mr Willinston, who eventually relented and reluctantly went with Mr Kershner.

 

‘What the hell’s this?’ Nathan said.

George turned to Nathan. ‘You stay out of this.’

‘It’s a pack of lies.’

‘Nathan, please,’ Cedric said, his eyes pleading.

‘It’s bullshit. I’m telling you, it’s the complete opposite to what happened.’

‘Keep your dog on a leash and come to see me later,’ George snapped at Cedric. Then he spun on his heels and marched out of the office, the door easing shut behind him. Nathan got up to go after him.

‘Stay here,’ Cedric said. ‘You’ll just get into more trouble.’

Nathan turned to face him. ‘I just explained to you what really happened. You have to believe me.’

They looked at each other. A bead of sweat trickled down Cedric’s cheek.

‘Meet me on Leicester Square in an hour,’ Cedric said, pulling a file of papers from the top drawer of his desk. ‘And read this.’

On the cover sheet were two words.

Black Coke.

Central London, UK
11 April 2011

‘N
ate?’ It was a message from Caitlin. ‘Where are you? Can you call me, please?’

Nathan dialled back, but went straight onto Caitlin’s voicemail. He pressed ahead through the winding pathways of St James’s Park. Children were chucking pebbles into a pond, screeching with delight as the ducks quacked back. Their tired mother uttered half-hearted reprimands from a bench nearby, next to a passed-out tramp clutching a half empty bottle of red wine.

Caitlin was probably organising his love life again.

He shrugged. He had more pressing worries at the moment. George’s behaviour was so blatant it was as if he thought he was above suspicion. Nathan remembered something one of his colleagues had whispered with a sly smile at George’s welcome drinks. About George leaving Colombia ‘under a cloud’ in the early nineties. Nathan had ignored it as just one of the many malicious rumours that always seemed to follow senior law enforcement officials throughout their career. Maybe he needed to dig around some more.

He arrived at Leicester Square. Children were running around, chasing pigeons. Dreadlocked Rastafarians banged on bongos. Tourists huddled at cafe tables, sipping sparkling mineral water and espressos. Nathan slumped into a chair at an outside terrace and turned up his collar against the cold. He rubbed the fatigue from his eyes and smoothed out his crinkled jacket, the fury of the past few hours still boiling inside him. He ordered a black coffee, yanked the folder from his rucksack and flicked it open to the executive summary.

Black Coke (street name)
Expected classification: A
Lab results: Black Coke is a benzolmethylecgonine (cocaine) derivative made from genetically-enhanced Erythroxylon coca, the traditional coca leaf. Design involves using a cauliflower mosaic virus to insert foreign DNA into the coca plants. Following infection, the virus spreads rapidly throughout the plant’s cells and modifies them. The result is a psychoactive substance of unprecedented potency.

 

Nathan speed-read the rest. The lab techies estimated the Black Coke plant could grow ten times faster than a traditional coca plant and in just about any soil. It was resistant to herbicides, making Colombia’s crop eradication programme useless. It was odourless, which meant sniffer dogs used by border police didn’t stand a chance in hell.

Nathan skipped the chemical explanation and turned to the drug’s effects on the brain.

Rats injected with Black Coke exhibited a fifteen-fold increase in compulsive drug-taking behaviour compared to our control group. Our hypothesis is that Black Coke affects the dopamine, serotonin and opioid neuroreceptors, although we have yet to elucidate how this takes place. This generates psychoactive symptoms similar to taking crack, heroin and methamphetamine at the same time, and then boosting that with a huge dose of steroids.

 

Nathan thought back to the addicts in the crack house. They’d been more wired than any other junkies he’d ever met. He leaned back in his chair, the morning’s events fading, his investigative senses tingling.

‘A good read, eh?’

Cedric was drawing an empty chair towards the table.