My Name Is Not Jacob Ramsay (12 page)

"Well, it looked like your tip came off for us, Jacob. Aziza Dodi or Nadifa Dodi or whoever the heck she is was rounded up in her flat. She had a load of Apple Macs and laptops and iPods and a shit load of stolen goods. She's been charged," stated Crowe, in the undercover police officers' vehicle, parked in Greenwich Park. Crowe counted out seven hundred pounds in twenty-pound notes in front of Michael, who was on a back seat.

Michael's eyes were wide and he couldn't help but smile.

"We just need a Jacob Ramsay signature."

Michael walked briskly down a darkened section of a stairwell, deep within the school. His mobile phone pressed hard against one ear.

"It's Jacob. Jacob Ramsay. I've just overheard a conversation in the playground from one our new lads. He's a T-Blok member. Heard him on the phone talking about meeting up in Stockwell to get even with a gang up there. Apparently there's about twenty to thirty of them. On a bus. Heading from Blackheath."

"We arrested and charged eleven of your guys on a bus near the Oval tube station. All of them were carrying knives, baseball bats, one gun and a replica firearm. That gets you about this much, I'd say," stated Crowe as he counted out six hundred and fifty pounds, sitting next to Michael in the back of the Volkswagen undercover vehicle.

Michael locked himself within a cubicle, somewhere in the staff toilets of the school. He talked quietly into his phone.

"Hi, it's Jacob Ramsay. I've learned of a gang of girls who sit at cashpoints. ATMs. They beg to people as they withdraw cash. I was told they have a baby, but I know for certain that they don't. The baby is just a bundle of blankets. These girls are dangerous. They follow the person whose cash has just been withdrawn from the machine and literally set upon them like a pack of wolves. One girl definitely has to be watched. I have her name and address here. You ready?"

"That girl you mentioned a few months ago? The one who sits at cash machines? You know she's now up for murder?" replied Crowe, handing over some cash to Michael, sitting on the back seat of the Volkswagen, in Blackheath railway station car park.

"Murder?"

"Yeah," said Cole.

"She pushed a girl off a high-rise," added Crowe.

"Wow. No way?" blurted Michael.

"She was arrested in the act. Silly girl attempted to mug a plain clothes copper."

"Wow!" exclaimed Michael again, with surprise.

"Oh, she's a real nut job. She spat at the magistrate."

Michael walked across the school playground, heading towards a row of wooden huts. He stepped round behind one, pulling out his mobile. He scrolled to his 'Favourites' list and pressed a number. "Hi, it's Jacob Ramsay. There's this Nigerian boy at the school. He's fairly new to us. He didn't make it on that bus that day to Stockwell. He was mates with all those others, but he was too fat to run for the bus. Anyway, that doesn't make him any less dangerous because he's bad. Seriously, he's really bad. He carries this comb. He has cut the teeth of the plastic comb so it's an easier grip. Fashioned it like a knife. The end of the comb is a long, pointed length of metal. Yeah, that's right: it's an Afro comb. A spike. He carries this around in school, out of school, but that's not all. He's got access to a flat or a house. He uses it to sell drugs, weigh drugs and erm... I'm pretty sure it's a brothel. The boy is fourteen years old. The house... The house is, erm... It's either number forty-five or forty-nine and the address is... You ready? OK, it's..."

Time had passed quickly from their first meeting six months ago.

Michael had received several thousand pounds from the detectives.

"You're definitely one of our top guys," stated Crowe, in the passenger seat of the Volkswagen undercover vehicle.

"Yeah, I enjoy your company. Love to hear the school stories," chirped Cole, sitting behind the wheel as usual.

"Thanks, guys," replied Michael, sliding a wad of cash into his wallet.

"Ya might need an elastic band to secure that," Crowe laughed, gesturing to Michael's bulging wallet. "We were wondering if you're around of an evening."

"When?" asked Michael.

"Oh, I dunno," muttered Crowe.

"This Thursday or Friday, if you want," said Cole.

"Just a couple of hours in the car, driving around the streets with us and Jo," Crowe said.

"We know it's late notice, but if you can manage this Thursday, that'd be great," elaborated Cole.

"Nobody will see you. You'll be in this or a similar car. All tinted glass and all that jazz," continued Crowe.

"What would you like me to do at night?" inquired Michael, curiously and with a touch of wariness.

"Well, we'll be driving around Woolwich and Charlton and if you see anyone you know, just say so and we'll call a uniform car to go pick them up," answered Crowe.

"Pick them up for what?" Michael asked.

"I dunno. Search them. Random. Procedure," Cole said.

"So what do you say?" asked Crowe, turning round.

"Can I call you later?"

Rebecca sipped a glass of Rioja as she sat on the sofa, looking at Michael who was staring into nothingness.

"What's up?" she asked him.

"I met up with the undercovers today," he replied.

"Yeah, I know. You told me."

"They asked if I would go out one evening with them."

"What, like a drink? When?" Rebecca asked him.

"No, not a drink. A drive."

"In a police car? With flashing lights and stuff?"

"Ah, no, but kind of. It'll be in their undercover car," he explained to her.

"So, what would you be doing in it? Just driving around?" she asked him, sipping her wine, intrigued.

"I think so. They've asked if I'll point out anybody I recognise, gang-wise."

"Well, if you don't want to do it, don't. When do they want you to go out with them?"

"Thursday," Michael replied.

"That's OK because I'll be out with Steph. What will you do for food?"

"Huh? I don't know." Food wasn't on Michael's mind at all.

"Whether you're out with them or not, you'd best eat something decent," she insisted, swallowing her last mouthful of red wine and eyeing up the half empty bottle on the table.

"Of course I will," Michael said, refilling Rebecca's glass.

"Whatever you decide, just be careful, OK?" She kissed him with her red-wine-stained lips upon his, instantly putting him at ease with his thoughts.

Thursday came around all too quickly for Michael. He felt a mixture of excitement and anxiety, which wasn't at all an equal balance. Angst was tipping his see-saw of emotion within his mind as he waited on the corner of Luxor Street, off Cold Harbour Lane where he lived.

The streets were darkening. Despite it being his home turf, it wasn't really a place for someone to be just standing still on a street corner.

"Excuse me, I've been attacked. Help me."

Michael jolted, turning to see a young white woman beside him.

She was wearing what at first appeared to be a new white knee-length coat. Across the bridge of her nose was a cut. Bleeding.

Michael took a step back, looking her up and down, assessing her in 'body blocks' like The Terminator.

"Are you going to help me? I've been attacked by my boyfriend. He took all my money and I can't get home. Look at me! This isn't a scam. I'm tired and I need to get home and sort this out," she said, in a fairly well-spoken tone.

"I'll take you to the police station," Michael responded quickly.

"No. No, I've been there. They're too busy to see me," she snapped.

"What? That's crazy. Your face is bleeding. We should go to a hospital or something," Michael said.

"No. I just need to get home first. If you have twenty pounds for a taxi, I'll be most grateful," she continued.

"It's a scam, mate," came another voice into Michael's ear.

He turned to see a guy in a suit striding past him.

"It's not a bloody scam! That's my boyfriend there!" yelled the young woman, pointing at the passing man. 

Michael curled his lip, turning to see the man round a corner. He eyed the woman up and down again, very quickly.

Her fingernails were stubby, dirty, with scratched hands. One earlobe looked like a forked tongue where an earring had once been and no doubt ripped out a long time before. Underneath her new coat was a filthy looking T-shirt. Her shoes were scuffed, with a hole in the side of one of them. She was obviously homeless.

"You should go to a hospital. I can walk you to the station where there'll be First Aid, but I'm not giving you any money," Michael said, with sympathy.

Her eyes were trance-like. Beaten, defeated, like misted glass. Drugged. "Oh great! Screw you! That's all anybody says!" spouted the woman, marching off into the darkness.

Michael turned and caught sight of headlamps flaring once. It was a parked car. The undercover car. Parked in Michael's road. He made his way to it, opened the door and clambered into the back.

"Who was that you were chatting to back there?" asked Cole with a smirk on his face, glancing up at Michael in the rear view mirror.

"Yeah, looked a real treat. Hope it wasn't your girlfriend," chipped Crowe, turning round with an extended, welcoming hand.

"Either that or I hope your girlfriend doesn't find out about her," mocked Cole.

Michael shook the hands of Crowe and Cole and buckled up his seatbelt.

"Seatbelt occasionally slips. You'll bust your pelvis, but at least you won't crack your face in the windscreen. How was your day, OK?" asked Crowe, as Cole pulled the car into Cold Harbour Lane.

"Exhausting." Michael peered out of the tinted window to the street as they passed the young woman in the white coat talking to another passer-by.

"More vile kids telling you to F off, eh?" Crowe gazed out of the window.

"Yeah, pretty much," said Michael, relaxing.

"So how d'you feel about this evening?" Cole asked.

"There's really nothing to worry about, Jacob. We do this thing pretty often and we really appreciate your time," explained Crowe.

"No problem." Michael's eyes glazed over with sheer nervousness, as Crowe passed the usual black folder that contained sheets of CCTV images and photographs of a mixed bunch of teen criminals, encased in clear plastic sleeves.

"Let me know if you spot anybody you recognise."

"We're on our way to pick Jo up. Shouldn't be long."

The undercover police vehicle zipped up Denmark Hill, passing King's College Hospital and The Maudsley, the psychiatric hospital. They turned into Champion Park, then Grove Lane and into Dog Kennel Hill, passing East Dulwich Rail Station, into Grove Vale and East Dulwich Road.

"Do you ever drive this way to work?" asked Crowe.

"No. Never," replied Michael, peering out of his window.

"It'll cut about fifteen to twenty minutes off your journey," Crowe continued.

Michael nodded his head, taking it in. "Where does this lead us?" he asked.

"This'll take us through Brockley." Cole slowed to stop at the lights at the Peckham Rye junction.

"More bloody flowers, Malcolm." Cole indicated to a large collection of flowers tied to a lamppost at the corner of the opposite side of the road.

"Yeah, I think it was a lorry. Sometime in the week. Poor kid," nodded Crowe.

The vehicle scrolled along Drakefell Road. There were a lot of speed-humps as they headed uphill toward Malpas Road and into Brockley.

Brockley was once a very affluent town. The rich and powerful built factories and large houses there during the early nineteenth century and, for over a hundred years afterwards, it was an incredibly wealthy part of town. However, soon after the end of World War One, the area lost its exclusivity and residents relocated elsewhere. The German V2 rocket made the town a target during World War Two. After the war and into the early nineteen fifties, the large houses of yesteryear were divided up into flats and made ideal accommodation for the arrivals of Caribbean people setting up home in the new-build council blocks and neighbouring Deptford. Once regarded as a low-rent and somewhat deprived area of London, with an increasing crime-rate, Brockley was now very much an up and coming part of town, with the large Victorian houses once again being inhabited by young professionals and well-off families.

"Well, this has certainly changed over the years, eh?" said Cole, passing down the aptly named Friendly Street.

"Used to be a right hole. Still a few gangs round here though, mate," responded Crowe, glancing round to Michael with a smile. 

Stopping at the lights at Brookmill Road, the door suddenly opened, causing Michael to jolt with shock. Detective Jo Blake clambered inside next to him and smiled.