The Informant
Authors: Susan Wilkins
Tags: #Fiction, #Crime, #Thrillers, #Mystery & Detective, #General
For Sue, who makes it all possible and Jenny and Andy, who make it all worthwhile.
REGULATION OF INVESTIGATORY POWERS ACT 2000
Section 26(8)
a person is a
COVERT HUMAN INTELLIGENCE SOURCE (CHIS)
if—
(a) he establishes or maintains a personal or other relationship with a person for the covert purpose of facilitating the doing of anything falling within paragraph (b) or
(c);
(b) he covertly uses such a relationship to obtain information or to provide access to any information to another person; or
(c) he covertly discloses information obtained by the use of such a relationship, or as a consequence of the existence of such a relationship.
Seeing them go, that’s what really did it for Joey. The moment of death, if he could just glimpse it. But the eyes had to be open; he liked it best when the pupils were
wide with terror. Then, one click, the screen went blank. They were gone and that vacant stare shot through him like two hundred and fifty volts. Better than crack, better than charlie, way better
than shagging. It was the ultimate hit. It was the power. Game over, you’d won. They were meat, you were the butcher.
Joey stood over Marlow, nerve ends zinging, his cock stirring in anticipation. Marlow fingered his broken nose, blood dripped onto the concrete floor. Joey unclenched his fist, rubbed his
knuckles. He was in no hurry. He enjoyed a bit of foreplay.
‘So you gonna tell me the truth now?’
Marlow looked up at him, trying to gauge his mood. He had to make his next words count.
‘Seriously Joe, what is this about? Someone’s got their wires crossed here.’
Joey smiled. He seemed relaxed, unconcerned even.
‘You reckon?’
Built like a bruiser, face like an angel, Joey Phelps had charm to spare. Even as a small boy he had drawn people to him; those hypnotic baby-blue eyes under thick sandy lashes, his quirky
smile. Joey reached into his jeans pocket, pulled out a neat wedge of folded tissues, squatted down beside Marlow.
‘Here. Clean yourself up.’
Marlow took the tissues warily, wincing as he pressed them to his nose.
Straightening up, Joey thrust both hands in his pockets and took a leisurely turn about the lock-up. The night air seeping under the door was chilly and dank. He gazed up at the vaulted arch of
the ceiling, row upon row of blackened bricks, laid maybe a hundred and fifty years before to carry the railway from the smoke to the suburbs. Joey peered around; he knew he could take his time,
savour his power.
‘Look at this place. You ever think about the blokes that built the railways?’
The remark hung in the air. Marlow glanced from Joey to Ashley. Ashley, as usual, was waiting on Joey’s next move. He was picking his teeth. He’d seen some actor do this in a clip
from an old film he’d streamed, thought it looked cool.
‘All them millions of bricks to lay. Now
that
was grafting.’
Marlow eased himself up into a sitting position and rested his back against the wall. He could feel the dampness through his shirt; icy cold, it seeped through his flesh, chilling him to the
heart. He knew that Joey was toying with him. He’d suspected for almost a week now that his cover had been blown. But when Joey and Ashley had called for him that evening, full of laddish
high spirits, his fears had been allayed. They’d been clubbing, done a couple of lines, had a few beers. They were going on to a party, some soap actress Joey had been shagging. Then Joey
announced he needed to make a quick stop.
Marlow cursed his own stupidity, he really should’ve guessed. He was twenty-nine years old, he had parents, retired now to Swanage, two older sisters. How would they cope with all this?
Should he cry? Should he beg? He sucked in a few deep breaths to calm himself; exhaust fumes from the nearby main road, rancid fat from the kebab shop on the corner. The smells of London were
suddenly all there, flooding his senses in both reality and in memory. And he was sure of one thing: he didn’t want to die.
‘Listen Joe, I dunno what lying bastard’s been telling tales about me, but—’
The silver toecap of Joey’s handmade boot caught him squarely in the temple. His head jarred with the impact and ricocheted back against the wall. Joey gazed at him calmly.
‘The Net’s a wonderful thing, innit? I got a couple of illegals who’re dead clever with all that. Hack into anything. They hacked into your file . . . Detective Sergeant. A
Commissioner’s commendation. Ash was impressed. Weren’t you Ash?’
Ashley, intent on quarrying with his toothpick, simply nodded. Dazed from the blow, Marlow lurched forward and vomited on the floor. Joey watched, a smile of amusement and expectation spreading
across his face, as if he were waiting for the punchline to a joke.
‘You ain’t gonna deny it then?’
Marlow wiped a shaky hand across his mouth, raised his head slowly. His gaze was watery but unflinching.
‘You’re a psycho Phelps. A real nut-job.’
‘Yeah?’ Joey laughed. ‘Hear that Ash? I’m a nut-job.’
Ashley slipped the toothpick in his pocket, glanced at Joey, the blue eyes shining iridescent, sweat beading on his upper lip. Joey smiled.
‘Nah mate, you’re the sucker here. No one plays me.’
Ashley pulled a pair of vinyl gloves from the back pocket of his jeans and calmly drew them on. Now it was really going to kick off. Joey selected a tyre iron from the tools on the workbench,
weighed it in his hand. Marlow swallowed hard, glanced at the door and the tantalizing chink of neon beyond; it was worth a shot.
As Marlow scrabbled to his feet Joey slammed the tyre iron down on top of his skull, cracking it open. He lifted the iron and blood gushed up over splintered bone and the ruptured pearlescent
membrane of the cerebral cortex. Joey seized Marlow’s jaw, twisted the face round to look right at him – the eyelids drooped. Marlow had already slipped into unconsciousness. Joey shook
him with frustration. He wanted to see, but it was too late. Shoving him away Joey took another couple of swings. Ashley watched in annoyance. He was going to have to clean this lot up. He
huffed.
‘Yeah all right. I think that’s done the trick.’
Joey paused and turned. Ashley caught a look of feral rage and quickly stepped back. Joey’s breathing was fast and shallow. His heart thumped. He closed his eyes. Ashley had seen this
enough times before, yet still he never knew how to react. He focused on the blood puddling out round the lumps and bumps in the concrete.
‘I’ll get them bin bags out the car, shall I?’
Joey ignored him, the tyre iron clattering to the floor. He let his arms hang loose. He inhaled slowly. His shoulders sagged as the tension in his muscles slackened. Ashley stood rooted to the
spot; he wasn’t going to risk the noise of the door. After a couple of moments Joey opened his eyes. Ashley held his breath then Joey grinned broadly.
‘Fuck me, what a blast!’
Ashley’s nerves evaporated. He grinned too and laughed. ‘Yeah! Wow!’
Joey filled his lungs, hooted with joy. ‘Fucking bastards! They think they can get me. Send all the fucking shit-eating filth you like. I’m Joey Fucking Phelps. And you’ll
never
get me!’
A pair of brown eyes stared directly at Kaz. Not solid brown, more muddy spiked with flecks of amber. The look itself was harder to read; some anger, resentment certainly, but
behind that a void, a hollow of despair.
Kaz returned the look with her own searching gaze. Then she selected a pencil from the battered tin box, a 2B, she always started with a 2B. Opening the sketchbook to a fresh page she rapidly
plotted out the main features. The eyes first. Her hand moved across the sheet of one-twenty gram cartridge with practised assurance. Her own eyes darted from the face in front of her down to the
drawing and back again.
Yasmin’s brow furrowed.
‘Dunno why you don’t just take a picture.’
‘This is better. You see more.’
The contours of the head, the nose, the planes of the cheek were quickly taking shape. Kaz paused and forced herself to look harder. She was missing something. Was it in the angle of the chin?
Somewhere deep in the gene pool below the whores and the drug mules, the servants and slaves, there lurked a Nubian princess, mistress of all she surveyed. And that pride was still there in the
tilt of Yasmin’s battered jaw. Kaz smiled to herself, adjusted the line.
A key clanked in the lock and the cell door swung open. A prison officer stood there. It was Fat Pat. A short bundle of venom, she’d always had it in for Kaz.
‘You ready then Phelps?’
Kaz closed the sketchbook and slipped it with the tin of pencils into the plastic carrier at her feet. She stood up and smiled awkwardly at Yasmin. Yasmin rose stiffly and opened her arms.
‘Be lucky babe . . .’
Kaz stepped into the hug.
‘You be out yourself soon.’
‘Yeah and he be there waiting for me. Nah, I’m better off where I am. Least I got no broken bones.’
Fat Pat marched Kaz down the corridor. Being escorted was an all too familiar routine: walk in front, wait, the body odour and rasping Lycra as Pat waddled along behind. Kaz
stopped at the door to the block and stood aside for Pat to unlock it. She towered over Pat by at least five inches. At first the daily sessions in the gym had been an outlet for her pent-up rage.
Later it had become part of her discipline, the way forward, the way out. At twenty-five she was certainly the fittest she’d ever been; more importantly she was four years clean and sober.
And she planned to stay that way.
Pat glared up at her. Kaz returned the look with a steady gaze.
‘Y’know Phelps, you may fool the shrinks, your offender manager and the parole board. But you don’t fool me. You’re pure evil. Clever, I’ll give you that. But
underneath it all, evil.’
‘Well you know better than any of them, don’t you Pat? All them smarmy gits with degrees that get paid shedloads more than you.’
Kaz could see Pat rising to the bait, she always did. Her neck flushed, her cheeks reddened.
‘The Lord will smite thee Phelps! He will cast down the ungodly into the pit of hell!’
‘What’s that bit in the Bible, Pat? Something about more joy in heaven over one sinner that repents? You should check it out.’
Pat’s eyes glistened with hate.
‘You’ll be back on crack in a week. You won’t be able to help yourself.’
