Watching You Chapters Twenty-Five and Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Five

 

Black’s denims were filthy, dyed the same liquid brown as the canal. They no longer felt soggy, but his legs stung as though he’d ploughed through an acre of nettles.

He’d felt the heat, granted it hadn’t come with the intensity he was accustomed to, and he’d had no vision. It could all be unproductive imagination on his part, but he’d chance it anyway. He knew what he was risking by going back there, but he had to do what he could to convince her.

He had no radio now with which to connect, but he knew the location well enough. He’d been briefed on all key locations before his assignment. He’d never visited it for fear of blowing his cover.

Now that didn’t matter anymore.

Of course, it was preposterous to think she’d believe him or even listen. She’d caught him on screen often enough; to her, he’d be just another junkie and street dosser. But he had this thing called conscience, and he had to live with it, and it wouldn’t allow him any other option.

Black glanced at his watch, nine-thirty. The gold, wind-up LeCoultre given to him by his grandmother was still working, though he didn’t need it to tell him what time it was. As he stood with his hands on the railings of the iron footbridge, it was approaching dusk; the sun was a golden medicine ball glowing low in the sky, but to the north, clouds were gathering.

North was the direction he needed to travel to reach his destination within a few hours. He had no money; he looked every part the street layabout he’d portrayed these last few months, and he’d no ID.

But there was a way, though only desperation demanded that he take it.

He’d need to be firm; they would ask questions that he couldn’t answer.

Black crossed the footbridge to the south bank of the canal. The ground was less bleak here, and as he followed the towpath, the factories and warehouses gave way to recreation land – kids playing football, dog walkers looking at him as though he were from another planet.

That was exactly how it felt to him.

He needed a phone box, now something of a rarity; this wasn’t the area he’d expect to find one in, so he took a diagonal tarmac path across the rec, ignoring the jibes of the kids. Streets lay at its far boundary, a narrow, claustrophobic network of damp-looking terraces huddled together. Home from home this – it was what he’d become used to over the past few years.

He found a phone box at a crossroads, its windows shattered, but he didn’t give a toss about that. It was the equipment inside he was interested in. The dial tone told him it was working.

‘Reverse charge call.’ Black gave the number. ‘Advise them the caller is Inspector Carl Withers.’

A gruff voice accepted the call, ‘Withers. Where have you been?’

‘The job’s almost done; you boys’ll soon have all the evidence you need. But I need to speak to Preston, urgently.’

‘He’s gone home.’

‘Have him ring me here …’ Black rattled out the booth number.

There was a pause. ‘What’s all this about, Withers … the commander doesn’t like to be disturbed at home.’

‘I know that.’ Black gritted his teeth, heard the first spots of rain on the kiosk roof, ‘Like I say, it’s urgent …look, I’m following procedure. If you don’t comply, I’ll call him myself, and you’ll suffer the consequences.’

He heard a grunt. ‘It had better be good.’

Black replaced the receiver and shook his head. Desk-bound Jacobs was the last person he wanted to contend with in the Special Operations room. He hadn’t been on an assignment in years, ought to have been pensioned off, but of course, the longer he hung it out, the fatter that pension got. And all the time, he doled out orders as though he were king of his own private castle.

He drummed his fingers on the coin box, heard the rain intensify, and saw a group of youths hurrying for cover. Funny how nobody liked the rain; all it did was get you wet.

The phone rang; he snatched it up.

‘Carl, what’s going on. I was getting ready to send the troops in …’

‘And risk the operation, Commander?’

‘You were told to take no undue risks, and it’s been fourteen days since we’ve heard, now what’s going on?’

Black sighed, watched the rain getting heavier, felt it on his denims as it blasted through the shattered window. ‘I’ve been gathering the information you need, that’s what’s been going on, and in a couple of days, you’ll have it first-hand.’ He drew breath. ‘Firstly, Commander, I need a favour …’

Silence, and then, ‘Go on …’

‘I’m somewhere in North West London.’

‘I gather that from the number I dialled; what the hell are you doing there?’

‘I haven’t time to explain. I need to return to Cumberton, urgently, i.e., I need a car. I reckon I’m pretty close to Paddington Green nick.’

‘Oh, I see. You need a car, just like that.’

Black rapped his fist on the cashbox, heard the coins rattle, ‘It’s urgent, Commander. You have the authority. You can pull a few strings. I’ll explain later.’

‘You’d better.’

The line went dead. Black took it that his request would be complied with. The inquisition would follow later, though Preston wasn’t a bad old bastard when you compared him with Jacobs.

Black made his way due west for about ten minutes until he reached a dual carriageway. The first signpost he came across told him Paddington was three miles ahead. He gave a sigh of relief and checked his watch.

***

Commander John Preston had good contacts at Paddington Green, as he was sure Carl Withers, alias Black, was aware. His request had been granted with little formality. He replaced the receiver in its mounting and looked out across his lovingly tended rear garden.

Preston had the feeling that it wasn’t just a drug bust that Withers had wrapped himself up in. It wouldn’t be the first time he been engaged in some kind of spin-off. Withers was a good officer with first-rate credentials, but he was a loner and a damned strange man.

He was tempted to have him followed.

 

 

Chapter Twenty-Six

 

Main Man rolled himself a joint; he needed something stronger than a cigarette right now. The real heavy stuff wasn’t his forte, even though he’d helped create a small empire dealing in it.

That empire was now in jeopardy. His three most trusted men had loused up big time. The copper was on the loose. It looked like curtains; time to cut and run.

But not necessarily. All might not be lost.

He was sitting upstairs. A small claustrophobic box room in an isolated pub where he’d conducted much of his business. The room overlooked a gravelled car park, deserted on a gloomy summer evening, apart from his own car.

The rain-drenched windows were suddenly illuminated by the headlights of a vehicle. As it swung into the car park, he heard the sound of spinning tyres on loose stone and the rapid slam of car doors.

Main Man got up, walked to the window, saw Winter and Dickson hurriedly entering by the main doors. He heard the sound of their shoes on the creaking stairs; within a couple of seconds, they were in the room, facing his anger.

He gestured towards a couple of wooden chairs in front of his desk. ‘Sit down.’

Winter shot Dickson an anxious glance, and Main Man hissed through his teeth, ‘I said sit down. What the hell went wrong? How the fuck did you louse up?’

Winter looked at Main Man, found it difficult to keep his gaze steady; the naked light bulb served only to enhance the glare in his eye. ‘It was Reilly boss.’

‘Reilly, yeah, course it was.’ Main Man flicked ash from his roll-up, inhaled again deeply, kept his stare on Winter.  ‘He had the Smith & Wesson levelled at Black’s head, but too close, the cunt pulled out his radio, he struck the gun …’

‘Save me the gory details. I’ve heard enough.’ Main Man turned away. Across the road, the willows lining the fens were bowing in the semi-darkness. ‘What did you do with the body?’

‘Bottom of the canal boss,’ Dickson said, ‘sacked and weighted down with stone. The same as what would have happened to Black. The only way they’ll ever find Reilly’s body is when they come to dredge the canal if they ever do.’

‘The same as what would have happened to Black,’ Main Man swung round, ‘and I suppose you two were blameless in this fiasco, eh?’

‘We couldn’t do nothing, boss, the gun went off and …’ Winter caught his breath, ‘it all happened so quick …’

‘But you let Black escape.’ Main Man hurled the joint at a tin-foil ashtray, strode across, and placed his fists on the table. ‘In my book, that makes you as guilty as him.’

‘He dived into the canal, boss; the last we saw of him. For all we know, he could be dead …’

‘Except that he isn’t.’ Main Man scowled, watched Winter’s mouth drop open, saw him glance nervously at Dickson.

‘Then we’re done for … the game’s up. Time to run while the going’s good …’ Dickson shifted his burly frame in the chair, began to rise.

‘Sit down – nobody’s running anywhere!’ Main Man’s hand thumped into Dickson’s chest, sending him reeling, overturning the chair.

‘Fuck you.’ Dickson got to his feet, brushed dust from his tartan shirt. Main Man glowered, raised his heavy eyebrows. ‘Want to try me, Dickson?’

Dickson stood motionless, clenched his jaw, sat down without taking his eyes off Main Man, muttering something beneath his breath.

‘Now listen to me. Black could have cut and run, but he hasn’t, no thanks to you.’

‘I don’t understand.’ Winter, pale and thin, fiddled in his chair like a cat on a tinder roof.

Main Man sighed, threw himself into a chair, stared at the pair from across the desk, and slapped his fist into the palm of his left hand. ‘I don’t get it myself; he’s done enough to turn us in, but for some reason, he’s asked for time. He’s coming back. Now why in hell’s name would he do that when he could blow us wide open, that’s what I want to know.’

Main Man looked from Winter to Dickson. Dickson at least showed none of Winter’s edginess, but both men shrugged.

He thrust the roll-up into his mouth, lit it, the fingers of his free hand drumming on the table, eyes travelling from one to the other. ‘You’ve got a chance to redeem yourselves. Mr Withers, for whatever reason, has given us a second chance to nail him. You, plus a couple of others, are going to be my eyes, you understand? And they’d better be damned good eyes. Just remember, none of us wants to go down.’

Winter glanced at Dickson, jerked his head back to Main Man, ‘You said Withers.’

Main Man nodded, rocked back in his chair, tapped ash from his cigarette, more casually. ‘Alias Carl Black, not the street dosser you know him as. Whitehall-based, aged twenty-seven, hails from Tunbridge Wells, reached the rank of inspector at age twenty-four, would you believe. Could have gone right to the top, but he doesn’t co-operate it seems. He’s a bit of a loner, our Mr Withers, works on his own. That was why he was sent here.’

Light from the single bulb reflected on Dickson’s creased brow. ‘How come your contact knows so much?’

‘That’s best known just by me.’ Main Man allowed himself a faint smile, though it soon vanished.

What his contact didn’t know was why Withers was returning.

That was what bothered and intrigued him the most.