The Crime Trade

By

Simon Kernick

When Operation Surgical Strike goes tragically wrong, suspicion quickly falls on one of the police officers involved: 'Stegs' Jenner. Stegs is no ordinary cop. Something of a maverick, he has in the past played the role of a criminal
just a little too well. Now suspended from duty, and with his close friend killed in the shoot-out, he determines to go it alone.
DI John Gallan and his partner Tina Boyd are part of the subsequent
investigation that will take them to the heart of one of London's most
notorious criminal gangs. What they cannot know is that they've also
embarked on a journey that will lead one of them straight into
the rifle sights of the enemy.
The Murder Exchange
'From hardboiled cops to ruthless women on the make, Kernick generates a potent cocktail of thrills that makes contemporary London feel like Dodge City.
A knucklehead ride.'
GUARDIAN
ISBN 0-593-05242-0
The Crime Trade
SIMON KERNICK is in his thirties and lives with his wife and two young
children near London. His previous novels, The Business of Dying and
The Murder Exchange, which also features Dl Gallan and DS Boyd,
are published as Corgi paperbacks.
www.booksattransworld.co.uk
Also by Simon Kernick
THE BUSINESS OF DYING THE MURDER EXCHANGE
SIMON KERNICK
The Crime Trade
BANTAM PRESS
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Published 2004 by Bantam Press a division of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Simon Kernick 2004
The right of Simon Kernick to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
is purely coincidental.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 0593 051351 (cased)
0593 052420 (tpb)
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For Rachel
Part One
THE OPERATION

1
'Where's the money?' 'Where's the gear?' 'Gear?'
Stegs kept his expression neutral. The dope. The drugs. The stuff we're buying.'
The Colombian allowed himself a tiny smirk. It reminded Stegs of the expression Barry Growler, a notorious bully at his old school, used to pull before inflicting one of his famous punishments. 'It's close to here,' he said. 'So's the money.' 'OK. That's good.'
I'm going to need to see the gear first, before I hand over any cash. I'll have to test it, see that the quality's right.'
You don't trust me?' asked the Colombian, his hands raised a gesture of jovial innocence. The smirk grew wider. Stegs didn't like the look of it at all, but that was the thing in the game. You couldn't trust anyone, and not only that, you
could never tell how they were going to behave either. This was his first time dealing with Colombians and he couldn't help thinking about the scene in that old Al Pacino film, Scarface, when Al and his mate, Angel, go to a Miami hotel to buy some coke from a group of Colombians, only for the sellers suddenly to pull guns on them and use a chainsaw on Angel's head in a (surprisingly futile) bid to get Scarface to reveal the whereabouts of the money. Stegs was not enjoying this meeting one little bit.
Neither was his colleague, Paul 'Yokes' Vokerman. Yokes was sitting in a chair next to Stegs, across the table from the Colombian, Fellano, and he was fidgeting big-time, like he had crabs.
Fellano, on the other hand, was oozing confidence, but then he also had three bodyguards scattered about the hotel room, and Stegs would have bet a grand no problem that they were all packing firearms. Under those circumstances, he had pretty good reason to be confident.
Now it was Stegs's turn to smile. 'It's not like that, Mr Fellano.'
'Jose, please.'
'Jose.' Jose. Typical. It had to be fucking Jose. 'It's not like that, but you have to understand my position. I have to satisfy myself, and my partners, that the goods are genuine. We've only done business once before, on a much smaller scale, and I don't want there to be any complications or misunderstandings this early in the relationship.'
'Of course. You are right. We don't want any . . . misunderstandings.'
Stegs didn't like the way Fellano emphasized the word 'misunderstandings'. In fact there wasn't anything he liked about him, and he knew Yokes felt the same way. Fellano was
about forty-five, possibly a couple of years older, and well built with a large, square-shaped head and features that were berry dark and more South American Indian than Hispanic. He was dressed very smartly, but without ostentation, and he had an amiable air about him which Stegs had seen on serious criminals plenty of times before, and which he knew would disappear faster than a bun at a weightwatchers' convention the moment you got on the wrong side of him. Stegs was keen for that not to happen.
He pulled a weighing machine out of the bag and put it on the desk, hoping that it would act as a hint, which it did. Fellano turned in his chair and nodded to one of the bodyguards, who was leaning against the opposite wall, next to the kingsize bed with the silk sheets. The bodyguard, also wearing dark glasses (in fact, Fellano was the only one of them who wasn't), left his post and walked into an adjoining room, emerging a few moments later with a briefcase. He brought the briefcase over to the table and handed it to Fellano. There was a moment's pause while Fellano fiddled with the locks, then the briefcase flicked open. He put it on the table with the open part facing Stegs. There was a single kilo bag of coke in there.
Stegs stared at Fellano. 'Our deal was for twenty kilos, not for one. I was under the impression you were a major player.'
'Come on, Steve, we're wasting our time here,' said Yokes, using the codename for Stegs he always liked to stick to.
Fellano didn't even look at him. Instead, he addressed Stegs. 'You talk about trust, Steve, and I understand that, but tell me this. How can I trust you? You could be anyone. You could be a police officer for all I know.'
I think my colleague might be right, Mr Fellano. Maybe we
are wasting our time here. I thought I'd provided you with all the
credentials you needed, plus twenty grand of our money for that
kilo. If you still don't think I'm kosher after all that, then
there's nothing I can do about it.' Stegs started to stand up. 'Maybe you ought to look for another buyer.'
'I have the rest of the consignment nearby, but I now wish to see the money.'
'OK, but I want to see the rest of the gear at the same time.'
Fellano nodded. 'Sure, I understand that.'
'The money's not here, but it's also nearby. I'll show you it, Mr Fellano, and one of your men, but I'm not going outside with all of you. It's too risky. We'll arouse suspicion.'
'Then your partner will need to stay here.'
Yokes looked at Stegs, his expression one of concern. 'I told you this was a waste of time, Steve. We don't need to deal with people like this.' He stepped away from the table.
Stegs put his hand up. 'Hold on, Paulie. Wait a minute.'
'What's the point? We're just getting taken round the houses
here.'
'Because I didn't drive all the way over here for nothing, that's why.' He turned to the Colombian. 'All right, Mr Fellano, here's what I suggest. My man stays here with two of yours, then you, me and your other guy take a walk down to wherever you've got the stuff. You show it to me, and after that, if you want, I'll take you to the money. Then we return here and make the transaction. How does that sound?'
Yokes wanted to say something, but Stegs gave him a look that said 'Come on, don't blow this,' and Yokes appeared to relent, although he didn't look too happy about it. But that was the thing about the drugs business, particularly the high end. The complete lack of trust meant that even a routine retail transaction required a half-hour debate and more than a couple of heart-stopping risks.
Fellano thought about it for a moment. 'OK,' he said, nodding slowly. 'That sounds fair.'
Stegs turned to his mate, who'd now sat down again. 'Are you all right with staying here for a few moments, Paulie?'
'No, not really. Maybe you should stay here.'
'We've decided,' said Fellano with some finality. 'You stay here.'
Stegs patted Yokes on the shoulder. 'I'll only be gone a few moments and I don't think Mr Fellano here is reckless enough to cause any problems in a hotel room with thin walls in the middle of Heathrow. Am I right, Mr Fellano?'
'I want this deal done as much as you do, Steve, even if your friend is not so keen.'
'He's just cautious, that's all.'
'A man can get overcautious.'
'Not in this game,' said Stegs, with a cold smile. 'So whereabouts nearby is the other nineteen kilos you promised?'
'In the trunk of a hire car in the parking lot.'
Stegs nodded. It wasn't an ideal location, but it was wet and windy outside, so they probably weren't going to get too much attention. 'Shall we go, then?'
'Are you sure about this, Steve?' asked Yokes.
'I'll be ten minutes. No more. Then we do the deal and we walk.'
Fellano stood up and motioned for one of the bodyguards a
wiry little guy with a droopy moustache and seventies hair to
come with him. He then said something in Spanish to the other two. Yokes looked nervous, and Stegs felt a pang of guilt, having given him the worst job. The job of hostage. But he couldn't see any other way.
'Let's go,' said the Colombian, and he and Moustache walked to the door.
'Tell him to get those fucking shades off,' Stegs said to Fellano. He'll stick out a mile in them on a wet March day at Heathrow airport.'
Fellano gabbled something else in Spanish, and Moustache took them off, giving Stegs a dirty look as he did so. Stegs ignored him. 'I'll be back in a mo, Paulie, all right? Just stay here and keep these two company.'
Yokes looked at the two silent Colombians watching him from the far wall, then back at his partner. 'Don't be long,' he said.
'Ten minutes,' Stegs answered. 'Ten minutes max.'
No-one spoke in the lift down to the ground floor, and when the doors opened, Stegs hung back while the two Colombians walked through the busy reception area and out of the rear doors that led directly into the hotel's car park. After spending a few seconds perusing a selection of the day's newspapers and magazines that were laid out on a low mahogany table, he walked casually in the direction they'd taken.
It was raining steadily outside and the cloud cover was so grey and thick that the day was almost dark. Only a handful of people were scattered about, and they were mainly businessmen, hurrying along under umbrellas, so immersed in their working lives that not one of them even glanced up as he passed.
He walked between the rows of parked cars and made his way towards the back of the car park, keeping ten or twelve yards behind the Colombians, watching for anyone who looked out of place. A middle-aged man in jeans and a Barbour jacket getting out of his car caught his eye, but the man looked away without interest, and the moment passed.
When the two Colombians got to the last row of cars, parked against a high brick wall that marked the car park's boundary some fifty yards from the hotel, Fellano looked left and right as nonchalantly as possible, then back at Stegs. Stegs smiled like he knew them both, then quickened his pace and caught up, walking between the two of them without speaking as they
approached a new metallic-blue BMW 7 Series. A typical high-end dealer's car. It made Stegs wonder whether BMW approved of the fact that so many of its customers were involved in the illicit drugs trade. Perhaps one day they'd end up sponsoring crack dens.
Fellano stopped three feet from the back of the car and deactivated the alarm.
Upstairs in the hotel room, Yokes Vokerman paced nervously, trying to ignore the two other men in the room as they watched him boredly, one by the door, the other against the opposite wall. Yokes had expected there to be the usual to-ing and fro-ing, as there always was on a big deal like this one, but he hadn't wanted to be the one left up here with the Colombians while Stegs went walkabout. It had happened before of course, them being split up on an op. More than once, since nobody ever took you at your word in the drugs game; except this time, it shouldn't have happened. They'd been told by the handlers to bring the money into the room with them, but instead had opted to keep it back, thinking it would show they were serious buyers (i.e. distrustful) if they turned up without it. Which was now looking more and more like a mistake. This meeting had been in the making for weeks, months even. The Colombians had their credentials, knew their backgrounds their
pedigree in the importation game and
there'd already been a test purchase of a kilo, for which they'd handed over twenty grand. And still they didn't seem satisfied.
Since he and Stegs had arrived more than an hour ago, they'd been thoroughly searched, before undergoing a long and repetitive sequence of questions from Fellano about deals they'd done, people they were meant to know, etc. The Colombian had been trying to read them, to probe for weakness, not so much in their accounts of themselves, but in their characters, and Yokes
was beginning to convince himself that the reason for this was that he was on to them. Knew who they were and was working out what to do about it. Fellano was a ruthless man. He had a reasonably good reputation in the marketplace (as much as anyone who sells hard drugs has a reasonably good reputation), but cross him give
him any reason to doubt you and
you could expect no mercy. Yokes had heard a rumour once that Fellano had personally cut the tongue out of a police informant's mouth back in Cali, and had replaced it with the man's penis. It wasn't a thought he wanted to dwell on.
He kept pacing, telling himself that it was he who was getting too paranoid. What possible reason was there to suspect the two of them? As always, they'd played everything just right, their stories standing up even to the closest scrutiny, their demeanour that of men not to be trifled with. And with back-up just round the corner, ready to move in if anything looked like it was going to go wrong. But even bearing all this in mind, Yokes didn't like the fact that he was split up from his partner and stuck in a hotel room with two armed men who insisted on wearing sunglasses on a wet English afternoon.
The phone on the bedside table rang, shattering the heavy
silence.
Yokes stopped. Dead.
Slowly, he turned and stared at it. So did the two Colombians. It rang again, a long, shrill tone that seemed far too loud for the room. Who the hell was this meant to be?
An urgent message in his head said: Run! Get out of there! In fact, it didn't just say it, it screamed it. RUN! GRAB THE DOOR HANDLE, TURN IT, AND GET YOUR ARSE OUT OF THERE!
He glanced at the two Colombians, who were looking at each other, their expressions puzzled. The phone rang a third time.
One of them strode over and picked up the receiver. At the same time, the second Colombian, perhaps reading their hostage's thoughts, produced a silver Walther PPK from inside his suit. He pointed it at Yokes and motioned him to get on the bed. 'Now, now,' he demanded impatiently.
Yokes looked over at the other Colombian, the one on the phone. He hadn't said anything since he'd picked it up but was listening to someone on the other end, at the same time staring hard at Yokes. He too removed a gun from his pocket a
Glock, Yokes reckoned. It didn't seem like he was pleased by whatever it was he was hearing.
Yokes thought of his two young children and realized then that he was too old for this game; that this was the last time he'd ever go undercover; that no more would he attend clandestine meetings in bleak hotel rooms with men who'd kill him without a second's thought because that was what life was worth where they came from nothing.
He realized too that he was beginning to panic for the first time ever on an op, an unfamiliar feeling of dread spreading through him like a poison, and that was another reason why Stegs should have been up here in this room instead of him, because he was always able to handle the pressure.
'Get on the bed, now.'
The words came from the one holding the phone, except now he wasn't holding it, he'd replaced it in its cradle, and his expression behind the glasses was angry. He walked over, gun waving, and grabbed Yokes by the arm, pushing him towards the bed. Yokes tried to sit on it, but was roughly pushed face down. He could feel the barrel of the Glock against the back of his head.