The Informant (4 page)

Turnbull considered the prospect. He was forty-eight; in a twenty-five-year career his record was outstanding, he’d put some nasty villains away. But what did he have to show for it? The
QPM, a five-bedroomed house in Surrey, heavily mortgaged, and a couple of ISAs. In the scheme of things it was peanuts.

Turnbull scrutinized Mal Bradley. He reeked of inexperience. The education gave him a veneer of confidence, arrogance even. And it helped that the pressure was on. Turnbull’s team had been
after Phelps for months, but they’d been biding their time, giving Marlow a chance to get bedded in. Now all that was down the drain, tempers were fraying, the drive was to nail
Marlow’s killer. The question was, could Bradley deliver? On paper he was clever enough, but that counted for little out on the street.

Bradley gave a diffident smile. ‘I can see that targeting the sister is certainly the sensible approach. But – hope you don’t mind me saying this sir – if she’s
been in prison for six years, is she going to be close enough to her brother now to give us anything useful?’

Turnbull swivelled his high-backed desk chair to face Bradley. He smiled. He liked the fact the lad was a bit gung-ho, but was it just to impress?

‘Point taken. But before he died DS Marlow was able to provide us with a lot of very useful intelligence about Phelps and his operation. And the first thing to understand is that Joey
Phelps isn’t just another thug. He’s a thug with a brain. So I agree with the Assistant Commissioner. Phelps knows we’re after him. Someone new turns up now, however plausible,
he’ll spot it a mile off. And I don’t want to be fishing any more of my officers out of the river.’

Bradley nodded, but he knew he’d only have one shot at impressing Turnbull, so he ploughed on.

‘Is Joey Phelps really that smart? Isn’t it just that he’s very violent?’

Turnbull reached across the desk and tapped the file in front of Bradley with his index finger. ‘You need to study the rest of this. The family history. Terry Phelps grew up in the
Bermondsey triangle, started out as an unlicensed boxer – Reggie Kray sponsored him for a while. He graduated to armed robbery, ended up inside. Came out in the mid-eighties and found the
world had changed. So he shipped the family out to Essex and set up in the drugs business. Him and his nephew Sean Phelps ran a security outfit; Southend, Basildon, as far north as Chelmsford, they
ran the doors on any club of any size. They supplied Ecstasy and cocaine.’

‘I think I’ve read about Sean Phelps somewhere. Mid-nineties, drive-by shooting of a police officer? Witnesses changed their testimony because of intimidation?’

Turnbull sighed. ‘That’s been lying on file ever since. He finally went down in 1997, got life with a tariff of twelve for beating a rival dealer to death in a pub brawl. Parole
Board have knocked him back twice, he’s probably hoping third time he’ll be lucky. But the important point in all this is that Terry Phelps was a small-time villain, he stuck to his
Essex patch. Couple of years ago his son takes over and turns this small family firm into something far more ambitious.’

‘How’s he expanded so quickly?’

‘Same as any businessman really. Takeover bids. He’s rolled over every rival firm of any size in Essex, now he’s moving into the East End.’

‘Where’s he get the muscle to do something like that?’

‘Another tried-and-tested business strategy: outsourcing. He picks a local gang, usually young, hungry, desperate to move up. He’s got plenty to choose from. He tools them up, gets
them to clear a patch of territory in return for distribution rights.’

Bradley shook his head sceptically. ‘I can think of a few London firms, like the Turks and some of the eastern Europeans, who’d start World War Three before they’d roll
over.’

‘So far he’s been clever about picking his targets. Hasn’t tried it on with anyone too nasty. But the real ace up his sleeve is supply. Everything he sells is top-quality
product. He’s become known for it. And his prices are reasonable. He’s put reputation before instant profit. Very canny operator.’

‘Sounds like you almost admire him sir.’

‘No. No, I don’t. He’s also a cold-blooded killer. I just don’t underestimate him and I don’t want you to either.’

Bradley nodded. So they were back to Karen Phelps. He knew why it was him sitting there, not a more experienced officer. It didn’t take a genius to figure out Turnbull’s plan. Ever
since he was a boy Bradley had been forced to accept that what people saw first were his looks. And he hated it. He had his Iranian mother to thank. Large liquid brown eyes, ridiculously long
lashes. Even two days’ stubble on his chin served to accentuate the cheekbones, the completely symmetrical features, the square jaw.

At school he’d been miserable. While the girls giggled and fawned over him, other lads were always wary. He’d tried to be sporty and tough, but on the rugby pitch he was the one
targeted for a kicking. Was it racism because he was half Persian? Or did he unwittingly set off some kind of homoerotic vibe that scared other men? Even though he dressed down and walked around
with a perpetual scowl, gay guys and women flocked to him. But other men generally kept their distance. And it was these men he wanted to impress. He knew that the only way to succeed in this world
was to make sure other blokes took you seriously.

Being taken seriously was the reason Bradley had joined the police. He had lofty ambitions: to work undercover in counterterrorism. He could pass for Arab, he was taking lessons to improve his
Persian. The last thing he wanted was to get side-tracked into this sort of nonsense.

Turnbull gave the young officer a speculative look; he was maintaining a very proper facade, but underneath there was something niggling him and that bothered Turnbull. He took out his
BlackBerry, turned it over in his hand like a talisman, then placed it carefully on the desk and leant forward.

‘I’ll be honest with you Bradley. I simply don’t have the budget to mount a major surveillance operation on Joey Phelps for months on end. So we have to use our wits and
ingenuity. We have to busk it.’ He shook his head wearily. ‘Nowadays a lot of policing involves that. You want to get ahead, you need to know that. Do you want to get ahead?’

‘Absolutely sir. I’ve already passed my sergeant’s exams.’

Turnbull glanced at the screen of his laptop.

‘I can see that. On paper you look great. But, y’know, what I’m asking here . . .’ Turnbull sighed, let his gaze drift as he pondered. ‘No what I’m looking
for is someone who thinks outside the box. There aren’t any courses or exams for this. This is policing at the sharp end. Not many officers are up for it. You can say no . . .’

Turnbull let that statement hang in the air. He picked up his phone, clicked it on to check his messages.

To Bradley this change in attitude seemed abrupt. Was Turnbull signalling that the meeting was over? Bradley didn’t know what to do. It suddenly felt as if he’d blown it and the
opportunity was slipping away. He straightened up in his chair. Turnbull was tapping out a text with both thumbs. Bradley leant forward. ‘I can think outside the box sir.’

Turnbull looked up, he gave the young officer a disinterested smile.

Bradley saw his chances fading and he panicked. ‘Okay, I understand why you want to give Joey Phelps a wide berth. But, yeah, I can work on the sister. She’s just out of jail,
she’s going to want to get out there, start living it up a bit. That’s my way in I guess.’

Turnbull remained absorbed in his text. He sighed, tapped out a few more characters and pressed send. Then he let his gaze come back to Bradley. The young officer was looking decidedly anxious.
Turnbull smiled to himself. A psychology degree was all very well, still the lad didn’t realize he was being played. Turnbull frowned.

‘You’re confusing me Bradley. My impression was you had reservations. Are you saying you want to do this?’

‘Absolutely. I can get close to Karen Phelps and I’ll soon—’

Turnbull raised an admonitory finger, which stopped Bradley in his tracks.

‘Bear in mind undercover work requires . . . delicacy. Now I don’t believe in hamstringing my officers . . .’

Bradley looked surprised but he was on it straight away. Turnbull didn’t have to say any more. ‘Sorry sir. Just thinking out loud. I know there are boundaries. I don’t want to
. . . I’d never put you in an awkward position.’

The two men stared at each other for a moment. Then Turnbull smiled broadly. It had taken a while, but they’d got there. Bradley knew the score. Without Turnbull spelling it out he
understood what was required to get the job done and he knew, since it was technically illegal, to keep his mouth shut about it. Turnbull leant back in his chair, placed his fingertips together, it
was all looking good. He could assure the Assistant Commissioner, keep her sweet. But more importantly his own project was launched, and anyone who thought Alan Turnbull was just another noddy cop
sitting it out for his pension was in for a rude awakening.

At Stansted Airport, Joey Phelps was one of the first off the plane. He strode along the moving walkway to the Arrivals Hall rapidly tapping the screen of his iPhone with his
thumb. In his grey silk shirt and pressed chinos he appeared in sharp contrast to the baggy Bermudas, flip-flops and hangovers being sported by most of his fellow passengers returning on the early
morning flight from Ibiza. Keeping pace with Joey but two steps behind, Yevgeny, a mountain of muscle, carried two Italian leather holdalls and a slim attaché case. As Joey zigzagged through
the meandering holidaymakers, his minder in tow, people turned to gawp. Well over six foot, handsome, expensively dressed; was he some famous actor or a footballer they couldn’t quite put a
name to?

Joey was oblivious to the ripples he caused in the crowd. The phone was now clamped to his ear.

‘Yeah, Phelps. Karen Phelps. Well, is she there? Can you get her for me?’ Joey tried to get a handle on his irritation. There was no point shouting at these bozos. Ashley had texted
him the number of the hostel where Kaz was apparently staying. Some kind of scabby bail hostel. Why? He couldn’t fathom it at all.

‘Yeah right, well get her out of bed. I’ll wait. Thank you.’ Feeling the anger rising Joey started to count in his head. He’d read the books, sometimes it helped.
He’d have postponed the trip to Ibiza if he’d known she was getting out. Then he could’ve taken her with him. It would’ve been perfect. They could’ve turned a business
trip into a proper holiday. And it would’ve been a great way to ease her back into the firm.

Ibiza was one of his new operations. Mephedrone was the clubbers’ current drug of choice and since the EU had helpfully made it illegal at the end of 2010, Joey had got in on the ground
floor. He’d set up two labs on the island to synthesize the drug. He’d imported an old hippy chemist from Amsterdam, who used to make MDMA for his old man. Then he’d hired Yevgeny
and a bunch of his mates, all former Russian soldiers who’d served in Chechnya, to handle security and discourage competitors. Joey was really proud of what he’d achieved and desperate
to show it all off to his big sister. After what seemed like an age a sleepy voice came on the line.

‘Joe?’

‘Babe! Why didn’t you tell us you was coming out? We’d’ve been there. The whole fucking family’d’ve been there!’

Kaz yawned; her first night’s kip on the outside, she’d slept like a kid. Her mind was still wandering in some cosy dreamland. ‘That’s why I didn’t tell
you.’

‘And what you doing staying in a fuckin’ hostel?’

‘It’s a condition of my licence. But I got a place in one of the college halls of residence once term starts.’

‘You’re not going through with all this college malarkey, are you? I know you gotta give ’em the spiel, but now you’re out . . . I mean, c’mon.’

Kaz stifled a yawn. ‘Joey, I’ve told you. It’s not some scam to impress the parole board. I’m doing it ’cause it’s what I want.’

‘Listen babes, you want it, that’s good enough for me. Always has been, always will be. You know that. I know this geezer in the property business. Big warehouse conversions. Top
end. He’s got loads of stuff round Shoreditch, Hoxton, that way. Well, that’s where all the artists and fartists live, innit. I’ll get him to find something special for
you.’

Standing in the hallway in pyjama bottoms and a vest, Kaz was jiggling from one bare foot to the other, trying to escape the chill of the tiled floor. ‘What’s the time for
chrissake?’

‘I dunno. Nine-ish. Trust me Kaz, he’s a posh City boy, educated ’n’all that. He’s got a good eye. It’ll be really nice. You can talk to him yourself, fit it
out how you want.’

‘Okay, just listen will yer . . .’

‘You wanna go to college, study, good luck to you, I say. Proper learning, that’s one thing. But who in their right mind wants to live like a scabby bloody student? ’Specially
when you don’t have to.’

Kaz was shivering, she’d been dragged out of bed, still she couldn’t help smiling wryly to herself. Joey’s energy, his boyish impetuosity was like a steamroller. His enthusiasm
simply flattened everything in its path. She could hear him sigh down the phone as he changed tack.

‘All right, look, we can talk about this later. I’m coming to pick you up and we’re gonna celebrate, my girl. So get yerself tarted up ’cause I ain’t taking no for
an answer.’

He checked his watch as he stepped out of the main terminal building. Ashley was waiting at the kerb in a black Range Rover Evoque. Yevgeny loaded the bags in the back as Joey climbed in the
passenger seat.

‘I’ll be there in an hour, tops.’

Kaz set the phone on its battered cradle. She’d been a free woman for little more than twenty-four hours, but already it was beginning as she knew it would. She thought of Yasmin; for her,
prison was a sanctuary, the only escape from a series of men who’d used and abused her. But Kaz was tougher than that. At least she hoped she was.

Her room was at the rear of the hostel overlooking the garden. It had been decorated to be cheerful. The walls were primrose with matching curtains in a lively abstract print. The small
wardrobe, stack of drawers and bed were simple but well-constructed in bleached pine. It wasn’t much bigger than the average prison cell, but the window opened and the toilet was down the
hall, not a smelly stainless steel pan in the corner.