The Rule of Fear

‘The bloody CID?’ Brown asked in his own unique way.

‘Yes,’ King answered – the fact he was losing patience plain to hear in his voice. Brown just shook his head. ‘Now, I spent half of yesterday in with the Intelligence Unit getting the info on who’s who on the Grove Wood and I’ve identified the people we should be looking at.’ He pulled a folder and some Blu-tack from his kitbag and spilled the photographs from inside over his desk. As he spoke he stuck mugshots of the people he discussed to the closest whiteboard.

‘Let’s start with the local burglars, shall we?’ he began. ‘Tommy Morrison, seventeen-year-old residential burglar.’ The mugshot showed a skinny youth with bad skin and unkempt brown hair. ‘He specializes in daytime burglaries of homes on the estate.’

‘So much for not shitting on your own doorstep,’ Williams said.

‘Morrison doesn’t care about rules and sayings,’ King told them. ‘He only has one rule – steal it if you can. He doesn’t care from who.’

‘Why don’t the locals just give him a good kicking and teach him a lesson?’ Renita asked.

‘Because they’re all as bad as each other,’ Brown explained. ‘All fucking thieving from each other – all fucking each other over.’

‘Probably,’ King agreed, ‘but the fact remains this kid is a one-man crime wave, so let’s bring an end to it.’ He stuck another photograph of a similarly unpleasant-looking youth to the board. ‘Justin Harris. Another residential burglar and sometime partner-in-crime of the before-mentioned Morrison and just as prolific.’ Yet another photograph was stuck to the board, this time of a black youth in his late teens. ‘Everton Watson,’ King explained. ‘The last of our residential burglars, only he strictly works solo and is notoriously slippery.’

‘I’ve dealt with that slag,’ Renita told them. ‘Nicked him for screwing a car. Looks like he’s moved up to bigger and better things.’

‘He has,’ King agreed, ‘and now he needs to be stopped. But speaking of screwing cars,’ he continued, sticking two more photographs on the board, ‘we shouldn’t forget these two – Craig Rowsell and Harrison Clarke – a salt-and-pepper team specializing in theft from motor vehicles. Where you find one you’ll usually find the other. Prolific isn’t the word for these two. Next time you feel broken glass from a smashed car window under your feet, you can be sure it’s probably down to these two clowns. They’ll think nothing of breaking into a car just to see if there’s anything worth nicking. They’re looking for satnavs people have been stupid enough to leave inside or mobiles, but they’ll take absolutely anything: loose change, adaptors, chargers, pens, CDs, even lighters in the past. If they had a motto it’d be “steal first – think later” and they are causing havoc to the borough motor vehicle crime figures.’

‘Well now,’ Brown added sarcastically, ‘we can’t have that, can we.’

‘No we can’t,’ King reprimanded him. ‘And then there’s those who are slightly further up the food chain. As I’ve said, they’re not our immediate problem, but you should be aware of who they are.’

The first mugshot was of an overweight man about thirty-four years old, with oily olive skin and hair pulled back in a ponytail. He was smiling in the photo, revealing his heavily stained teeth. ‘This is Arman Baroyan,’ King told them. ‘By all accounts he’s a proper Fagin – the main dealer in stolen goods on the estate, but judging by his lack of arrests he’s no fool.’

Next he slapped a photo of a man in his mid-twenties to the rogues’ gallery – tall and skinny with a poor pox-marked complexion, his head shaved, dead blue eyes staring from his skull-like face. ‘Micky Astill’s our main local heroin and crack dealer, selling out of his secured flat in The Meadows. He never seems to get turned over by any bigger or more violent dealers, so assume he’s getting protection from somewhere.’

‘Probably the Campbells,’ Renita offered, referring to the area’s most notorious crime family.

‘Probably,’ King agreed, ‘but the Campbells neither live on the estate nor commit the sorts of crimes we’re interested in.’

‘More’s the pity,’ Brown snarled.

‘And last but not least,’ King ignored him, sticking his final photo to the board, ‘Susie Ubana – our primary local cannabis dealer.’ He tapped the photograph of the attractive black woman in her early thirties. ‘If it’s cannabis you want she’s your girl. She deals from her heavily fortified maisonette in Millander Walk. Drug Squad have hit it before, but by the time they got through the metal grates any drugs had been long flushed or so well hidden they couldn’t find them.’

‘If we’re not going to hit them, why we talking about them?’ Brown demanded to know.

‘Because they’re a good source of arrests,’ King told him. ‘You see any local toe-rags coming from any of these addresses there’s a strong chance they’ll be carrying drugs or stolen goods. Never look a gift horse in the mouth – wasn’t that what you said?’

‘Aye, well,’ Brown struggled for an answer.

King pressed on. ‘And remember – in amongst the scum there’ll be a lot of decent folk just trying to live their lives quietly. Treat them with respect when you’re dealing with them and we might just win their support and confidence. We’re there to police by consent – not just force. Everyone understand?’

Renita and Williams nodded, whereas Brown just shrugged.

‘Now, most of the people we’re interested in don’t even get out of their beds till midday, lazy bastards, so there’s no point us wandering around the estate at seven in the morning. We’ll work two shifts between ten am and six pm and six pm till two in the morning – two of us per shift. You don’t have to walk around holding hands, although sometimes we’ll need to stick together. Any questions?’

‘Aye,’ Brown asked. ‘When do we get started?’

‘Right now,’ King told him, clipping on his utility belt and pulling his body armour from his bag. ‘The Grove Wood Estate’s crawling with criminality. It’s time to restore the rule of law.’

The small meeting began to break up before King stopped them. ‘One more thing, before I forget.’ The others stopped what they were doing and turned back to look at him. ‘Apart from the before-mentioned rogues’ gallery, the Grove Wood has an additional and very unwelcome problem.’

‘Such as?’ Renita asked.

‘Some animal messing with the local kids,’ King explained.

‘The fucking kiddie fiddler?’ Brown jumped in. ‘CID still not caught the bastard?’

‘Yes, the kiddie fiddler and, no, the CID still haven’t caught him,’ King answered. ‘But this one’s already up to half-a-dozen attacks to date and doesn’t look like stopping until he’s stopped. I spoke with DS Marino about it and he’s convinced whoever’s doing it is already escalating. Only a matter of time before he commits a serious sexual assault on a child. We have to stop him before that happens.’

‘That’s a lot of attacks in a relatively small area,’ Renita questioned. ‘How come he keeps getting away with it?’

‘CID have had the Crime Squad down there a few times,’ King explained, ‘but he never attacks out in the open, so observation posts haven’t worked. They tried to put plain-clothed units on the ground, but you know what it’s like on the Grove Wood – strangers stand out a mile and Old Bill even more so. As soon as the Crime Squad moved onto the estate the local slags put the alarm up – warning whoever we’re looking for, even if they didn’t mean to.’

‘Forensics?’ Williams asked.

‘No forensics,’ King answered. ‘He’s real careful. Uses his hands and hands only. Never leaves any body fluids behind for DNA.’

‘And identification?’ Williams tried again.

King just shook his head. ‘We have little or no chance of that. He uses the oldest disguise in the book: a baseball cap, hoodie – hood up and sunglasses. Add to that the fact that the children are usually very young and traumatized – there’s little chance of a positive identification. No. This one we’re probably going to have to catch in the act.’

‘Great,’ Brown shrugged and pulled a face of disgust.

King ignored him. ‘OK, people. That’s the job, so let’s get on with it. Starting right now.’

King walked through the estate feeling better than he had in a long time. He caught a reflection of himself in the stainless steel doors of one of the many old lifts that ferried the inhabitants skywards to their homes. It had been a long time since he’d seen himself in full uniform. There’d been no need for body armour and a belt full of equipment answering a phone on the Crime Desk. He took a second to admire his appearance – a crisp white open-neck short-sleeved shirt under the armour. Black trousers and shiny shoes with rubber soles so he could move silently. He’d also chosen to wear his peaked cap instead of the traditional helmet and had told the others to do the same. He wanted them all to look the part – to look different from other cops on foot. He wanted the locals to know they were dealing with something unlike anything they’d dealt with before. He took a deep breath and straightened his cap to perfection and let the feeling of power surge through his body. Strange how powerful a uniform could make a person feel – like wearing an impregnable shield. A jolt of pain through his shoulder reminded him it was anything but.

His radio suddenly gave off two electronic-sounding peeps – letting him know someone was trying to contact him on one of its private channels. He checked and saw that it was Renita. He pressed the transmit button and spoke to her, knowing that only she would be able to hear him.

‘Go ahead, Renita.’

‘You still on the Grove Wood?’ she asked.

‘Yeah. In Manor Mead. Something going on?’

‘I got Craig Rowsell under obs in Tabard Street checking out the parked cars,’ she told him. ‘I’ve already got enough to nick him for vehicle interference.’

‘No,’ King insisted. ‘If he’s that interested it’s only a matter of time before he screws one. Give him a bit of rope. I’ll make my way to you. Where are you now?’

‘South end of Tabard Street,’ she replied.

‘I’ll make my way to the north end,’ he explained. ‘You keep him under obs. If he screws one, show out and flush him towards me. I’ll stay out of sight until you give me the nod.’

‘Understood,’ she confirmed as he made his way quickly through the estate’s rat-runs to Tabard Street – staying out of view from anyone who might have shouted a warning to Rowsell of his impending approach. A few minutes later he’d hidden himself behind a recessed stairwell and let Renita know he was waiting to ambush their prey.

His radio hissed into life. ‘Sarge,’ Renita began. ‘Rowsell’s getting very interested in an old BMW 3 Series. He’s been back for a couple of looks. Standby.’ His radio went dead for a few seconds before coming alive again. ‘He’s picked up a small stone,’ she continued. ‘He’s moving towards the BMW. Standby. He’s done the window – repeat – he’s done the window. Shall I move in?’

‘No,’ King insisted. ‘Wait till he’s stolen from the car.’

‘OK,’ she agreed, ‘but whatever he’s after he’s taking his time. Standby – he’s out the vehicle now – looks like he’s had the stereo away.’

The stereo? King thought to himself. Any stereo old enough to be ripped in one unit from a car in this day and age could surely only be worth pennies. He wondered why the likes of Rowsell bothered. ‘Show out now,’ he commanded. ‘Get him running towards me.’

‘Already done it,’ Renita told him over the radio, her voice making it clear she was running as she spoke. ‘Stop there, Rowsell, you thieving little …’ She released her transmit button before King could hear any more.

He peeked around the stairwell in time to see Rowsell haring towards him, stupid enough to be still clutching the old stereo, about fifty metres away, but closing fast. He waited, hidden, muttering barely audible encouragement to the advancing thief. ‘Come on. Come on.’ Only when he was sure Rowsell would neither be able to swerve past him nor turn and run in the opposite direction did he burst from his hiding place, making the thief’s eyes widen with fear and nostrils flare as he realized he’d run straight into a trap.

King hit him hard with the palms of his outstretched arms, ploughing into Rowsell’s chest and momentarily lifting him from the floor, knocking the wind from him and making him drop the stereo. Quickly King spun him around and pushed him up against the wall, pulling his arms behind his back and expertly wrapping his quick-cuffs around Rowsell’s wrists, making him curse and complain.

‘Get the fuck off me,’ he demanded. ‘Ah, fuck. The cuffs are too tight, you wanker.’

King pushed him harder into the wall to let Rowsell know who was in charge. ‘Better watch your language, Craig, or I’ll be adding violent disorder to theft from motor vehicle. Understand?’

‘Who the fuck are you?’ Rowsell asked. ‘TSG?’ Clearly he was experienced enough to know the difference between a relatively gentle arrest at the hands of the local police and the more robust treatment he could expect from the Territorial Support Group.

‘Not TSG, my friend,’ King smiled. ‘Haven’t you heard? You’ve got your very own police force now. The Grove Wood Estate Policing Unit. Remember the name, you little prick, because things around here are about to change.’

By the time King arrived home to his two-bedroom flat in Chadwell Heath, East London, his partner was already there, preparing dinner in their tiny kitchen. She kissed him on the lips and fussed around him, making him smile at the special treatment he was receiving.

‘Sit down, sit down,’ she insisted. ‘I want to hear all about your first day back.’

He slumped in one of their only two kitchen chairs that lived under the small circular dining table, also used as a part-time desk, thankful to be sitting after spending the first day on his feet for more than nine months. ‘Nothing to tell,’ he lied. ‘Just a normal day at the office.’

‘I don’t think so,’ she reminded him. ‘Your first day back on the streets. Your first day as a sergeant on full duties. Your first day in charge of the Estate Policing Unit.’

‘OK,’ he relented, nodding his head. ‘It went well. Team seem solid, although Davey Brown wants to lock horns all the time.’

‘Oh, I know Davey Brown,’ she told him. ‘The ex-Marine, right?’ He just nodded. ‘You know his type. They want to be sergeants, but they don’t want to have to bother with the exams – think they’ve got a right to promotion just because they know what they’re doing on the streets. But I know you. You’ll soon have Davey Brown eating out of the palm of your hand.’

‘Maybe what we do on the streets for real should dictate who gets promoted and not just who can pass exams?’ he questioned.

‘That’s a little rich coming from someone on accelerated promotion,’ she reminded him. ‘Turkeys don’t generally vote for Christmas.’

‘Well, we had a decent arrest on our first day,’ he explained, letting her comment slip away. ‘Craig Rowsell for screwing a car on the estate. He nicked some ancient stereo from some clapped-out BMW. I mean, why would you bother nicking that? It wasn’t worth shit.’

‘Because he’s a thief,’ she reminded him. ‘What does he care? He’s not thinking about the logic of breaking a hundred-pound window to steal a ten-pound stereo. None of it’s his loss. As far as he’s concerned if he sees a ten-pence piece on the seat of a car why not smash the window to get it. At the end of the day he’ll be 10p up.’

King unconsciously rubbed the back of his injured shoulder. ‘I’ll never understand these people,’ he complained. ‘If you’re gonna be a thief, be a good one. Steal something that’s worth something.’

‘If you’re getting it for nothing, then everything’s worth something,’ she tried to explain, before noticing he was rubbing his back and grimacing slightly. ‘Giving you trouble?’ she asked.

‘Uh?’ he replied, momentarily confused before he realized what he was doing and self-consciously pulled his hand away. ‘I’m fine. Just a little sore, that’s all.’

‘Have you taken your pills?’

‘I took some earlier,’ he assured her. ‘Probably due some more about now,’ he added as he rose and headed to the cupboard where they kept all their medicines and first aid equipment and popped two four-hundred-milligram tablets of buprenorphine from their plastic and tinfoil homes and threw them into his mouth as he headed for the fridge and grabbed himself a beer. He used the bottle opener attached to the door to lift the lid and washed the pills down with a large swig.

‘I thought you were supposed to let them dissolve on your tongue before swallowing,’ Sara reminded him.

He swallowed hard to force the pills further into his stomach before answering. ‘I know, but they taste shocking. What difference can it make anyway?’

‘I don’t know, but maybe you should stick to the instructions.’

‘It’ll be fine,’ he tried to reassure her.

‘And those ones are opioids,’ she warned him. ‘Perhaps you should try to come off them and use something else.’

‘Fine,’ he shrugged. ‘I’ll ask my GP next time I see her.’

‘You mean the GP you never go and see?’

He looked her up and down with admiring eyes before taking another drink of beer and sitting on the chair in front of her. ‘Maybe all it needs is a good massage?’ he suggested.

‘Oh,’ she smiled, taking hold of his shoulder with both hands. ‘You reckon that’s all you need.’

He slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her a little closer, rolling his neck as her fingers dug deep and began to relax him. ‘That feels nice,’ he told her.

‘Only nice?’ she teased.

‘It feels good,’ he improved. ‘Really good.’ He felt tired parts of his body start to awaken as he pulled her a little closer and began to unbutton the white police blouse she still wore, pulling it open and kissing her soft, pale skin, making her gasp a little before she spread her legs and sat astride him, moving her mouth onto his as his hands moved upwards to cup her breasts through the lace of her white bra.

She whispered in his ear as she panted a little for breath. ‘Not here. Let’s go to the bedroom.’

‘Here’s fine,’ he argued, kissing her neck and covering her body in goose bumps, but she pulled away, smiling seductively, taking his hand and encouraging him to his feet.

‘The bedroom’s more comfortable,’ she told him, ‘for what I have in mind.’

‘And what would that be?’ he asked, his voice hoarse with desire.

‘Come with me and you’ll find out,’ she promised as she rose from his chair and he willingly followed her towards the bedroom.

3

King and Williams hid in a stairwell tower overlooking flats in Millander Walk – specifically the one belonging to the local handler, Arman Baroyan. Williams continued to explain the night’s events as King listened intently, considering their options – his eyes never leaving the flat opposite.

‘Two residential burglaries overnight – both on the estate, both very close together in time and location. They took so much stuff there’s no way they could have shifted it yet. I figure sooner or later they’ll bring it to Baroyan.’

‘What did they take?’ King asked.

‘Like I said – shedloads. TVs, Blu-ray players, a laptop, a disc drive, jewellery, clothes, booze – you name it.’

‘That’s too much to shift in the open in broad daylight,’ King argued.

‘Unless they’re stupid or desperate,’ Williams grinned.

‘I suppose we could get lucky,’ King admitted.

‘Or maybe they’ll bring it here bit by bit – in which case what do we do?’

‘If we catch them out in the open with any of the gear we’ll nick them before they even reach Baroyan’s. Remember what I told you all – we’re not after the handlers and dealers yet. Instead let’s use them as a source of arrests.’

Williams nodded in agreement. ‘Fine by me.’

A few seconds later a clearly empty-handed youth casually approached Baroyan’s flat, stopping and checking he wasn’t being watched before he prepared to knock on the door. Once satisfied he was unobserved, he reached through the solid-looking metal grid covering the door and pounded on the reinforced wood.

‘Allo,’ King whispered. ‘Who’s this then? D’you recognize him?’

‘I know this little slag,’ Williams told him. ‘That’s Stuart Weller. He works as a runner for Baroyan – ferrying messages backwards and forwards for him, arranging where to drop nicked gear.’

‘I guess Baroyan doesn’t trust phones then,’ King suggested.

‘Would you?’ Williams asked. King just nodded slowly as the door was answered by Baroyan, who briefly spoke to Weller before disappearing inside and closing the door. Weller quickly skulked away, still walking casually, as if it was just another normal day on the estate – and for him it was.

‘Come on,’ King told Williams, already running down the stairs two at a time. ‘We need to follow him. He could lead us straight to whoever screwed the flats, and the stolen gear.’

Williams was after him now. ‘How we gonna get close enough to follow him without showing out?’

‘He’ll take the rat-runs as much as he can,’ he explained, ‘and so will we.’

They tailed Weller for almost a quarter of a mile to the other side of the estate, always staying close to the building lines, looking for shadows to hide in, alcoves to conceal them, until finally they spied him climbing to the second floor of Abbey Mead – a long, low-rise block of flats with sweeping communal walkways made from dull grey bricks, where he stopped outside a flat. They hid behind a car in the building’s car park and waited, although it was already clear from the state of the front door that the flat was semi-derelict and probably being used as a squat. After a few seconds the door was opened by a white man in his mid-twenties who looked gaunt and neglected – the yellowness of his skin clear even from a distance.

‘D’you know him?’ King whispered.

‘Nah,’ Williams admitted, ‘but he looks like a scag or crack-head.’

The gaunt figure ushered the youth inside and closed the flimsy-looking door. ‘I’m liking this more and more,’ King told him, just as they saw an equally emaciated-looking white man appear from the stairwell carrying a thin plastic bag loaded with what looked like groceries and head towards the flat. He fumbled for a key in his trouser pocket before finally opening the door and disappearing inside.

‘These are definitely our boys,’ King insisted. ‘Have to be.’

‘I agree,’ Williams whispered, ‘but we haven’t got a warrant and we haven’t seen any stolen goods yet.’

‘We don’t need a warrant to search the flat if they’re already under arrest,’ King reminded him.

‘That’s all fine if the stolen stuff’s inside,’ Williams argued. ‘If that’s the case we can make up anything we like – make the facts fit the arrest – but if it’s not, people might ask what power we had to search it in the first place. Maybe we should get a warrant.’

‘It’d take too long,’ King dismissed it, ‘and there’s no guarantee they’d give us one anyway. Trust me – the stuff’s inside that flat and so are the burglars.’

‘OK,’ Williams reluctantly agreed. ‘We’ll do it your way.’

The single lock holding the door closed was wholly inadequate and unable to stand up to even one kick from Williams’ boot as he and King seemed to charge through the small space simultaneously, screaming ‘Police!’ at the tops of their voices as they ran into the sitting room with truncheons drawn, catching the two men and the youth by complete surprise as they sat on the only sofa in the flat – a filthy remnant salvaged from a skip somewhere and dragged to the squat that stank of hard drug use, human desperation and impending death. It was also now filled with the stench of human excrement as the drug users struggled to control their bowels with muscles wasted by years of abuse with serious narcotics. On the battered table in front of them lay the remains of their latest attempt to escape the awful pointlessness of their lives – a homemade glass crack-pipe stained with over-use and numerous pieces of old tinfoil riddled with the track marks of burnt heroin. The drug users’ eyes were wide open and vacant – as if they’d been hypnotized – whereas the local feral youth had the look of someone who realized they were just unlucky to have been caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.