The Rule of Fear. Luke Delaney
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Johnston told me,’ Williams explained. ‘Police the Grove Wood Estate and sort it out. I was hoping you could be a little more specific.’
King moved deeper into the office and dumped his heavy kitbag onto the only desk that hadn’t been taken. ‘Fair enough,’ he began. ‘The estate’s in a shit state. Local criminals and yobs seem to run the place. Reported crime’s through the roof, so God only knows how much unreported crime’s going on.’
‘Powers-that-be won’t like that,’ Renita added.
‘Safer Neighbourhoods Team tried to get on top of it, but failed,’ King continued.
‘SNT,’ Brown scoffed. ‘They couldn’t get on top of a whore.’
King ignored him. ‘Our job, to put it bluntly, is to kick some arse – within the confines of the law, naturally.’
‘I like the sound of that,’ Williams joined in.
‘Can’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs.’ Brown once more grinned his evil grin.
‘I said within the confines of the law,’ King reminded him.
‘Aye,’ Brown argued, ‘but the local slags know the law better than most barristers. We want results, we’re going to have to bend things a little. Know what I mean?’
‘No one minds things getting a little bent,’ King agreed. ‘But it better be for the right reason and the right person. I don’t want anyone overstepping the mark. Very low-grade stuff and only when there’s no question of them being guilty. No stitch-ups – even on the local faces. We’re better than that. Someone tosses a stolen phone when they see you coming and your evidence says you found it in their pocket when you searched them – hey, so be it. No one’s going to get too worried about it, but no more than that. Everyone understand?’ Everyone nodded in agreement, except for Brown who just shrugged. ‘Good,’ King left it.
‘As I’m sure you all know by now, there are several fairly notorious drug dealers in the estate and at least one prolific handler,’ he explained.
‘I’ll soon take care of them,’ Brown crowed before King cut him down.
‘No you won’t,’ he ordered. ‘None of you will. Our job is to take out all the little shits who’ve been making life hell for everyone on the estate. Later on maybe we can move on to bigger fish, but right now we sort out these little bastards who are beginning to feel untouchable. The CID can deal with major crime. Our brief is to get the streets back.’
‘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