Hard Place (25 page)

Tosh had also sent a dozen aerial photos of the street and the entire neighbourhood. This was an upmarket area but by no means Brighton’s finest; most houses looked as if they provided white-collar families with comfortable homes, garaging for more than one car and space for the kids to play football or cricket in the garden.

As he studied the view from the road, he tossed back the dregs of the brandy angrily as the implications of the Osman ruling struck him. Whoever sat above Rudi Tare on Zandro’s muck heap was likely to take fright at coppers ripping Rudi’s place apart. Thanks to the pinko idiots in the legal system, the cat was not just out of the bag but was bolting straight to the one person Ratso did not want tipped off.

The Hogans would come tooled up, no question, so the top priority was preventing injury to decent coppers protecting a shitbag like Rudi Tare. By the time he met them, the Sussex team would have their own plan and would not welcome any input from a smartarse in SCD7. On the plus side, they would have started the groundwork, checking with neighbours about using their drives or even their homes as observation posts. Surveillance would be underway too and planning where and how to position roadblocks. But something else was needed, something special to create a win-win from this lose-lose situation.

Ratso sighed and then buzzed the attendant for another coffee while his neighbour snored, mouth open. The Osman ruling could hardly mean turning up at Tare’s home and saying, Please, Mr Tare, we are coming in to protect you from the nasty Hogan boys and once we’ve done that we’re going to arrest you for offenses that will bang you up for twenty years. Come on Ratso, there has to be a solution. He yawned, checked the time and realised it was 4:30 a.m. in London. He turned off his iPad, reclined his seat and switched off the light. Within moments he was gone.

He slept through breakfast and only awoke when asked to put his seat into the upright position. He was offered a coffee and welcomed it and as he sat looking at the darkness outside, he realised that he had a plan. Why did sleep so often provide an answer? As the plane parked at the gate, his brain was still in overdrive, puzzling now how to discover the identity of JF. He was missing something.

Brighton & Hove, Sussex, England

Later that day, on the drive down to the South Coast, Ratso felt none of the Christmas spirit. There was no chance of tossing back whisky with Crabbie’s green ginger or getting into party mode, not with a dangerous mission ahead. He had called Charlene, who now knew she would not be seeing him on Christmas Eve and that Christmas Day was iffy. During the chat, her disappointment had turned to surliness and understandably so but he had ended the call with no regrets. It was bad enough having to work on Christmas Eve without being nagged by someone who said she understood. Like hell she did! Ratso had told her gently that dating him was always going to be full of ruined plans and disappointments and she could never expect that to change.

Tosh had confirmed that the sharp end of the operation would be handled by a Chief Inspector Graeme Uden, a uniform in the Sussex force. Tosh had dismissed him as an awkward sod. “Trouble is, he was never breastfed as a baby,” he concluded with all the confidence of a Harley Street psychiatrist. Uden was the Tactical Firearms commander reporting to the Strategic Firearms commander, who on this occasion had proved to be an assistant chief constable called Rick Longman.

Tosh described the curt phone call with Uden as being as pleasing as having a witchdoctor with sharp nails treat an overgrown boil on your prick. Longman, in his view, had been only slightly better. But Ratso knew Tosh’s breezy cockiness would not travel well to the Sussex coast. Even so, Ratso assumed that his plan would be rejected by Longman on the basis of not invented here. After standing all the way into Hammersmith on the Piccadilly Line, Ratso had then gone straight on to Wensley Hughes to get him onside. Selling his startling plan had been as easy as plucking teeth but by the second cup of Darjeeling, he had won Hughes over. Yet even Hughes, with his urbane charm, had struggled to get the assistant chief constable in Sussex to unravel the plan he’d been developing for twenty-four hours. The most he had achieved was an agreement that the ACC and Ratso would meet to talk it through.

“Despite what your sergeant said, Longman sounds a decent enough bloke,” said Hughes after he ended the call. “It’s not easy to have some jumped-up detective inspector in the Met pissing on your parade. Treat him gently. You may persuade him. After all, yours is a bloody good idea.” It was the first time Ratso had ever heard Hughes swear. He must be impressed.

On entering Brighton just after 4 p.m., Ratso felt the first twinges of festive spirit as he took in the colored lights criss-crossing the streets and Christmas trees of all sizes perfectly placed to catch the eye. As he approached the seafront, a Salvation Army band was belting out O Little Town of Bethlehem. Everywhere pedestrians were laden with carrier bags stuffed with food, drink and gift-wrapped goodies.

After leaving Scotland Yard, he reached Clapham just before 2 p.m. There he had been updated on missing facts, absorbed the information from the IMB and had listened to Jock’s Cyprus report. Ratso had then dropped by the Cauldron, studiously avoiding the sprig of mistletoe hanging near the whiteboard. He explained he would not need any of them in Brighton; Chief Inspector Uden’s armed unit would be providing the support. “And getting the overtime,” grumbled Tosh. “I was looking forward to that.”

Despite his exhaustion from the short night, Ratso smiled. “Tosh, you’re still grounded. No overtime for me either. DI’s work their bollocks off for the love of it! But with luck, I should be tucked up with cocoa before dawn on Christmas Day.”

“Who’s Cocoa? Bahamian, is she?” enquired Jock. “Some dusky maiden ye brought back from Freeport?” There were several dirty chuckles, which Ratso acknowledged with a grin before hurrying on with details of the London end of the operation.

“Ye’ll be there at the hoose yersel’, though?” asked Jock.

“Leaving now. Longman’s the SFC but Uden’s team will be at Flinders. I fully intend to be there.”

“Uden won’t like that, boss.”

Ratso knew he was right.

After parking in the hotel’s car park, Ratso hurried through the biting easterly wind into the Old Ship Hotel. It was on the seafront but the sea might as well have been a thousand miles away for all the Channel view Ratso had from his single room. As arranged, he phoned the assistant chief constable at once.

“I’ll head over with Chief Inspector Uden. Save you trailing out to HQ. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes.” The ACC sounded cheerful and friendly. But would it last?

As Ratso slurped tea and relished the squashed-fly biscuits in the lounge, he received confirmation that Wensley Hughes had made arrangements for some of the boys to visit Freeport to see if Nomora’s bridge and the captain’s cabin could be bugged. The plan was to enter the boatyard covertly over Christmas, though Ratso warned that some of the crew might now be joining Micky Quigley on board. He had just poured a second cup when Longman appeared, Uden trailing respectfully behind him.

The ACC was late forties, nudging six feet and looked as if he had led the lifestyle of an athlete. His face was almost cherubic, certainly boyish with fair hair flopping over his forehead. He was dressed in full uniform with shiny, heavy-duty black shoes. Ratso gave him a second look, trying to place where he had seen the man before. Had it been in the newspapers, police magazines, or had he come across him elsewhere? Whatever, the assistant chief constable showed no sign of recognizing him.

Uden looked very different, his face aggressive, the set of his square jaw defiant, screaming don’t piss with me. His en brosse silvery hair was revealed after he removed his cap as he sat down. He looked mid-forties and his gray, rather drawn features were designed for late-night poker, the steely eyes revealing nothing. The handshake was cold but firm. There was no smile.

“Tea or something stronger?” enquired Ratso of Longman, studiously ignoring Uden.

“It’s Todd, isn’t it? Todd, I could murder a builder’s tea with a teacake. Too early for a seasonal scotch, even for Graeme Uden here.”

“Only just,” Ratso replied but the senior officer let the joking tone pass. As Longman turned his head to the young waitress, Ratso took in his profile and knew at once where he had seen him before. “We’ve met. Sussex Martlets Cricket Club. You were the opening bat and you took a hundred off us at Arundel … oh, six, maybe seven years ago.”

Longman’s face lit up. “You were there? The best innings of my life. Seven seasons ago. So you were playing for the Revellers.”

“Nothing to revel about that day. You stuffed us. I opened the bowling and my figures were none for sixty-seven off twelve.”

“We won by eight wickets, I remember that too. But the Revellers are and were a good touring team. You a County player ever?”

Ratso shook his head. “The Met came first, second and third. The odd game for Surrey Twos if they were short. These days I’m playing for Shepherd’s Bush.” As he spoke, Ratso could sense Uden fuming that the two men had found a shared love to kick-start the meeting.

“I’ve pretty much hung up my boots now.” Longman paused while his chief inspector ordered a ham sandwich with plenty of mustard. “Now I’m happy just to be selected for the occasional golden-oldies match.”

As Longman and Ratso shared banter about grounds they had visited, players they had met and above all crowing about the Aussies being stuffed Down Under, Uden stared around, his thoughts locked behind impassive features. But once the tea was poured and Uden was taking great lumps out of his sandwiches, it was down to business.

Ratso’s fears about a hard sell gradually disappeared as he explained the two prongs of his plan. As he spoke, he kept scouring his memory for where he had come across the name Uden before. Did it have bad vibes? He was unsure. He just could not place it. At least with Longman, Ratso’s enthusiasm for the plans and his own coolness under Longman’s astute questioning seemed to have the ACC playing defensively off the back foot. But Uden said nothing, even after he had devoured the last crumbs from his plate. He sat, eyes lowered, head tilted forward, all the while watching and listening, revealing nothing. Ratso had met his type before—until Uden had decided which way the wind was blowing, he would say nothing. Then he’d back Longman, eager not to step a centimeter out of line.

Ratso was right. Forty minutes later, the ACC grinned across the empty plates and cups. Then he nodded to Uden. “Graeme, that’s a better plan than ours. The two prongs. Clever idea. Tricky, though.” He steepled his slender fingers as he peered across at his chief inspector. “We can make it work, can’t we?” Uden gave his monosyllabic approval without a smile.

Ratso knew just what to say. “I can see you’re a real detail man, Graeme,” he lied cheerfully. “You’ll need to be. Maybe we can regroup later? Give you a chance to sort out the small print, local knowledge and all. I need all the help I can get.” Ratso knew that the final words would hold sway and was not disappointed. A flicker of smug satisfaction crossed the chief inspector’s face.

Longman intervened almost instantly. “Todd’s right.” He turned to Ratso. “You’re CROPS trained?” Ratso nodded. “Then I want you there. You’re an AFO, too?” Again Ratso quickly confirmed he was an Authorised Firearms Officer. Only then did Longman’s slender finger point at Uden. “My take is this: you deal with the bigger picture round Bankside Gardens but have Todd concealed on the premises. Work for you?”

With barely a second’s hesitation, the taciturn Uden responded, “Good plan, sir. I’ll get started right away.”

The ACC studied his slim black watch with care before continuing. “Let’s meet in two hours at HQ. That’ll give you time to put the meat on the bones, eh?” He saw Uden almost smile. “Meanwhile, I’ll give Todd a tour of Hove, let him get a feeling for the area. I won’t stop at the property, not dressed like this. The less activity near Flinders, the better.”

Ratso watched Graeme Uden replace his cap with all the careful precision of a surgeon. Then he was gone, walking across the room with clockwork soldier strides. They watched him go.

“Man of few words, Uden but he’s a fine officer. Brave and good on the ground. He’ll be Silver, of course but with your knowledge of the Hogan mob, having you close to where they’ll start their raid makes sense. With a push, he’d be happy to play second fiddle to you during the raid.” Yes, Ratso mused. He’d be scared to fart without a written chit from the chief constable. “But,” Longman continued, “it’s best for his team that he’s in charge, even though the details will largely depend on you.”

So be it. Ratso smiled, pleased simply to have won over the ACC. Sensitivities between the Met and other forces could be as taut as banjo strings and just one false step could have led to another Quigley balls-up. As they braved the icy blast of the easterly to cross the car park, Ratso thought again how lucky it was that they shared a love of cricket. But it had been more than that—he had remembered Longman’s face, from seven years back. Now that wasn’t luck. Not at all. The thought pleased him as they headed inland, leaving behind the restless gray of the sea.

Brighton & Hove, Sussex, England

Over twenty-seven hours later, with Christmas Eve nearly Christmas Day, Ratso crouched among the shrubs in the pitch black of Rudi Tare’s front garden. The Hogan gang were on their way. He was in full camouflage, night binos round his neck and a Glock to hand if needed. For what seemed like the hundredth time, he went over the plan, rehearsing what lay ahead, trying to assess the weaknesses and all the while hoping things would continue to gel.

Ratso quietly unwrapped a Yorkie bar amidst the rustle of the foliage. He peered through the dark at his watch. Another ninety minutes till Christmas Day. From a house a few doors down came the strains of “Silent Night.” All is calm, all is quiet. The irony of the lyrics was not lost on him. Fat chance of that once Hogan arrives.

It was a cloudy night, the freezing wind having died away during the day. Even so, he was thankful for the black gloves and the warmth of the balaclava that shrouded his head. The cold night air penetrated every limb and he yearned to stamp his feet to stir up some body heat. His two-way earpiece linked him to Uden, who was outside the property in the garden of the house opposite. Uden was hooked into the wider circle of personnel dotted round Hove, watching for Hogan’s Transit to enter town, or concealed in side roads ready to man the roadblocks on his command.

Outside the property and well concealed were Uden’s shots, all armed and ready for whatever lay ahead. Ratso’s plan had called for at least seven of the armed team to be concealed around the grounds to arrest the Hogan mob. Longman read it differently. “Too risky,” he concluded. “We don’t know how long Danny Hogan’s men might be at Flinders.” Ratso had conceded the point. He knew from a right bog-upon a job near Woking that maintaining total silence for too long was a mounting risk. Someone like Tosh would be desperate for a piss. Give it long enough and somebody would cough, sneeze, belch, or fart and all hell could break loose. So Ratso alone was inside Rudi Tare’s front garden, concealed in the thick and unkempt shrubs and tall evergreens that lined the entire perimeter.

He finished his chocolate bar and stuffed the wrapper into his pocket. If everything Tosh’s snout had told him was solid, Dan Hogan would be leading a team of six while his brother Jerry remained in London. A navy blue Transit van would enter Brighton on the A23 at around 10:45 p.m. It should then take the A27 west before ducking down Dyke Road Avenue into the hinterland of Hove’s residential area. There, just over a mile back from the seafront, was Bankside Gardens. Once the van was at the property, officers from the Sussex Constabulary would be on standby to set up roadblocks and to lay stingers but for now, they were hidden well away from the junctions. Nothing must spook Dan Hogan.

Hidden in a driveway just one hundred meters away were two unmarked Mercedes people carriers. They were big, heavy and suitably close to being built like tanks, each filled with six armed officers ready to surround Flinders’ front gates. Once again, Ratso relived the small details agreed upon with Uden and Longman: when the gang was ready to leave, if it got that far, the first Mercedes would move in to block the driveway. The shots from the two Mercs would already be running to cover the gates. Dan Hogan and his thugs would be caught like rats in a trap—an expression Ratso had deliberately used to amuse Jock when bouncing the plan off him the day before.

It was 10:40 p.m. The van should be getting close. It had left London almost precisely at the time the snout had predicted. He looked across at the large, detached house from his hiding place. There were a couple of lights on, one upstairs, one down but the wide open space of the impressive gravelled courtyard lay in darkness.

A crackle in his ear provided confirmation from Uden. “From Silver. Santa One. Contact.”

Ratso took a sharp breath; the Transit had turned into Dyke Road Avenue. Uden would be the first to see it arrive. More vitally, he had to alert the Mercs when the Transit was ready to leave. Ratso felt very alone in the bushes, yet he was not bothered. This was where he wanted to be, at the pivotal point of the action. He now knew Hogan’s lot were coming armed with guns, chains and crowbars—at the very least. He eased his position slightly for the last time, desperate to avoid triggering the sensors that would floodlight the yard. Once activated, Ratso knew they would remain on for two minutes but with so much movement expected from the Hogan mob, he had to accept that the lights might remain on for longer, leaving him vulnerable … unless Hogan knew how to cut off the power.

A minute passed and then two, before Ratso heard the throb of a diesel cruising slowly along the tree-lined street. In his planning, Ratso had assumed it would drive in and park. It didn’t—stopping unseen somewhere short of the open double gates. He trained the night glasses on the entrance. The engine went silent. In the stillness, he heard a door open and seconds later came the sound of someone entering the drive. The crunching on the gravel suggested there was just one person and he was running. No sooner had the figure entered the property than the floodlights were triggered. Ratso could see him now—a stocky figure with full balaclava concealing his face. Was it Danny Hogan? It was impossible to be sure but the chunky build and lack of height made it likely. In his hand the intruder carried what looked like a pair of long-handled cutters.

The man seemed unconcerned about being caught in the full glare of the overhead lights. As soon as the large empty space in front of the house was illuminated, he began running, passing close to Ratso and then down the side of the garage to the back. Unless anyone had been on lookout at a window, they would have seen nothing before the figure had disappeared. Damned well informed, Ratso thought as he guessed where the man was headed. Hogan must have expected an empty house.

According to the drawings Uden had obtained from the landlord’s solicitor, the backup batteries for the alarm system and the mains electric switches were in an outhouse behind the garage. Uden had also established that it was secured by two large bolts, each padlocked but surely no match for those long-handled cutters. Almost instantly, he heard muffled scrunching sounds as the padlocks were cut, followed by the creak of a door. From down the road, the strains of “Away in a Manger” drifted across the blackness, reminding Ratso that tonight was supposed to be a magical night for kids, a time for peace and goodwill to all men. Not with Danny Hogan around. Still, Ratso was impressed; Hogan had done his homework. Perhaps he did have someone working on the inside.

If the intruder really knew his stuff, he would disable the two batteries before cutting off the power. If he didn’t, flicking the mains switch would still leave the house alarm system activated. For almost a minute, nothing happened but then the yard went black, the house lights went out and Ratso could see nothing at all. No alarms sounded. He’s cut off all power.

Ratso heard the sound of feet on gravel and his binos picked out the man as he returned to the van. Once again, he passed within two meters of Ratso. Then the sound of feet on gravel stopped. Ratso assumed the man was now on the pavement, briefing the gang in the Transit. Moments later he heard the diesel engine fire up; the throb grew noisier as the van advanced, lights on and swung into the blackened yard. It passed him and stopped about twelve meters away, parked upfacing the road, ready to leave.

From the neighbouring property Ratso now heard the lyrics of “We Three Kings.” The headlights were extinguished and the sound of doors opening filled the night. You ain’t bearing any gifts, though, are you, Danny? More of a takeaway tonight for you.

“Wot you reckon, Danny?” The voice was gravelly, pure South London.

“No sweat, mate. Place is empty. That Tare bleeder ain’t due back till after midnight. Not a sign of him or his mate even after we cut off all his fucking power. His telly must be on the blink, everyfink.”

“So?”

“Ned, you stay with me, Alfie round the back. Jack, watch the road. If he comes back early, you know what to do. Right? Shooters ready?” Ratso heard muttered responses. “Right—let’s do the bleedin’ garage, grab the gear and load the van.”

“An’ if the buggers come back?” The lookout sounded worried.

Hogan sounded exasperated. “Like I said, Jack. Yell like fuck. Right? Then it’s into the bushes and we grab Tare and his gofer when they get out their motor.”

It’s going to be kinda crowded in the bushes, Ratso thought. Ludicrously, a variation of the lyrics of the “Teddy Bears Picnic” flitted through Ratso’s mind—If you go into the bushes today, you’re sure of a big surprise. But as for Danny’s plan, it was piss-poor. No way would Rudi Tare drive in once he saw a Transit parked in his drive. Not that he could dial 999, either.

Ratso thought about the feverish activity now taking place in the neighbourhood. The roadblocks would be in place, stingers across the road. Danny, you’re trapped. The thought was warming—not as good as a snifter of scotch with Neil Shalford but pleasing enough. He wondered how Hogan would tackle the garage. Both white doors were metallic up-and-overs with a lock built into the twist handle in the middle. Perhaps Danny had somehow got a key. Even in a secluded location like this, to force the door with the Transit would be far too noisy. Every kid for miles around would think Santa’s sledge had fallen from a roof, reindeers and all.

He heard footsteps disappearing in all directions and then the clunk of something being moved. There was a solid thump as whatever it was hit the gravel. Ratso could now guess what was going on but still could see nothing, his view blocked by the van. After a few minutes of undefined movements, the yard was illuminated, suddenly and eerily by the business end of an oxy-acetylene cutter. The bright golden yellow flame showed three men as shadowy figures standing by the white garage door. Then the flame was fine-tuned to a razor-sharp pinpoint of light, which cut through half-inch-thick metal in seconds.

Ratso could hear a choir singing “O Come All Ye Faithful” as the cutter completed its circle around the handle. He heard someone wrench the handle clear and then came the rattle and scrape as the door pivoted upward. The black interior of the garage was invisible as the cutter was extinguished. Ratso heard swearing, followed by a clunk as the gas cylinder and blowtorch were loaded back into the rear of the van. Someone laughed as Danny’s familiar voice said they needed to leave plenty of room for the gear.

The CD of carols had ended. As Silver, Uden had to decide when to intervene but Ratso’s role was to give him a heads up. It wasn’t time yet. He saw a torch illuminate the garage before the door was lowered, only the occasional flicker of the men moving around inside visible through the hole. Did they know where the gear was stashed? Unless Danny knew, finding 30 kilos of cocaine in a house that size could take till long after midnight and Danny was expecting Tare back by then.

With someone guarding the gate, he bet Uden would be reluctant to call up the Merc until Jack had left his post to join the others. But getting the Merc to block the exit in time was going to be a close thing … too damned close. Ratso eased his position, stretching now that the sensors were inoperative. He shook some circulation into his aching legs. He had spent too long in his cramped, crouched position. Now every second seemed an age. Two minutes; three, four, five, six minutes all passed with only vague sounds of activity from the garage. He sent out a whispered message on the two-way. “Cyclops to Silver. Santa’s boys in the garage.”

The sound of the garage door being raised alerted him, followed by irritated voices. “Yer … but finding it wasn’t no big deal. We gotta lift the fucker. We know it’s full of the stuff. Get it in the van. Get lifting. I got the rest. Bleedin’ bonus that is.” Danny’s gravelly voice carried across the yard. The torch was extinguished but Ratso was satisfied from the grunting and swearing that the men were carrying a safe. No way were they carrying just 30 kilos of Class A in its wrapping.

“Easy, now. Don’t fuckin’ drop this on my fuckin’ foot.”

“Over a bit. Your way. To you, Ned. Now push. I said push, you useless fucking dickhead!” More grunting. “Okay. Now one last push so there’s room for everyone and we can close the bleedin’ doors.” The speaker raised his voice just a tad. “Ned—fetch Alfie and Jack. Then ’op in the bleedin’ back an’ sharpish.”

Ratso had heard enough. He whispered a message using his callsign. “Cyclops to Silver. Santa One about to leave.”

Uden acknowledged at once.

Ratso waited for Uden’s order. He waited one, two and then ten seconds. Still nothing. He was obviously waiting for Jack to return to the van. Bloody pointless. Don’t wait, Uden, or this is snafu time. Jack can get nowhere. We need the Merc now, right now. What are you doing, Uden you tosser? Get that Merc across the entrance. Now!

Another five seconds passed before Uden’s order went out. “From Silver. All units. Attack! Attack! Attack!”

Uden’s single command had put the roadblock teams on full alert. Farther afield, police vehicles would be on standby in every neighbouring street. The carpets of nails to deflate the tires would be rolled out about three hundred meters away in each direction. Wooden barriers would also be blocking the roads as a last resort but the nails laid like a carpet from verge to verge would surely be sufficient. On Uden’s command, Ratso knew that a dozen uniforms would be tumbling out of other vans, creating a wider cordon to support the TFU in case anyone tried to hoof it through adjoining properties.

Ratso saw Ned and Jack racing toward the Transit’s headlights and then round to the van’s rear doors. He heard them scrambling aboard. Then the doors were slammed shut and he glimpsed Danny Hogan’s squat figure entering the front passenger seat. At 11:27 p.m., the driver slipped the van into gear to cover the twenty-five meters or so to the gate. The vehicle edged forward, no hurry, no tire squeal, no panic—more like a funeral hearse than a South London gang making a getaway.