THE LONDON DRUG WARS (13 page)

Brookes had then knocked loudly on
the neighbour’s door. But no-one answered. He’d knocked, and knocked again as
loud as he could. Then he’d asked the witness if she was sure they hadn’t gone
out. The witness had shook her head vigorously, insisting she would have heard
them. The young Brookes was then in something of a dilemma; new in the job, he
didn’t want to do something stupid that he would regret later. In the end he
had followed his instincts. With his stick he’d smashed a small window in the
door, put his arm through the hole and turned the lock to gain entry. Careful
to tell the witness to remain outside he’d entered the flat. He’d shouted, “Is
anyone there?” but got no reply.

There were doors on either side of a
passageway; all were closed. Starting on the left he’d begun to search. Even to
this day Brookes could remember the eerie feeling he’d had at the time. There
was not a sound coming from anywhere in the flat. All he could hear were the
street sounds coming through the open front door. There was no-one in the
kitchen, which was the first room on the left. The next door he opened led to
the lounge. A woman was sitting on the couch staring into space. She didn’t
move as he entered the room; not even to look over her shoulder to see who as
there. On the floor in front of her were the broken shards of a dinner plate.
On the floor around the plate and splattered on the wall was what presumably
had been on the plate before it was hurled at the wall, chicken, chips and
peas; obviously someone’s Sunday lunch.

The woman appeared to be uninjured.
Brookes spoke to her and finally she turned her head towards him. Then she
pointed over her shoulder in the direction of one of the rooms Brookes hadn’t
yet searched. She had said simply and calmly, “He’s in there.” Brookes could
still see her face in his mind, even now, twenty-two years later. She had been
a plain woman in her forties. Even though there was no expression on her face,
Brookes saw the pain she had suffered over the years; it was etched into her
features.

In the bedroom he’d found the body of
a man on the bed. He was fully clothed. He lay on his back. His face and neck
were covered in huge blisters. The expression on his face was one of terror and
pain; his mouth open in the stricture of death. Cooking oil was everywhere; on
the face and upper torso of the man and on the pillow and sheets underneath
him. On its side on the floor beside the bed was an empty pan. Clearly it had
once contained boiling oil, no doubt in which the chips that were now all over
the lounge had been cooked.

Brookes came back to the present with
a jolt, he’d gone over a junction against a red traffic light. A car coming
from his left had had to brake sharply to avoid a collision; Brookes had been
lucky. He waved an apology to the driver of the other car. His mind now back on
the present, he drove more carefully for the remainder of his journey. But he
couldn’t get that incident of so many years ago out of his mind.

The woman had, of course, been
charged with murder; she had freely confessed to the crime. But she had had a
good lawyer (
If there is such a thing
, Brookes thought cynically). The
plea of mitigation had taken almost a whole day. Two doctors produced x-rays
and photos showing broken bones and a dentist, broken and dislodged teeth; all
of these injuries inflicted by the man on his wife. Her lawyer had also called
a psychiatrist who’d stated that she had acted whilst the balance of her mind
was disturbed.

The
woman had never complained or reported her husband to the police. But the hurt
had built up inside her until on that fateful Sunday it had exploded. When
she’d cooked his lunch and served it to him on a tray in front of the
television, he’d thrown it at the wall and stormed off into the bedroom. She’d
re-heated the oil, waited until he was snoring then coolly poured it all over
him. She was sentenced to life imprisonment. But the judge took the unusual but
fully warranted step of suspending the sentence, so she left the court a free
woman. Free that is except for her memories and injuries; they she would carry
with her for the rest of her life. But she was not the only one; the incident
and the picture of the man’s face would haunt Brookes too, only to be added to
in the intervening years by many more such pictures.

As soon as he was back at the
incident room Brookes telephoned DCI Bolton at the Yard and asked him to come
and see him. When he arrived Brookes offered him coffee and the two sat in
comfortable chairs in Brookes’ office. Brookes said, “Arthur, Browning House on
the Frampton Estate; I understand there’s some skinheads dealing hard drugs
there, are your team on to this?”

Bolton frowned. “It doesn’t ring a
bell, no. But nothing would surprise me on that estate.”

“Well I wouldn’t say my source is
unimpeachable but I’ve no reason not to trust it. Will you look into it? It’s
about time we began to make our mark somewhere if for no other reason than to
keep team’s morale up. But it’s no good just taking out a couple of street
dealers; I want to trace the drugs back to Bronchi. Set up an observation and
make damned sure your watchers are not spotted. We’ll only strike when we have
the link up the chain. Have you got that?”

“Yes.”

Brookes went on to give details as
supplied by Turnbull, without naming the man as his informant.

As soon as Bolton left Brookes’
office the DCI used his mobile to call his team at the Yard. His deputy, DI
Lionel Stapley, answered. Without preamble Bolton said, “Do we know of hard
drugs being sold from a flat on the Frampton Estate in Hackney?”

Stapley replied, “Give me a moment
guv, I’ll check the file.”

He was back less than two minutes
later. “No, there’s nothing on the file; where’d you get the info from guv?”

“Never mind. Apparently there’s two
skinheads selling from a second floor flat in Browning House. I know the estate
from other cases; the place is what the old school would have called a den of
iniquity. There’s about three hundred flats on the estate and in my reckoning
about half of them contain villains of one sort or another. Meet me at Hackney
Nick in half an hour and bring an observation team with you; I’ll be in the
collator’s office.”

Bolton went to an office at Hackney
Police Station where sat the station collator. In any enterprise, intelligence
is an important tool and in policing, criminal intelligence is vital. That,
plus crime scene investigation, forensic science, and the interrogation of
suspects make wonderful TV and movies.

In every police station in the land,
a dedicated officer has the responsibility of collecting, collating and
dispersing that intelligence. He is invariably a career constable who has spent
all of his service at the one station and will know every local nook and cranny
in the locality and who frequents it; some say ‘crook and nanny’ but that’s a
police joke.

The human rights lobby in the UK is
an influential one; they are largely responsible for the Data Protection Act.
One of the effects of this rather strange piece of legislation is that police
are not permitted to keep details of
suspected
criminal activity on
computers; only criminal convictions may be so recorded. Nor may they disclose
what they know about criminals to the public unless there has been a
conviction.

Sadly, it is not infrequently the
case that victims who report crimes to police are later reluctant to give
evidence in court. So no conviction can be obtained despite that fact that
everyone knows who did it. Innocent until proven guilty is a noble concept but
occasionally protects not just the innocent. Members of the human rights groups
who constantly heckle parliamentarians to put even more restrictions on police
clearly do not number among their members those innocents who have been victims
of these criminals who should be in jail.

As a direct result of the
restrictions placed on the spread of information by the Data Protection Act,
several known child molesters have been able to obtain employment at schools
and other establishments frequented by children with tragic results. In one
infamous case, a chief constable was pilloried into taking early retirement for
doing what the law required him to do, not disclosing information held by his
force. We are told that stranger things happen at sea; policemen find that
difficult to believe.

Fortunately, no-one has ever told the
police that they may not collect such information and use it themselves in
fighting crime. If they’re not permitted to keep records on a computer, nothing
stops them putting it on paper and they do. Each station collator keeps a
series of indices, all of which are updated and cross-referenced on a daily
basis. In the subject index are kept details of the criminal himself, age,
description, habits, known associates, criminal convictions and the pub he
frequents. The street index records his address and its proximity to that of
others of a similar persuasion. The vehicle index records motor vehicles he is
known to use or been seen in. And the method index, the types of crime he
commits and the methods he uses in the commission of those crimes. Every police
contact with a criminal, whether by uniformed patrol officers or detectives, is
noted and collated.

Thus when a crime is committed in a
particular location, or with a particular modus operandi; a witness gives a
description of a suspect or vehicle at or near the scene of a crime; one
criminal is arrested but others escape; or in a myriad of other circumstances,
a quick search of the collator’s indices gives detectives a good idea who to
look for and where he might be found and hours and hours of valuable time is
saved.

Bolton was interested in one
particular kind of criminal and found precisely what he sought. Criminals, like
people in all occupations, serve an apprenticeship, and during their
apprenticeship, they inevitably make mistakes. Those mistakes are recorded by
the collator. The collator at Hackney Police Station was PC Charlie Kingsley, a
career constable in his fifties. It was to him that Bolton put his request.
“What can you tell me about two brothers living on the Frampton Estate who deal
in drugs?”

Kingsley nodded. “Sounds like the Anderson
brothers, they live on the estate.”

Turning to one of the filing cabinets
lined along one wall, he opened a drawer and thumbed through the tightly packed
cards therein. Finding what he sought he pulled it out; it was in fact several
cards held together by an elastic band.

Glancing at it, he passed it to
Bolton, saying, “Yep; you’ve picked a right family there. The father’s in
Pentonville serving a sentence for blagging, the mother’s an ex-tom and the two
lads cut their teeth on car thefts and break-ins. Both have been in and out of
juvenile nick since they were twelve or thirteen. They must be about eighteen
and twenty now; I’m surprised they’re not both doing time for something or
other, they must be between sentences.”

Bolton had removed the elastic band
as Kingsley was speaking. As he looked through the mass of information on the
cards he said, “Are they part of a gang or do they operate alone?”

“Depends what they’re up to. But, yes
there is a gang on the estate and they’ll almost certainly be involved if only
as lookouts.”

Bolton frowned. “How the hell do they
get away with that?”

Kingsley gave him a hard look. “Come
on guv, you know the score. The estate is not exactly a no-go area; the Chief
Super here wouldn’t have that. But as soon as any of our lads even go anywhere
near the estate the word is spread and anything that was going on stops. Our
CID have turned over several of the flats but each one is a major operation and
we have to bring in the SPG as backup.” By SPG he meant the Special Patrol
Group, a police mobile riot squad.

“What about surveillance? What are
the chances of my team finding a spot to watch what’s happening?”

Kingsley laughed. “Good luck with
that, guv. The gang would suss you out straight away.”

Bolton said no more on the subject,
simply nodding. “OK thanks for your help. If you’ll just photocopy the info on
these cards for me, I’ll go and see your DCI. One of my DIs is on his way here,
send him up to the CID office when he arrives.”

DCI Danny Fields was in charge of the
Hackney CID. He and Bolton knew each other well and they sat in Fields’ office
drinking coffee and chatting over old times for a few minutes. When there was a
pause in the conversation Fields said, “OK Arthur, what can I do for you? You
didn’t come here to chat about the weather.”

Bolton smiled. “No, you’re right. My
team are working with John Brookes, your ex-boss. We’re targeting the Russian
drug dealer, Bronchi. One of his street sales outlets is on the Frampton
Estate, John wants us to raid the place. But first I want to set up an
observation, see if we can spot any deliveries; we need to trace the stuff back
up the chain. I’ve just seen your collator, he’s not very hopeful about the
prospects of an observation. Have you got any ideas Danny?”

Fields blew out his cheeks, slowly
letting the air out. “I’m sure Charlie Kingsley told you; whenever we go in
there it’s mob-handed. Half the people on the estate are villains and the other
half are too scared to interfere; the gangs of skinheads make sure of that. One
idea my DI had was to rent an empty flat and put a couple of our detectives in
but that won’t work if they’re local. The word would soon get around the estate
and they wouldn’t last five minutes. Other than that we can’t even use a parked
vehicle. The local gangs know which cars belong and which don’t. And those that
don’t are wrecked within hours of being there.”

As he was speaking DI Stapley
appeared in the doorway. Introductions were made and another seat was found for
Stapley. He had with him the photocopies of the collator’s information on the
Anderson family which he handed to Bolton. He said, “I’ve got Chambers and
Fraser waiting in the canteen.”

Bolton nodded.

The three detectives spent another
twenty minutes talking about the proposed action. Finally Bolton stood up and
shook Fields’ hand. “Thanks Danny, we’ll keep you informed of what we’re doing
as it’s your ground. Let us know of any operations you propose to do on the
estate before you move on them. And we’d be obliged if you keep our activities to
yourself; ‘ears have walls’ and all that rubbish.”

Fields smiled. “You always did get
things arse-uppards didn’t you Arthur?”

The three of them laughed as the two
visitors departed.

As they walked down the stairs Bolton
said, “Let’s go and have a look around the estate, see how the land lies. Get
your observation team out of the canteen and get them to follow us. We’ll use
your car and come back for mine later.”

*

That evening Brookes was invited to
dinner at Liza’s house. But this time her daughter Emma was to join them. He
was nervous, knowing that she would resent his presence in her mother’s life.
But it had to be faced sometime and he and Liza were getting on well; he hoped
he would be spending lots of time with her.

The introductions were a bit painful;
it seemed all three of them were nervous. Brookes had brought a bottle of the
Châteauneuf-du-Pape with him. Liza gave him a peck on the cheek and a ‘thank
you’. She then led the way to the dining room. The table had been set for three
and the roses Brookes had bought for their last date sat in a vase in its
centre. The whole was softly lit by candles placed about the room and the soft
notes of a Brahms piano concerto came from a small but high quality music
centre.

“Wow!” said Brookes. “I am honoured,
two beautiful ladies and dinner by candlelight.”

That brought a smile from Liza but a
blank expression from her daughter. Liza said, “Right, if you will open the
wine John and pour three glasses, I’ll finish off in the kitchen whilst you two
get acquainted.”

Once Brookes had opened the wine and
given each of them a glass, he and Emma sat at the table. The dining room was
an extension of the kitchen so Liza was able to remain part of the conversation
as she worked there. Brookes had racked his brains to think of an opening line
to start the conversation with the teenage girl and had chosen the obvious. “I
hear you are reading medicine at university Emma; is that something you’ve
always wanted to do?”

The girl gave him a look. “I’m sure
Mum will have told you, that’s what my father does; He’s a GP.”

“Of course. Is that what you want to
be, a GP?”

“Eventually, but first I want spend
some time abroad as an aid worker.” Her tone was matter of fact without warmth.

Brookes knew he must try another
track. He said, “I see you’re wearing a cross on your necklace; does that have
any religious significance?”

Her hand went to the necklace almost
defensively. “No, it was a gift from my father.”

Brookes smiled ruefully. “I don’t
seem to be doing too well, do I? Would you like to choose a subject to
discuss?”

She smiled at last. “Yes. Mum tells
me you are a police detective. Does that mean you are cynical as the TV
detectives all seem to be?”

“In a way, yes.”

She waited for him to go on. When he
didn’t she said, “In what way?”

“Oh, about people in general and
probably about life too.”

“So in every way.”

He shook his head. “No.” He paused to
gather his thoughts. After a long moment he said, “It may seem strange for me
to put it this way but, the fact that you ask me this question is an indication
of just how successful we are as a police force.”