War on the Streets. Peter Cave

cleared his throat. ‘Well, it would seem to me that the first thing you are going to need is a good, straight cop who knows the drug scene at street level,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘No disrespect intended, but it really is foreign territory out there.’

      It made sense, Davies thought, taking no offence. Franks was right – the theatre of operations would be something completely new and unfamiliar to his men, and they didn’t have any maps. They would need a guide.

      ‘Someone with a bit of initiative, who can think for himself,’ Davies insisted. ‘I don’t want some order-taker.’

      Franks nodded understandingly. ‘I’ll find you such a man,’ he promised.

       2

      The blue Porsche screamed round the corner into the narrow mews entrance at a dangerous angle, clipping the kerb with a squeal of tortured rubber and wrenching the rear wheel up on to the narrow pavement. Bouncing back down on to the cobbled street, the car slewed erratically a couple of times before straightening up and slowing down, finally coming to a halt outside one of the terraced cottages. Like everything else in this part of south-west London, the house was small but expensive.

      Glynis Jefferson glanced sideways out of the car window, looking at the number on the house to check the address. There was no real need. The sounds of rave music and general merriment issuing from the house showed that the party was still in full swing, even at three-thirty in the morning. Relief showed on the girl’s strained face as she opened the car door and stepped out.

      Her knees felt weak, buckling under her. She leaned against the side of the car for support, trying to control the violent shudders which shook her whole body in irregular and involuntary spasms. It was a warm night, yet she was shivering. Her young face, though undeniably attractive, was taut and lined with tension, ageing her beyond her years. Her eyes were wide, apparently vacant, yet betraying some inner disturbance, like a helpless animal in pain.

      She pulled herself together with an effort and dragged herself up the three stone steps to the front of the mews cottage. She rang the bell, fidgeting impatiently as she waited for someone to answer it.

      The door was finally opened in a blast of sound by a young man in his early thirties. Glynis did not recognize him; nor did it matter. Names were not important to her.

      Nigel Moxley-Farrer lolled against the door jamb, appraising the young blonde on his doorstep. His eyes were glassy, the pupils dilated. He was either drunk, or stoned – probably both. An inane, vacant grin on his face showed that he approved of his attractive young vistor.

      ‘Well hello, darling. Come to join the bash? You’re too gorgeous to need an invitation. Just come on in.’ He lurched backwards, inviting her into the house.

      Glynis shook her head. ‘I’m not partying. I’m just looking for Charlie.’

      Despite his befuddled brain, Nigel’s face was instantly suspicious. His eyes narrowed. ‘Charlie? Charlie who?’

      Glynis shuddered again. Her voice was edgy and irritable. ‘Aw, come on, man. Don’t piss me about.’ She paused briefly. ‘Look, I was at Annabel’s tonight. A guy called David told me I could score here tonight.’

      So it was out in the open; no need for any further pretence. They both knew exactly what Charlie she was looking for. C for Charlie – the code word for cocaine among the Sloane Ranger set.

      Still grinning, Nigel shook his head. ‘You’re too late, darling. Charlie’s been and gone.’ He spread his hands in an expansive gesture, giggling stupidly. ‘Hey, can’t you tell?’

      Another violent spasm racked Glynis’s body. A look of despair crept over her face. ‘Oh, Jesus!’ she groaned. She looked up at Nigel again, her eyes pleading. ‘Come on, somebody’s got to be still holding, surely? The money’s no problem, OK?’

      Nigel shook his head again. ‘Not a single snort left in the place. We all did our thing a couple of hours ago.’ He reached out, grasping her by the arm. ‘But don’t let that bother your pretty head, darling. We’ve still got plenty of booze left. Why don’t you just come in and get chateaued instead?’

      Glynis shook free of his grip with a sudden, violent jerk. The sheer intensity of her reaction wiped the grin from Nigel’s face for a second. He stared down at her more carefully, noting the perspiration starting to show through her make-up, the nervous twitching of little muscles in her face.

      ‘It’s really that bad, huh?’

      Glynis nodded dumbly. She looked totally dejected and pathetic. Nigel looked at her dubiously for a while, finally coming to some sort of a decision.

      ‘Look, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Got a pen and paper?’

      Glynis nodded again, this time with a flash of hope on her face. She rummaged in her handbag and fished out a ballpoint pen and an old clothing store receipt.

      Nigel took them from her trembling fingers. Holding the scrap of paper against the door-frame, he began to scribble.

      ‘Look, this guy is strictly down-market, and he charges way over the odds on street prices…but he can usually come across, know what I mean?’

      The girl nodded gratefully. ‘Yeah. And thanks.’

      She turned to go back down the steps. Nigel called after her. ‘Hey, look, don’t forget to tell him Nigel M sent you. It puts me in line for a favour, know what I mean?’

      Glynis didn’t answer. Nigel remained in the doorway for a few moments, watching her as she climbed into the Porsche and backed hurriedly out of the narrow street. A slim female hand descended on his shoulder, and a pair of red lips which smelled strongly of gin nuzzled his ear.

      ‘Hey, come on, Nigel. You’re missing the party.’

      Nigel turned away from the door, finally.

      ‘Who was it – gatecrashers?’ his companion asked.

      Nigel shook his head. ‘No, just some junkie bird chasing Charlie. I sent her to Greek Tony.’

      His girlfriend pulled an expression of distaste. ‘Ugh, that slimeball? She must have been pretty desperate.’

      Nigel nodded. ‘Yes, I think she was,’ he muttered.

      Detective Sergeant Paul Carney sat at his desk, sifting through a growing pile of paperwork. Several empty plastic cups from the coffee machine and an ashtray filled with cigarette stubs testified to a long, all-night session. There was a light tap on his office door, and Detective Chief Inspector Manners let himself in without waiting for an invitation. There was a faintly chiding look on his face as he confronted Carney.

      ‘Didn’t see your name on the night-duty roster, Paul,’ he observed pointedly.

      Carney shrugged. ‘Just catching up on some more of this fucking paperwork, when I ought to be out there on the streets. Bringing this week’s little tally up to date.’

      Manners clucked his teeth sympathetically. ‘Bad, huh?’

      Carney let out a short, bitter laugh. ‘You tell me how bad is bad. In the last four days we’ve snatched five and a half kilos of coke at Heathrow alone. That means a minimum of twenty-five kilos got through. This morning we pulled a stiff off an Air India flight. Two hundred grand’s worth of pure heroin in his guts, packed in condoms. One of ’em burst during the flight. What you might call an instant high.’

      ‘Jeezus, I thought those things were supposed to stop accidents,’ Manners said.

      ‘Not funny, Harry,’ Carney muttered. ‘Christ, we’re under fucking siege here. Provincial airports, the ferries, commercial shipping, private boats and planes, bloody amateurs bringing back ten kilos of hash from their Club 18-30 holidays on Corfu. And we haven’t got a fucking clue yet what’s going to come flooding