Simon Kernick - The Crime Trade

‘Benson blamed you, didn’t he?’

Stegs nodded. ‘Yeah. At the time I couldn’t understand it, I thought he was being too paranoid, but I suppose he thought only a couple of people in the world knew about it, and I was the likeliest one to have opened my mouth. It didn’t occur to me that Vokes could have been the source of the leak. I trusted him so I didn’t suspect him. First rule of life, John: trust no-one. It’s not fucking worth it.’ He waved the cigarette in my direction, trying to emphasize his point, and I saw that he was unsteady on his feet.

It occurred to me too that we wouldn’t be able to interview him in this state, and he might be a lot less talkative once he’d sobered up. ‘When did you find out about Vokes?’ I asked him.

‘It was after we did the sting on O’Brien, the one you and Boyd set up. If you remember, he wasn’t involved in the first part when we caught O’Brien redhanded.’ I remembered. Vokes had been unavailable. ‘But he came in for the next stage, the setting up of the sting on Fellano.’

‘That’s right.’

‘When he came in the room and first met O’Brien, I saw straight away that O’Brien recognized him. I don’t think Vokes recognized him back — in fact, I’m sure he didn’t — but O’Brien must have seen him with someone else from the Holtzes before. He didn’t say anything, but that didn’t matter. I saw the look, and I think that’s when I knew finally that the bastard was in with them. I should have known a long time back, but I never looked fucking hard enough, because I couldn’t see the wood for the trees.’ He sighed. ‘And do you know the worst part?’

‘What?’

‘He knew I knew. I’ve always been a good actor, you’ve got to be when you’re SO10, but my behaviour around him must have changed or something, because he knew that I was on to him. And the cunning bastard, that so-called Christian, he was going to set me up to die in that hotel room, just so he could make sure I kept my mouth shut. I’ve been thinking about the whole thing a long time, and I’ve worked it out. The idea of the robbery was to put Tyndall in the spotlight and fuck things up for him. Vokes used O’Brien to set it up, on behalf of Neil Vamen. O’Brien knew that Strangleman Grant, the one who got shot, would go for it because he was such a greedy, short-sighted prick.’

‘How do you know he was a greedy, short-sighted prick? You said at Heathrow that you’d never seen him before in your life.’

‘I’m theorizing, John. That’s all. Anyway, I was meant to be the one staying in that room while the robbery went down. Vokes knew the Colombians would kill me as soon as it happened down in the car park, but he was going to let it happen. Only thing was, it backfired. They wanted him to stay in the room, not me.’

‘Why was that?’

Stegs shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Maybe they didn’t trust him either.’

‘So, you’re the innocent in all this, are you?’

Something about my question — probably the scepticism in it — made him look my way.

‘I’m not the best man in the world, John, as my missus’ll no doubt tell you. I can be an arsehole, and I can bend the rules, but I promise you this: I had nothing to do with the leak on the Heathrow op.’

I eyed him carefully. ‘I hope not, Stegs. I sincerely hope not. For your sake.’

‘You don’t believe me, do you? But you know Vokes was the one who was working for Vamen. And there are others, too. Try Detective Chief Superintendent Flanagan, for one.’

I put my hand up. ‘All right, Stegs, slow down. I know you’ve had problems with Flanagan in the past, but he is definitely not corrupt. He’s the head of SO7, for Christ’s sake.’

Stegs opened his mouth to say something but then he stopped and turned. So did I. Hurrying across the field in our direction were Woodham and the two uniforms. Even in the darkness I could see the grave expression on the DCI’s face. My heart skipped a beat, and I felt an ominous dread. Something serious had happened.

‘Stay where you are,’ I told Stegs, stepping forward and putting a hand on his arm.

DS Bill Cheek was forty-three years old. He’d been a copper all his working life, and as times had changed — more for the worse than the better — he, like many of the other older officers in the Met, was thinking about retirement and the hallowed pension. A life away from the stress of dealing with people who in any other walk of life you’d cross the street to avoid. He and the wife had talked about him quitting next year when his twenty-five years’ service came up. She wanted them to retire to France, somewhere in Brittany, where they’d spent so many of their holidays down the years. They’d never had kids so there was nothing to hold them back, and he had to admit, there was something about the idea. They could sell their three-bed semi in Norwood, buy a big place near the sea with land, and still have plenty of money left over.

And now, suddenly, her dream — his too, since effectively she’d won him over to it — was fading as the reality of his situation sunk in. He was crouched back against the hall wall, facing the door twelve feet away, both hands holding the standard-issue Browning in front of him, listening to the scraping of their feet as they came to the front door.

The door was made of wood and looked reasonably sturdy, but Cheek realized now that he’d made a mistake. In the melee and confusion, he hadn’t been able to find the key to double-lock it, and the chain was too flimsy to act as much of a substitute. If only he’d kept the bloody thing in the door. It was too late now, far too late, and he wondered if it was a mistake that was going to cost him his life. He’d never fired a gun in anger before, even though he’d been a trained firearms officer for close to fifteen years, and had no desire to change that state of affairs now. British police guidelines for opening fire were some of the strictest in the world. If he pulled the trigger, he would face literally hundreds of questions. If he hit anyone, he’d be the subject of a major, and possibly hostile, investigation. There could even be murder or attempted murder charges if he made the wrong decision. It was a bastard of a position to put a man in.

There was a crack as the wood on the door was forced. Cheek’s grip on the gun tightened. He tried to force all doubts and fears out of his head, and focus on the few feet of empty space in front of him. But it was hard. Harder than anything he’d ever had to do before. This was it: life or death.

A second, louder crack split the silence, and he heard the door give. His teeth clenched, and he tried to stop his hands from shaking. But they shook anyway, as the fear dragged him deeper into the darkness. The moment of truth, the moment he wished to God he’d never have to face, and it was coming to him as swiftly and unexpectedly as a heart attack. And still he couldn’t fire, because he couldn’t see his targets, and could not tell for sure whether they were armed or not, even though they had to be, since why else would they be here?

Hold your fire. Pray you can pull the trigger. Pray you’ve got the strength. Pray they don’t fire first.

The door came open slowly, then stopped as the chain went taut. Silence. He thought he heard breathing.

Come on, if you’re coming. Come on.

Bang! It flew open like a shot, and then the shadowy figures were there, facing him down from the porch. His chest constricted painfully as he saw they had guns.

‘Armed police! Drop your weapons now!’

A stunningly loud burst of automatic gunfire erupted in the hallway as one of the figures opened fire. Cheek pulled the trigger, twice in rapid succession, but then his whole body seemed to burn up, and he felt himself being slammed against the wall as the bullets struck him.