Here Be Dragons: A Short Story (2 page)

Assaf approaches and stands square in front of him, and Joesbury raises his arms to be frisked. He allows Haddad to remove his jacket. They will be looking for recording equipment, a GPS tracking device, a gun. None of which he is carrying.

At least two of this lot are armed, though, including Beenie. He has already spotted the tell-tale bulge under Haddad’s jacket, and Beenie has sneaked him a glimpse of the Beretta only just hidden by his long, loose shirt. Which is really not cool. Contrary to popular belief, officers on covert operations are not allowed to break the law and have no automatic immunity from prosecution. Beenie might have already allowed himself to get reckless.

When the search is over, Rich steps in. ‘Where are we?’

Joesbury makes a show of taking a deep breath and tilting his head this way and that. He takes in the smell of oil, brine and rotting vegetation. ‘About a stone’s throw from the river.’

Rich snorts. ‘More specifically?’

Joesbury knows exactly where they are – he knew when the car stopped – but nobody likes a smart arse. He turns on the spot until he sees the moon. ‘South Bank.’ He carries on, finds Canary Wharf tower, closes his eyes again and pretends to think.

‘Royal Jamaica Sugar warehouse.’ He points west. ‘Not far from the Blackwall Tunnel. The A206 is about a quarter of a mile that way. Been derelict for twenty years, due for development in the next couple. No river access here any more, unless you’ve taken wire-cutters to the fence.’

Something in Rich’s face has softened, although the lines around his mouth suggest he rarely smiles. ‘How far to Tower Bridge?’

‘Nine kilometres, give or take.’

‘How long to get there? By river.’

So this is something to do with the Thames. Beenie had suspected as much when he’d been told to find them a bent (or bendable) copper with knowledge of the river.

‘Depends on your engine size. The Marine Unit’s RIBs are about the fastest craft on the river. One of them would do it in about twenty-five minutes at twelve knots. Less if they put their foot down.’

‘How long to Westminster Bridge from here?’

‘Same speed, maybe thirty-five minutes.’

‘Is there a speed limit on the river?’

Joesbury shakes his head. ‘Not before Wandsworth Bridge, but most craft stick to between ten and twelve knots. The closer you get to the Houses of Parliament, the more wary the police will be about speeding. And you’ll be on the radar of the Port of London Authority.’

‘And the Barrier? How long to get to the Barrier?’

The Thames Barrier is an immense concrete and metal flood-defence structure that spans the river at Woolwich. ‘Authorities are less twitchy about speed on this stretch,’ Joesbury tells him. ‘The RIBs will do it in five minutes, maybe less, depending on the tide.’

‘What’s the tide now?’

‘It was on its way in when I crossed Vauxhall Bridge earlier. I’d say about four hours off high water and running at its fastest. You guys planning a fishing trip?’

Rich’s frown doesn’t even soften. ‘Beenie says you’ve got contacts in the river police.’

‘My granddad worked for the Marine Unit for thirty years. I know a lot of the guys. Dave Cook’s a family friend.’ He doesn’t mention his Uncle Fred, a sergeant with the unit – somehow it feels too personal. And he certainly isn’t going to tell them about Lacey.

Rich is still dominating the conversation. The others are spaced around him and Joesbury, like Security. Rich says, ‘Beenie told you I need help with a job?’

Joesbury glances round, ostensibly to nod at Beenie, in reality to check exactly where the other guys are. ‘That’s all he told me. I normally like to have some idea what I’m getting myself into.’

Rich sneers. ‘Did you know what was going down with the Wandsworth job?’

The Wandsworth job is fictitious, part of his cover. Mick Jackson is supposedly a uniformed sergeant, recently transferred from Wandsworth to Catford police station following an investigation into fraud.

‘Nothing ever proved about that.’

There is just the shadow of a smile on Rich’s face now. ‘I’ve heard you’re on a final warning with the force.’

Joesbury says nothing. This, too, is part of his cover story that has to be believed.

‘Just been through a divorce. Wife cleaned you out.’

Joesbury is divorced, has been for several years, but Carrie, his ex-wife, was characteristically reasonable about the settlement. ‘What’s it to you?’

Rich holds his hand out. As if waiting for the cue, one of the men hands him a cheap sports bag. Rich unzips it. Inside is cash.

‘Ten grand,’ he says. ‘Call it a down-payment. Forty more when the job’s done.’

‘Nobody pays ten grand for a fishing trip. Never mind fifty. What’s this about?’

Joesbury is conscious of Beenie holding his breath. Maybe he is doing it too.

‘You can walk away now. But if you take that, consider yourself in my employment.’

‘What do I have to do?’

‘Keep Beenie informed of your shifts at Catford. Don’t make any plans you can’t change at a moment’s notice.’

‘Till when? Putting my life on hold for a month for ten grand feels like nice work. Six months is a different story.’

‘You can book your flight to Benidorm in September. That do you?’

Progress, already. They have a time frame. Joesbury starts to nod his agreement, just as the grumbling roar of south London traffic is interrupted by a new note: the harsh sound of a siren, regular and increasing in volume, close by, getting closer. Joesbury can see blue lights bouncing off broken window panes in the buildings opposite and he turns, a second later than the others, to see the police car drive in through the archway.

‘What the fuck?’ someone mutters.

There are two occupants in the police car. Both male, Joesbury thinks, white, young. The car stops and that alone tells him they are way out of their depth. They’ve driven themselves into a bottleneck and positioned the car so that they can’t even reverse straight back.

The passenger door opens and a short-cropped head of brown hair appears. The driver is speaking into the radio.

Joesbury knows the officer who’s just left the car. Not well, thank God – he doesn’t see instant recognition on the lad’s face, but any second now. He worked out of Catford for two weeks after Joesbury transferred there, before being moved himself. Townsend is his name, Nick or Nigel or something.

‘We can’t be taken in, boys, not with what we’ve got in the boot,’ Rich says.

‘Can you all step away from the vehicle?’ Townsend sounds more sure of himself than he should. He has yet to experience a situation going rapidly and directly to hell.

Nobody moves. Joesbury can hear Beenie breathing heavily. He is too young and inexperienced to deal with something like this.

‘Waste ’em.’ Rich is speaking softly, even Joesbury at his side can barely hear him, and for a split second his words don’t register. But then Assaf moves aside his jacket and there is what looks like a Glock pistol strapped to his side. Haddad draws a similar looking gun and holds it with both hands, like a character in an old episode of
The Sweeney
. Beenie, too, has brought out his gun and is holding it with a shaking hand, not two feet from Joesbury.

Beenie is in the best position, has the cleanest shot. Rich is looking expectantly at him, but the kid looks terrified, will lose it any second now.

Handguns are notoriously inaccurate at distances. Most people who carry them have them for show, to intimidate. When they do use them it’s at point-blank range because, except in the hand of a marksman, they are simply incapable of firing with any sort of accuracy. If Beenie pulls the trigger now he could either miss Townsend completely or blow his brains out. Most people who wield handguns have no idea how to use them properly and from the way Beenie’s whole arm is shaking, it is obvious that he is no exception.

Townsend is floundering, stuck between the options of brazening it out or running the five yards back to the car.

‘Don’t,’ Joesbury says. ‘They can’t possibly get back-up here for another ten minutes, not with the traffic we drove through. Beenie can give me his gun. I’ll hold them off while you lot scarper.’

Rich nods his head slowly up and then down again and Joesbury feels some of the tension leaving him. Then Townsend signs his own death warrant.

‘Sarge?’ His eyes are crinkled in the poor light but are fixed on Joesbury. He’s recognized him. This isn’t a problem for Joesbury, Townsend is simply confirming his cover, but he can’t be allowed to go back and report having seen a uniformed sergeant in company with a gang of villains.

‘Do it,’ says Rich, so Joesbury does it.

He reaches out, grabs the Beretta from Beenie, who is too surprised to resist, aims, and pulls the trigger. Unlike most people who wield handguns, Joesbury is an excellent marksman. Townsend is sent teetering back by the force of the blow and on the fourth step, he falls. Blood is spreading over the right side of his chest like a rapidly blooming flower. Joesbury strides across, stands over him for a second with the gun pointing directly at his head, then as the police car shoots backwards, he takes out both front tyres with two clean shots.

‘Get out of here. Now!’ He calls this to the men he has left standing, but he walks on towards the police car, taking out the windscreen with his fourth shot. The reversing car hits something and stops. Joesbury runs the last few paces to the car as the BMW pulls alongside.

The patrol car driver is pressed up against the door. Joesbury can see his heaving shoulders, his thinning hair and his white hands clutching at his head.

‘Keep your head down, you moron.’ He lifts the gun. Two shots left and he fires them both into the passenger seat. ‘Count to fifty before you move or I promise you, you’re a dead man.’ He stands upright. In the passenger seat of the BMW, Rich is watching. Joesbury wipes his hand across his face, as though wiping away blood.

‘Go.’ He gestures towards the archway. ‘Get out of here.’

He doesn’t hear what Rich says in response, but the car accelerates forward. He catches a glimpse of Beenie staring at him through the rear mirror as the car disappears.

Suddenly, Joesbury is drenched in sweat. He is so warm, so wet that for a second he thinks he too is bleeding. He takes deep breaths, tells himself to hold it together. Townsend’s eyes are closed now, and the crimson pool around him is growing bigger.

Somewhere, not too far away, another siren is getting louder. Joesbury starts to run.

‘IT’S ME.’

‘Jesus, Mark, what the fuck went down? Less than an hour on the job and the frigging—’

DCI Pete Philips, Joesbury’s boss at Scotland Yard, has many qualities. The ability to keep a calm head in a crisis is not one of them.

Joesbury cups his hand around the phone to keep out the background noise. This is not a conversation to have at volume. ‘How is he?’

‘In fucking theatre is how he is.’ Philips, who is known to the team as PP, but only behind his back, sounds as though it is he who has just sprinted several miles through the back streets of south London. ‘Which is where he’s been for over an hour now.’

‘Good. If he’s been in theatre that long he’s not dying of blood loss. He may lose some movement in his right arm, but that’s a whole lot better than being dead.’

‘They recognized you, you daft prick. There’ll be a warrant out for your arrest before midnight unless I—’

‘Even better. Listen to me now, Guv, I don’t have much time. I need you to find out what uniform were doing at that warehouse tonight. Of all the derelict shit-holes on the south bank, why turn up at that one?’

‘Call-out, apparently. Some sort of disturbance.’

‘Yeah, and I’m Princess Margaret. A nice, unremarkable car driving slowly down a non-residential road in that neighbourhood and someone reports a disturbance. Seriously?’

There is a heavy sigh, and Joesbury pictures his boss running his hands through his thinning hair. ‘Set-up?’

Of course it had been a frigging stitch-up. He’d known that the second the blue lights appeared. ‘Find out where the call came from. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was all part of the interview process.’

Down the line comes the sound of a subdued moan. ‘You could be right. Listen, you’ve got to come in until we know where we stand. I’m calling Beenie in too. The kid’s in pieces. We can regroup. Sort this out.’

‘No.’ Joesbury braces himself for a fight. ‘I’m staying on the job. I’ll talk to Beenie, make sure he’s OK.’

‘You will be arrested. And when you are, it will take the combined efforts of the Met’s highest and MI5 to prevent you being charged with attempted murder.’

‘They’ve got to find me first. Listen, Pete, whatever’s going down has to be big. They wouldn’t risk killing a copper if it weren’t. They needed to be absolutely sure of me. Beenie, too. When I become London’s Most Wanted they’ll assume I have nowhere else to turn. I can find out what they’re planning.’

There is a sound like a strangled scream, as though someone has sneaked up on his boss and taken him in a choke-hold. Joesbury waits it out. He’s heard it before. It is a good few seconds before Philips speaks again and only then through gritted teeth.

‘Did we get anything before the entire op went tits up?’

‘Something on the river in the next six weeks. They were asking about Westminster, the Tower, the Barrier.’

He can hear the rapid, heavy footsteps of a stressed man pacing.

‘Mark, if we go with this, the number of people who’ll know the truth will be counted on my balls. Your family, your mates, they’ll all believe you’ve gone. It’s a lot to put them through.’

For a second Joesbury sees the small, pale face of his son and hardens his heart. Huck Joesbury is tougher than his dad. ‘I know that. I’ve got to go. Find out how that daft kid’s doing and who made that phone call.’

‘Where the hell are you? We haven’t been able to trace your phone.’

Joesbury looks around. During England’s industrial revolution, the tributaries of the tidal Thames urbanized, morphing into steel and concrete channels, with towering warehouses and commercial wharves fighting for space along the banks. Deptford Creek, the name given to the last half-mile of the River Ravensbourne before it meets the Thames at Deptford, is a vast mud-filled tunnel at low tide.