Читать книгу War on the Streets - Peter Cave, Peter Cave - Страница 10

Paul Carney’s telephone rang. It was by far the most exciting thing that had happened to him in two days. He virtually jumped across the flat to snatch it up.

‘Paul?’ The voice on the other end of the phone was hesitant, almost apologetic.

And so it ought to be, Carney thought, recognizing the caller as DCI Manners. The man had, after all, virtually suspended him. His response was somewhat less than enthusiastic. ‘Yeah?’ he grunted. ‘What is it?’

There was a long sigh on the other end of the line as Manners got the message. It was more or less the reaction he had been expecting. ‘Look, Paul, about that special job I mentioned to you,’ he muttered, finally. ‘They want to see you.’

‘They? Who’s they?’ Carney asked guardedly.

‘Sorry, Paul, but I can’t tell you that,’ Manners apologized. ‘But there are a couple of Special Branch officers on their way round to your flat now. I’m sure they will explain everything to you.’

Eagerness, and the air of mystery, had already raised Carney to a pitch of anticipation. A sense of frustration was not far behind.

‘Special Branch?’ Carney queried irritably. ‘For Christ’s sake, Harry, what’s going on here?’

‘Sorry, but that’s all I can tell you for the minute,’ Manners said flatly. He had only the sketchiest idea of what was going on himself, and he’d been pressed to secrecy. Whatever the full facts were, they were well above the level of a mere Detective Chief Inspector. Even as a friend, there was nothing he could tell his colleague on that score. There was, however, something he could say, and he needed to say it.

‘There’s one other good piece of news I think you ought to know,’ Manners went on after a brief pause. ‘You know that batch of contaminated heroin you were worried about? The stuff that killed the girl?’

Carney jumped on it immediately. ‘Yeah. What about it?’

‘We’ve pulled it in – hopefully the whole lot,’ Manners told him. ‘And you were right – it was real bad shit. Adulterated up to seventy per cent and cut with bleaching powder, among other things. Lethal.’

Carney let out a sigh of relief. ‘Yeah, thanks, Harry. That is good news. How did you get on to it?’

‘Sofrides talked,’ Manners told him. ‘He led us straight to his supplier. A callous little bastard out for a quick profit and damn the consequences.’ He was silent for a while. ‘Just thought you’d like to know, that’s all.’

‘Yeah, thanks.’ Carney felt equally awkward, not sure what to say to his boss. The line was silent for a long time.

‘Well, good luck – whatever happens,’ Manners said finally, and hung up.

Carney slipped the receiver back into its cradle and began to pace about the flat, trying to figure out what was going on. He did not have to wait very long. Less than three minutes after the call from Manners, there was a light but firm knock on the door.

There were two men standing in the hallway as Carney opened up. They both looked businesslike and efficient. They were unsmiling.

‘Paul Carney?’ one of them asked.

Carney nodded. The two men exchanged a brief glance and took the admission as an invitation to enter. They stepped across the threshold, the second man closing the door behind him.

Minutes later, Carney was in the visitors’ car, being driven south to New Scotland Yard.

McMillan gestured to a vacant chair at the table. ‘Please sit down, Carney. Would you care for a drink?’

Carney felt himself tense up, both physically and mentally. Was this the opening move in some sort of test? he found himself wondering. Coppers weren’t supposed to drink on duty. So did they want to see if he lived by the book?

He forced himself to relax, rationalizing the situation. All this secrecy was making him paranoid, he decided. The offer was probably an innocent and genuine one. Besides, he wasn’t officially on duty any more, and he could certainly do with a drink. He nodded, finally. ‘Yes, thank you, sir. A Scotch would be fine.’

The commissioner allowed the faintest smile to cross his face. So Carney was a man, and not just some order-following drone. Carney noticed the smile, realized that he had been tested, and could only assume that he had passed.

McMillan stood up, opened a filing cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Glenfiddich and a chunky tumbler. He splashed a healthy measure into the glass and carried it over to Carney before resuming his place at the table. He looked at Carney thoughtfully for a while. ‘Well, no doubt you’ve been wondering what all this is about,’ he said at last.

Carney allowed himself a small grin. ‘You could say that, sir.’

Commander Franks consulted a slim dossier on the desk in front of him. He studied its contents for a few seconds before looking up at Carney. ‘Your superior says you’re a tough cop, Carney,’ he said. ‘You know the streets and you know your enemy.’

Carney shrugged. ‘I just handle my job, sir.’

Franks nodded. ‘But unfortunately you can’t always handle your temper,’ he pointed out. It was a statement of fact, not quite an accusation, but Carney was immediately defensive.

‘I just hate drugs. And I hate the villains who are pushing them to our kids,’ he said with feeling.

‘As do we all,’ Franks observed. ‘But our job places certain restrictions upon us. We have to work to specific rules, standards of behaviour which are acceptable to society. You went over the top, Carney – and you know it.’

It was an open rebuke now, inviting some sort of apology. Carney bowed his head slightly. ‘Yes, sir, I’m aware of that. And I’m sorry.’ He did not attempt to justify his actions in any way.

It seemed to satisfy Franks, who merely nodded to himself and glanced across at McMillan, passing some unspoken message. The commissioner leaned across the table, resting his elbows on it and forming a steeple with his fingers. ‘Right, gentlemen,’ he announced in a businesslike tone. ‘Let’s get down to it, shall we?’

For the next forty-five minutes Carney faced an almost non-stop barrage of questions. Some seemed totally irrelevant, and a few were of such a highly personal nature that he found himself becoming irritated by what he thought were unwarranted intrusions into his private life. As the session drew to an end, however, he began to realize that the three men in that room now knew just about everything there was to know about Paul Carney the policeman and Paul Carney the man. His opinions, his personality, his strengths – and his weaknesses. It was a rather disconcerting feeling.

Finally McMillan glanced at each of his colleagues in turn, inviting further questions. There were none. He turned his attention back to Carney.

‘Let’s get to business, then. It would appear that you need a job, Mr Carney. We have one for you, if you want it. A very special job, I might add.’ He paused. ‘Are you interested?’

Carney was guarded. ‘I suppose that would have to depend on what the job was,’ he said.

‘Ah,’ McMillan sighed thoughtfully. ‘Now that gives me something of a problem. Basically, I cannot give you any details about the job until you agree to take it. You will also be required to take a grade three security oath.’

Carney was flabbergasted – and it showed on his face. He gaped at McMillan for several seconds before finally finding his voice. ‘With respect, sir, that’s crazy. How can I agree to a job without knowing what it is? It might not suit me. I might not suit it. I couldn’t be a pen-pusher, buried behind some pile of papers, for a start.’

McMillan smiled faintly. ‘I appreciate your candidness, Mr Carney,’ he murmured. ‘But I can and do assure you that far from being desk-bound, you’d be out there fighting crime. In the very front line, so to speak.’ He paused briefly. ‘But that’s all I can tell you at this point. It’s now completely down to you. We can proceed no further without your agreement.’

Carney’s head was spinning. In desperation, he looked over at Commander Franks. ‘If I turn this down, sir, what are the chances of my being returned to normal duty?’

Franks shook his head slowly. ‘None,’ he said, bluntly. ‘The very qualities which make you attractive to us also preclude your continued service in the conventional police force.’

The finality of this statement was enough to push Carney over the edge. He made his decision on impulse as much as anything. ‘All right, so let’s say I’m in,’ he muttered, still slightly dubious.

McMillan nodded gravely and signalled to Grieves, who produced an official-looking document from his pocket and slid it over the table towards Carney. ‘Read and sign this,’ he said curtly.

Carney scanned it quickly, eager to find some clue as to what he was letting himself in for, but the document itself told him virtually nothing. Finally he looked up at Grieves again, who silently handed him a fountain pen. Hesitating for just a moment, Carney read the security oath aloud and signed the paper. McMillan and Franks added their own signatures as witnesses and Grieves returned the document to his pocket. It was done.

‘Right. Now we can tell you what we have in mind,’ McMillan said. He began to launch into a detailed account of the plans formulated thus far.