Suits and Bullets

  CAFFEINE NIGHTS PUBLISHING

  Suits and Bullets

  ALFIE ROBINS

  Fiction aimed at the heart

  and the head...

  Published by Caffeine Nights Publishing 2016

  Copyright © Alfie Robins 2016

  Alfie Robins has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998 to be identified as the author of this work.

  CONDITIONS OF SALE

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, scanning, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  This book has been sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Published in Great Britain by

  Caffeine Nights Publishing

  4 Eton Close

  Walderslade

  Chatham

  Kent

  ME5 9AT

  www.caffeinenights.com

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-1-910720-60-8

  Cover design by

  Mark (Wills) Williams

  Everything else by

  Default, Luck and Accident

  Also by Alfie Robins

  Just Whistle

  Reprisal

  Snakes & Losers

  Funeral Rights

  For Sue

  Chapter 1

  For Detective Constable Greg Warren, it had been one of those days. To be fair he’d had a total pig of a year. How did that television news presenter put it, ‘a long way from home, wet through and pissed off’? Well that was Greg Warren; he was well and truly pissed off. The satnav of life was leading him absolutely nowhere but around in ever decreasing circles. He was virtually disappearing up his own arse.

  Warren was a solitary kind of a bloke, not that he found it hard to make friends, he just preferred his own company. During the course of his career he had proved to be a hard man who didn’t suffer fools gladly, a man good with his fists and feet in a tough situation.

  Perhaps that was part of the reason there was no one at home to have a hot meal and a glass of wine waiting, when he returned after a hard day. To be totally honest his life was the pits. That’s why he decided a move up north might do him some good.

  The Detective Constable took the initiative and moved to the ‘grim’ north, leaving behind his parents and a few mates. They told him ‘work hard, keep your head down and you’ll crack it’, promotion that is, three months – six months max, wrong, totally wrong. He was floundering and almost a year on he was contemplating moving back down to the ‘smoke’. He looked up from his computer screen, his boring colleagues looked to be busy, with the exception of Baz, the office loon who was trying to impress the new temp, her arse hanging over her chair like a small country. She looked more interested in the packet of crisps she was munching her way through.

  Warren, was bored out of his brain, his fingers were still on the keyboard, he just stared out of the second floor office window. For some bizarre reason he was taking some enjoyment in watching people dash about in the rain, trying to avoid getting soaked by the passing traffic. That was also the day Detective Constable Greg Warrens’ life changed – forever.

  Chapter 2

  Greg Warren had been working out of a busy nick in central London, pretty close to King’s Cross Station. He’d been there since he graduated from Hendon Police College. His probationary period went without hitch, and after three years on the beat he achieved his goal and entered CID. Things went well at King’s Cross, he was encouraged by colleagues and passed the Sergeant’s Promotion Board, but unfortunately promotion wasn’t forthcoming due to the fierce competition in the Metropolitan Police. And that is how he ended up chasing his dream in the arse end of nowhere.

  He woke as usual to the shrilling of the alarm clock, 6.30am, the start of another day in the boring life of Greg Warren. Reluctantly, he kicked off the duvet and swung his legs over the side of the bed. With his head in his hands he sat for a moment or two before getting a grip of himself and heading for the bathroom. He took the plunge, stood up and padded barefoot across the cold hardwood flooring. Hands resting on the washbasin, he stared in the mirror studying his face, while the basin filled with hot water. ‘Jesus, man you’re a fucking mess,’ he said out loud to the reflection. There seemed to be more wrinkles than yesterday, even the bags beneath his watery blue eyes looked darker and he was sure his short cropped hair had a few grey streaks mingling with the black. He turned off the tap and immersed his face in the hot water. With water dripping down his face he again checked out the image, maybe a miracle would have improved his lived-in look. It hadn’t; the face of a weary man stared back.

  There was no doubt about it, he wasn’t feeling on top of his game, he thought maybe he was coming down with something. He went back through to the bedroom, dressed, and opened the curtains only to see it was pouring down with rain. Downstairs in the kitchen he switched on the television like he did every morning, and like every other morning he had his predictable breakfast of scrambled eggs on toast washed down with a pot of freshly brewed coffee. Breakfast finished, he stuffed the dirty crockery into the dishwasher, the same as he did every other morning. Sitting on a kitchen chair, he put on his shoes and gave them a quick buff with a duster – he liked shiny shoes. He walked across to the built-in oven, checked his reflection in the glass door and straightened his tie, then picked up the remote and killed the television. ‘Up and at ’em,’ he said out loud and left for work.

  Most days, Warren made the journey into work by bus, but due to the crappy weather he decided to take the car. ‘C’mon, get moving,’ he shouted out loud as he sat in congested traffic. No one heard. He wished he’d caught the bus after all. By the time he reached Hull’s Central Police Station in the town centre his stress levels had moved up a level. He felt as if he’d done a day’s work even before he signed in. Warren parked up in the designated Police parking spaces in the nearby multi-storey car park, locked the car, pulled up the collar of his jacket, and taking the concrete stairs to the ground floor two at a time he made a beeline for the station.

  He punched the security code into the back door lock, nodded to the uniformed officers on the custody desk and made his way up a floor to the CID room.

  ‘Morning Greg, how’s it going?’ asked one of his colleagues.

  ‘Not bad mate, I’m fed up with the weather though. Came in the car and it was bumper to bumper all the way here.’

  ‘What are you on with?’

  ‘Still playing catch up with my paperwork from last week, trying to get it done before the DI gives me a rollicking.’ His colleague rolled his eyes knew the feeling well.

  Two hours later, with a congealing mug of cold coffee in front of him his mood still hadn’t improved. He was still sat at his computer typing up incident reports and other mundane crap that he’d let mount up over the past few days when a voice whispered in his ear. ‘The Super wants a word – now.’ It was Detective Inspector Bill Grimes.

  ‘What have I done this time, boss?’ he asked pushing back in his wheeled chair. ‘Another bollocking?’

  ‘No idea Greg, just passing on the message – d
on’t keep him waiting,’ he patted Warren on the shoulder and disappeared back through his office door, not giving him a second glance.

  He couldn’t recall doing anything worth being summoned into the inner sanctum for, not recently anyway. He freed his jacket from the back of his chair and put it on, and for the second time that morning he straightened his tie. Two flights of stairs up, he stood before the boss’s secretary like a schoolboy waiting to be told off for smoking. Frosty Face, the Super’s gate keeper looked up from her work, even though Warren gave her his best smile she didn’t say a word. Remaining pan-faced she picked up the phone and held a short whispered conversation. ‘You can go in now,’ she said giving him the evil eye that would have turned a lesser man to stone, and returned to tapping away at her computer keyboard.

  He knocked on the door and entered the office. The smell of furniture polish invaded his nostrils, not the cheap spray stuff but the expensive smell of bee’s wax and lavender. Superintendent James Pratt sat behind his highly waxed mahogany desk; he wasn’t alone in the office. Two suspicious looking suits were keeping him company. The suits didn’t even acknowledge that Warren had entered the office. The Super inclined his head to a vacant chair. Warren sat down, folded his arms across his chest, and crossed his legs out in front of him. No recognition from the suits, well, he thought, if it’s a roasting I may as well be comfortable.

  ‘Right gentlemen, I’ll leave you too it. If you need anything just ask Suzie on the desk, she’ll sort you out,’ the Super picked up his briefcase, put his dress cap under his arm and walked out.

  What the hell was going on?

  Suit number One stood up and walked around the desk and sat in the boss’s chair. Suit number Two stayed where he was. Number One was making a real show of reading the folder that lay open in front of him, like he himself would do in the interview room when he wanted to intimidate a suspect. Warren continued to sit, taking it all in, keeping his mouth shut while he studied his inquisitors. Suit number One was going bald on top and wearing thick-rimmed spectacles, he looked a bit like Ronnie Barker from the ‘Two Ronnies’, only thinner. Number Two had that worried look of a married man, a man with the world on his shoulders.

  Suit number One took out an eight-by-ten-inch photograph from a folder and studied the image, he looked at Warren and then passed the photograph to his colleague. He sat wondering what the hell it was all about. Suit number Two then placed the photograph face down on the desk. He looked at his colleague and nodded, that was when Warren felt the need to say something.

  ‘What the fuck’s going on here?’

  ‘Calm down DC Warren, no need for bad language.’ Suit number Two then slid the upturned photograph in front of him.

  Warren turned it over and picked it up.

  ‘This is bloody mental – why have you been taking surveillance photographs of me? Am I under investigation or something?’

  He had a feeling he wasn’t going to like the answer.

  ‘Take a closer look DC Warren.’

  He did, but he couldn’t place where the picture had been taken.

  ‘So, are you going to tell me what’s going on?’

  He pushed the photograph back across the desk and sat back folding his arms defiantly across his chest.

  ‘The photograph, can you confirm it’s you in the picture?’

  ‘Of course I can, who else is it – Mickey Fucking Mouse?’

  ‘What would you say if I said it isn’t you in the picture?’

  ‘I’d say you’ve lost your marbles.’

  ‘DC Warren, the man in the photograph is named Raymond Cole.’

  Warren leaned forward and grabbed the picture of the desk and had another look. Bloody hell. He couldn’t tell the difference. He may not have dressed the way Warren did but the man in the photograph could have been his identical twin. Puzzled, he looked from one suit to the other and back to the photograph, hoping for an answer. None was forthcoming.

  ‘And who is Raymond Cole when he’s at home, and where is all of this leading to?’

  ‘All in good time.’

  ‘DC Warren, we have a proposition for you…’ Suit number Two this time.

  ‘Stop right there, what’s going on here and who the hell are you? National Crime Force? MI5? Spooks?’

  Warren was trying unsuccessfully to keep command of the situation. He was losing.

  ‘None – and all of the above?’ Suit number One said non-committal.

  ‘Not much of an answer…’

  ‘DC Warren, please shut up and listen.’ Warren did as he was told and sat back in his chair once more. ‘As I was about to say, we have a proposition for you. When we’ve finished explaining you can ask all the questions you want – if we answer your questions is a different matter. First, stick your head out that door and ask the young lady outside – Suzie – very nicely to bring in some coffee.’ Warren thought calling Frosty Face a young lady was pushing it a bit; he kept the thought to himself and did actually go and ask for the coffee.

  ‘So what’s this all about?’ He asked as he took up his seat once again.

  ‘As we’ve said, all in good time,’ suit number Two replied.

  Suzie duly arrived with a loaded tray of coffee and biscuits. The crockery rattled, as she unceremoniously put the tray down on the desk, ignored Warren, smiled at the suits and left without a word. Suit number Two poured out three cups.

  ‘Help yourself to milk and sugar.’

  Warren sat forward in his chair, put a splash of milk and two sugars in his coffee and sat back, holding his cup and saucer balanced on his knee.

  ‘Ok, I’m listening,’ he said as he settled back, nursing his coffee.

  If Warren was honest he was intrigued to hear what they were going to say.

  ‘Raymond Cole, born 5th June 1987 in Leeds, an only child and both parents died when he was four years old, consequently he was brought up by his grandparents – both deceased.’

  Suit number Two took his turn. ‘He’s a player in the arena of arms smuggling, drug importation and he’s also been known to have accepted the odd contract hit or two. But he does have some scruples and draws the line at the trafficking of young women.’

  ‘Sounds like a nice bloke,’ Warren said with an edge.

  ‘Most of the time he’s on the periphery, he’s not exactly big time, but he does have his moments. More importantly, he does have access to bigger fish. All in all, a small but very important cog in a big wheel.’

  ‘Where do I come into it?’

  By now Warren was more than little intrigued.

  ‘Remember last month, when you travelled by North Sea Ferries on that stag weekend mini-break to Rotterdam?’ Warren nodded. ‘You wouldn’t believe the panic you caused when you passed through Dutch Customs. Their facial recognition software on their security system flagged you up all over Europe as Raymond Cole.’

  ‘How come I wasn’t picked up?’

  Warren inwardly smiled at the prospect of being ‘a wanted criminal’.

  ‘Simple, your passport scanned correctly and a few clicks on a keyboard and the panic was averted.’

  ‘That’s when one of our employees had an idea,’ Suit number One said, ‘our unit, Europol, and other International Law Enforcement agencies have been looking for a way into the organisation for quite some time, some bright spark thought why not make a substitution?’

  ‘And you thought of me.’ Why did I ever go on that weekend?

  Warren didn’t know whether to be flattered or feel that he was being taken for a mug.

  ‘Correct, we thought of you.’

  Suit number One sat back in the Super’s chair and folded his arms. Suit number Two sat forward resting on his elbows, then turned his head and looked at Warren.

  ‘What we propose is that you take his place.’

  There was a prolonged silence. Warren nearly gagged on his coffee.

  ‘Just like that?’ he said to break the silence.

  ‘Yes, DC Warren
, just like that.’

  ‘So I look like him,’ said Warren, ‘it doesn’t mean I can be him.’

  ‘Oh, but it does.’ Suit number One kept his voice low and calm. ‘With the right coaching and guidance, we can teach you everything there is to know about Cole, his ways, his friends and his contacts.’

  ‘Do I have any say in this?’

  Warren doubted it, he knew a refusal could end any hopes of furthering his career, on the other hand if he accepted, who knew where it could lead?

  ‘The decision is yours entirely. If you say no, we walk away, you won’t see us again.’

  ‘Do I have time to think about it?’

  ‘Of course,’ Suit number Two pulled back the sleeve of his jacket and looked at his watch. ‘Two minutes and counting.’

  ‘If I say yes, what happens next?’

  Warren was beginning to warm to the idea.

  ‘We walk out of here together, you on Sergeant’s pay scale with immediate effect and preparation will commence.’

  ‘What about my position here?’

  ‘Terminated immediately.’

  ‘And the Super, he’s ok with this?’

  ‘All approved from a higher authority than Superintendent Pratt.’ Warren sat quietly. Suit number one studied his watch. ‘One minute thirty seconds.’

  ‘And I could pull out at any time?’

  ‘We would require your long-term commitment DC Warren, you would be in it for the long haul, from start to completion.’

  He checked his watch again. ‘Thirty seconds then we’re leaving.’

  ‘Ok, I’m game.’ Shit what have I just said?

  ‘Good to have you on board Detective Sergeant Warren.’

  Both suits stood and shook hands with the newly promoted officer. ‘Fancy a pint?’