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  This edition first published 2017 by Fahrenheit Press

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  www.Fahrenheit-Press.com

  Copyright © Ian Patrick 2017

  The right of Ian Patrick to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  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, recording or otherwise, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  F 4 E

  Rubicon

  By

  Ian Patrick

  Fahrenheit Press

  For Emma, from your man of few words.

  ,

  1

  Never wear slippers to a shoeing. Ben Hamer should have listened to this advice but he didn’t. Big H is down two million. Now, Hamer is no fool. He’s a Yank and works with money. The only issue is, he should have invested in property as Big H had requested. But he hadn’t. That’s where I come in.

  I’m not affiliated to the big man but I have been subcontracted, on a few occasions, to rectify business transactions that have gone awry. It’s quite a simple contract; whatever you borrow you must give back with the agreed interest. Hamer is Big H’s accountant. He’d done good work until he decided to work both ends of the chain and start talking to the old bill about Big H’s money. You see, even amongst criminals there’s a code of conduct. Hamer has breached that line.

  I have nothing to do with either of them but I do have my own set of morals. Morals are the Velcro of society. I see myself as a twenty-first century bounty hunter. In my work the first law of survival is to stay alive. The first rule of any hunt: Don’t be seen. This applies to the hunted as well as the hunter, that’s why I’ve been so successful. I’ve never met Big H but he knows how to get hold of me.

  In the end it’s about discipline and Hamer lacks it. I was raised on discipline; something my old man was keen on. I’ve the buckle scars on my back to prove it. My mum also took her fair share. She shouldn’t have intervened. Childhood prepared me for the army. When I left the service, I was educated for life. Her Majesty also prepared me to kill; another bonus. Second rule: Know your target. The army was keen on this message as friendly fire is frowned upon.

  When you’re getting paid to do a job, do it properly. Now this wasn’t too difficult with Hamer. He’d met me but wouldn’t remember me. I knew Big H didn’t want this done as a knock on the door. This isn’t an Ikea self-build. The instructions must be clear.

  Following him was a piece of piss. He’s an accountant, not a villain. Hamer is slower than an amputeed sloth and this made following him simple. His portly frame exuded an odour that was distinguishable in crowds. He would stop frequently. This is easy to combat on a foot follow but tougher by vehicle. Hamer was often looking over his shoulder when he was out on the capital’s streets, but then, who isn’t in London? Hamer wasn’t aware of me.

  I know this as I’ve given up my cab for him and sat in the same food joints as him. He’s oblivious to his surroundings. I dress up to dress down because it helps in the hunt and fits with the first rule: Don’t be seen. I can adapt in most places. I’m in an age bracket where you take a pride in yourself but no one really notices you.

  Money hasn’t changed him. Hamer sticks with habitual routes, uses cabs and avoids public transport. His size and his apathy for exercise means he stops frequently. He ends up in the same place most lunch times, a small garden area in Temple, protected by Chambers. He enjoys foot-long meatball subs. The juices leak from his mouth like drool from a hippo. It took a month to learn his rituals, his lunch spot and his favourite titty bar. You may have money, work with money and wipe your arse with money but when it’s not your money, you can’t hide or keep the change.

  I’ve rented a room in a converted courthouse in Elephant and Castle. It houses a bunch of Buddhists on retreat. I sleep in what was a holding cell but has now been appropriately redecorated and the lock is now on the inside. It’s sparse but there’s a certain beauty in minimalism. This works well for me. No one speaks or asks questions, there’s no CCTV and I can meditate.

  Meditation calms the mind. Teaches me patience, a necessary trait when you’re about to end a life. Remember the second rule: Know your target, mistakes cost lives.

  I know where Hamer will be in the next hour, it’s a Thursday so he’ll be at the titty bar. He’ll be dressed in his only grey pinstripe suit, his trousers held up by braces that strain against his gut like a noose on a neck. He’ll leave around midnight and I know what route he’ll take to get home. I take my time getting ready. It’s easy in this small abode. I’ve chosen a black tracksuit, dark polo sweater and black peaked cap. I have the appearance of a running insomniac, which should blend in well with the surroundings and the route I’ll be taking to Hamer’s final destination. There’s a peaceful serenity about the Centre, a ‘calm abiding’, they call it. I feel it but not enough to stop me.

  I leave the Centre and turn left onto the main drag to Elephant and Castle. At the lights I cross and avail myself of the London Bike scheme. The one thing this government has enabled is state-endorsed crime. Santander may sponsor the bike but that’s not the message being ‘pedalled’. I cannot tell you the amount of pushers I know who use this service to transport their commodities about the London streets, providing the poor unfortunate masses with their fast food. Big H controls their financial sector. He also provides the payment to facilitate the hire. A generous man.

  The traffic over Blackfriars Bridge is sedate and I’m making good time. I travel light; a small compact backpack is all I need to carry my tools. Hamer is getting his fill at the bar and not all of it drink. I know from my times sitting opposite him that he’ll be playing with change in his pocket whilst he wipes his sweat-strewn brow with a handkerchief that has seen better days. He consumes neat whiskey and tips the ladies well. They in turn allow him a quick feel but nothing more.

  I’ve become friendly with the inevitable although I don’t wish to meet my maker anytime soon. Looking at my watch face I am aware that I am the only person who knows Hamer’s time is coming to an end – unless of course you believe in God, which I don’t.

  I picked Thursday for his demise, as I knew he would have enjoyed his last hours before death. I could afford him this last luxury. I am a decent man after all. Big H sees it differently, which he can; it was his money Hamer gambled with.

  The ride along Pentonville Road is tough and the climb steep from King’s Cross. I remember life is tougher with every revolution of the wheel. I replace the bike at a docking station near Chapel Market and begin my run. I check my watch, a ‘Rolex’ purchased on a beach in Thailand. The watch is fake but it provides genuine time.

  It’s 0030 hours. I have twenty minutes.

  Barnsbury, respite for the hip and bohemian. An area populated by politicians and the head of a prominent crime family. It’s also where Hamer has chosen to rent a one-bedroom ground-floor studio flat. The curtains still twitch here. First rule: Don’t be seen. Even in a salubrious area the street lighting is poor and provides me with good cover. I pause by the steps of 62A and undo the backpack. Only four steps from street to door. The basement flat is vacant.

  The petrol-filled water bottle I’d been carrying gradually becomes lighter as I thoughtfully dispense its toxic smelling contents over the front door and main step. If anyone were looking they would just see a man emptying a bottle after his run. The streets are quiet, the only visitor an urban fox who has the sense and wisdom not to approach. I smile at him. Many a time I would be lying in a hedgerow waiting for my foe and a fox would stroll by, take a piss on me and mo
ve on. A rare skill to be invisible to the indigenous street dweller. I’m careful not to get any petrol inside the letterbox. Insurance is high in this area. Time 0040 hours. Hamer will be here in five. I carry on pouring the petrol down the steps and across the road where I stop at the entrance to a small secluded park.

  A pair of eyes catches my attention and I freeze. The same hunters’ eyes I had seen earlier watching and waiting for any spoils. Headlights sweep through the park and I duck back. I remove a Zippo from my pocket. I hear the vehicle stop. The engine remains running. It’s a black cab. I know the engine noise. I hear Hamer’s voice and I move forward towards the gate to the park entrance. Voices emanate and formalities are exchanged. Only two voices, both male. The night is pleasant with very little breeze.

  The eyes that were following me have disappeared. This is it. I am about to cross the Rubicon. I pull my polo neck over my lower face and my cap peak down. My gloves feel like skin and the grip on the lighter is good. Tick, tick goes the watch. The flame ignites with the first flick of my thumb. I move towards the end of the fuel line and look up with one final check. I hear another engine, not a car. Hamer turns towards me and his eyes briefly catch mine. I sense a glimmer of recognition then he looks away in the direction of the road. I freeze. Darkness turns to light and he’s gone. Lit up like a self-immolating monk.

  The scene has altered now. Police tape decorates the road at either end. A white tent has been erected thirty feet from the flat’s charred door. A 500cc Kawasaki motorbike lies on its side further along the road. A black cab with its passenger door missing is emanating smoke into the night air and misting the portable lights. Fire has devoured it. Three fire trucks remain, engines idling. The low hum of the generator ticks over and illuminates people in white suits and masks, some on their hands and knees, picking at the road and moving in one horizontal line, others coming in and out of the main door to the flat.

  The smell of petrol is overpowering, which is fortuitous, as I haven’t changed clothing. There are no ambulances, only local voyeurs. I’ve always enjoyed this moment, the return to the scene of the crime. The creation of chaos is an occupational hazard but one that keeps many in employment.

  A uniformed police officer stands by the scene tape looking bored. At least he’s had the heat of the fire to keep him warm. I decide to approach, I’ve seen what I need to see. My polo neck is rolled down and my hat on as befits the situation. I reach into my right pocket. As I approach, the uniform officer moves forward to stop me but is intercepted by a young female wearing a forensic suit. Her auburn hair is tied back in a ponytail; she doesn’t wear makeup and looks tired.

  She moves in front of the uniform and takes a clipboard from him. I continue forward and stop at the edge of the line. Some rules are vital to obey, implied or otherwise. She approaches me, confidence emanates from her protective garment.

  “Looks like the bike rider lost control, mounted the pavement and killed the male as he was getting out the cab. The rider went over the top of the bike in a ball of flame. Petrol from the bike engine ignited them both. The corpse we’ve established is a Ben Hamer. Next of kin informed but there’s not much of him to be identified. Motorcyclist is at UCH, not likely to survive. I’ve requested pre-transfusion blood and started house to house. Cab driver is giving a statement. It’s all in hand, sarge.”

  I nod, sign the crime scene log, hang my warrant card round my neck and duck under the tape. A forensic suit and shoes are handed to me. Final rule: Keep your enemies close. They’re your greatest teacher.

  Let me explain how I came to be here. To do that I need to fill in some back story.

  Sensitive log entry – 0800 hours 10th August 2020

  This is the sensitive decision log for DCI Klara Winter.

  All entries will be made by me and no other person. I will record both views and thoughts of individuals and the on-going enquiry.

  I will not be disclosing this record to the defence as it contains sensitive information pertaining to covert methods. The CPS will guide me when and if required.

  This log is concerned with Operation Storm, a National Crime Agency enquiry into a subject known as Vincenzo Guardino, aka Big H and his associates, concerned in the importation of class A drugs and firearms to the UK.

  It will detail my thoughts and decisions concerning covert assets and their use during this enquiry.

  This is a major enquiry and will use the HOLMES system for recording actions and all non-sensitive records relating to the operation.

  I am short staffed, but who isn’t? I have requested more staff but will have to wait to see how the investigation progresses in this lifestyle phase.

  I am satisfied I can continue at this time without jeopardising officer safety.

  Log started in relation to secondment of an undercover officer (UCO) from the Metropolitan Police Covert Intelligence CommandAnti-Terrorist Command (SCO35).

  This has NOT been requested by myself and is NOT wanted in relation to this investigation.

  I have sufficient cover, at present, in relation to the target that would NOT warrant the use of a UCO employed direct into the organised criminal network.

  I have been called this morning by Commander Helen Barnes, Metropolitan Police Service Covert Intelligence Command, and been directed that the UCO will be employed on my operation as to a wider remit of national security the reasons for which I will NOT be briefed on.

  The UCO is DS Sam Batford.

  I don’t understand who the fuck she thinks she is, foisting this methodology on me at this stage in the investigation, and have no alternative course of action I can take.

  DS Batford will meet with me later today where he will be left in no uncertain terms as to my displeasure at their arrival and my expectations of being kept updated as to their findings in the course of my enquiry.

  I feel my inclusion on the fast track promotion scheme and recent promotion to DCI is irksome to the MPS and Commander Barnes.

  All funding, in relation to the UCO, will be met by SCO35 – MPS and as far as I’m concerned, they will be lucky to get a cup of tea out of me.

  Entry complete.

  DCI Winter

  Senior Investigating Officer

  Op Storm

  2

  Major Crime. That’s my business. A month previously I was seconded to the National Crime Agency. For an elite lot of staff their anonymity is poor. I approach my new offices in Spring Gardens SE11 and the National Crime Agency sign greets me. I’d looked the address up online. I had visited when it was the Serious Organised Crime Agency. I stop, take a look. It’s important to know your surroundings before you go waltzing in. The double security gates contain a vehicle in the tiger trap. A blue Ford Mondeo, blacked out rear windows. As one door shuts the other opens. It exits right.

  My entrance is through metal side doors. An air lock lets me in and spews me out. A reception officer looks up, I move towards him. The fella on the desk looks at my warrant card then at me. He hands the card back, picks up a phone and dials an internal number. His worn, nicotine-stained fingers stab at the keypad.

  “Your man’s here.”

  He nods at me to sit as he replaces the receiver. I stay standing. He feels like king of his domain but he needs to know who’s really in control.

  It was the same in the army. When you were on point you coveted it. You owned the area despite being near the unknown. No matter what the rank, you did your role until you were instructed otherwise. The difference in civvy street is there’s no discipline. We’re all laws unto ourselves when the chips are down. ‘Fools Gold’ chimes its announcement from my inner pocket; the Nokia 3210 vibrates in synchronicity. I let the tune ring on a while. I love it. It means work and gives me time to prepare an answer.

  I press green and hold the phone to my ear. Never speak until you’ve heard the voice at the other end. The wrong voice could cost lives. Some phones you should never lose and this was one of them.

  “Alright, babes?
I heard you was back. I need a meet.”

  I know the voice. I should do, I recruited her. I check the Home Office-issue clock on the reception wall. I breathe and bide my time.

  “Seven p.m., outside Mount Pleasant Sorting Office.”

  I terminate the call. I’ve got enough time to make my introductions here, conduct the meet and greet then get to my main work. She knew I was in the UK as I’d left a calling card at her address. She doesn’t need to know how I knew it. If she asks then it’s word of mouth on her estate rather than a voters’ check on our systems and a fake call to the local authority housing department regarding a noise complaint.

  Now, don’t get me wrong, I love society and all the good it brings. I may come across like an uncaring callous bastard but for the record I do have a heart and I’m good at what I get paid to do. I just have high expectations. The goods are what it’s all about in this world. We order on-line and have an expectation that the parcel will arrive well packaged and at the agreed location and time. I am one such package. I get a call told what the order is and the boss expects delivery, on time and with the minimum of fuss. Some orders are easy to complete but this one is going to be a bitch.

  From the reflection in the one-way glass I can see a female, early thirties, auburn hair, slim fit grey trousers and white shirt open at the neck. She speaks with the guard and he nods in my direction. She approaches me and I wait to turn. She’s confident, self-assured and I already know she’s the detective chief inspector of the unit I’m seconded to. I turn and get in first.

  “DS Batford, ma’am. Pleased to meet you.”

  She doesn’t shake hands. An interesting first response.