Safety reasons, you know.’
‘I am looking after your safety,’ says Murphy. ‘I’m giving you deniability.’
‘Deniability?’
‘Yeah. It’s like the old song goes, “You don’t put your dick in the blender if you’re running short on swizzle sticks”.’
‘I don’t know that one,’ says Sami.
‘I could get Dessie here to sing it for you, but he’s not a fan of karaoke.’ Murphy spits a fleck of tobacco leaf onto the floor. ‘He’s also not partial to smart-mouth sarky toerags who ask too many questions.’
Sami keeps his mouth shut.
‘Right, that’s decided,’ says Murphy. ‘We’ll get you the specs. Dessie, here, will get you the equipment. You do the job tomorrow.’
‘What do you mean tomorrow?’ says Sami. ‘I need more time to prepare … to practise.’
‘Got no time.’
A bell clangs. The dogs are off again. Murphy turns to the window to watch. ‘Another thing, son, I don’t want you even thinking you might tip off Old Bill about these discussions. That’s why you’re going to stay with Dessie until tomorrow, understand?
‘And if you did go shooting off your mouth at some later date, I got a dozen people, including a member of parliament, who’ll put me three hundred miles from here, watching Man City play Everton.
‘The CCTV cameras will tell ’em the same thing. Ever heard of body doubles, son? Saddam had used dozens of ’em - fat fuckers with moustaches who strutted around firing shots in the air. So did Adolf. Now I don’t like the Krauts as a rule but they’ve had some pretty good ideas, Mercedes, BMWs. Gassing them Jews was right out of order, mind you, but some of the kikes I know wouldn’t give you the steam off their piss unless they were charging usage. I shit you not.
‘So don’t you go blabbing about our little enterprise, before or afterwards. Understand? Or I’ll have Dessie here hold open your smart mouth with a spout while I piss down your throat.’
17
The address is off Whitechapel Road - three streets back from the river. Jack the Ripper territory but nowadays it could be in Bangladesh or Mogadishu or Mecca. There are headscarves and Halal butchers, Halal bakers and Halal greengrocers. How do you get Halal fruit and veg, wonders Ruiz, as he parks the car on vacant ground beside a mosque.
A gaggle of teenagers in hoodies and low-slung jeans slink out of shadows - every one of them a genetic time bomb. They begin checking out the Merc and regarding Ruiz with hate and envy.
The ringleader looks no older than twelve. Fearless. Freckled. Hostile.
‘This is our fucking turf. You can’t park here without our say so.’
‘Is that right? I didn’t see any signs. Must be getting old.’
‘It’s gonna cost you.’
‘How much?’
The kid looks at his gang. ‘A fiver.’ And then adds, ‘for a half hour.’
Ruiz takes out a tenner. ‘You got change?’
The kid looks at it greedily. ‘You can stay an hour.’
Ruiz balls up the ten quid note and looks at the gang. One of them is a mixed race kid, small and whippet thin. Built to run. Ruiz points to him. Motions him forward. Gives him the tenner.
‘Whoever catches you, gets the money. Otherwise, you get to keep it.’
The kid takes off, darting across the allotment, leaping a fence, dodging rubbish bins and parked cars. He’s flying down the street with the others in pursuit, screaming abuse.
Ruiz’s mobile vibrates against his heart. Fiona Taylor sounds concerned.
‘Funny thing happened after I talked to you. I typed Tony Murphy’s name into the PNC and pulled up his file.’
‘How many pages did it come to?’
‘Oh, it’s long, but I’m more interested in the pages I’m not allowed to see.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There’s a lock on some of the information. I don’t have the security clearance to access it.’
Ruiz can hear her tapping a pencil on the edge of her desk. She’s thinking. ‘It could be special ops.’
‘A surveillance operation?’
‘MI5
‘I am looking after your safety,’ says Murphy. ‘I’m giving you deniability.’
‘Deniability?’
‘Yeah. It’s like the old song goes, “You don’t put your dick in the blender if you’re running short on swizzle sticks”.’
‘I don’t know that one,’ says Sami.
‘I could get Dessie here to sing it for you, but he’s not a fan of karaoke.’ Murphy spits a fleck of tobacco leaf onto the floor. ‘He’s also not partial to smart-mouth sarky toerags who ask too many questions.’
Sami keeps his mouth shut.
‘Right, that’s decided,’ says Murphy. ‘We’ll get you the specs. Dessie, here, will get you the equipment. You do the job tomorrow.’
‘What do you mean tomorrow?’ says Sami. ‘I need more time to prepare … to practise.’
‘Got no time.’
A bell clangs. The dogs are off again. Murphy turns to the window to watch. ‘Another thing, son, I don’t want you even thinking you might tip off Old Bill about these discussions. That’s why you’re going to stay with Dessie until tomorrow, understand?
‘And if you did go shooting off your mouth at some later date, I got a dozen people, including a member of parliament, who’ll put me three hundred miles from here, watching Man City play Everton.
‘The CCTV cameras will tell ’em the same thing. Ever heard of body doubles, son? Saddam had used dozens of ’em - fat fuckers with moustaches who strutted around firing shots in the air. So did Adolf. Now I don’t like the Krauts as a rule but they’ve had some pretty good ideas, Mercedes, BMWs. Gassing them Jews was right out of order, mind you, but some of the kikes I know wouldn’t give you the steam off their piss unless they were charging usage. I shit you not.
‘So don’t you go blabbing about our little enterprise, before or afterwards. Understand? Or I’ll have Dessie here hold open your smart mouth with a spout while I piss down your throat.’
17
The address is off Whitechapel Road - three streets back from the river. Jack the Ripper territory but nowadays it could be in Bangladesh or Mogadishu or Mecca. There are headscarves and Halal butchers, Halal bakers and Halal greengrocers. How do you get Halal fruit and veg, wonders Ruiz, as he parks the car on vacant ground beside a mosque.
A gaggle of teenagers in hoodies and low-slung jeans slink out of shadows - every one of them a genetic time bomb. They begin checking out the Merc and regarding Ruiz with hate and envy.
The ringleader looks no older than twelve. Fearless. Freckled. Hostile.
‘This is our fucking turf. You can’t park here without our say so.’
‘Is that right? I didn’t see any signs. Must be getting old.’
‘It’s gonna cost you.’
‘How much?’
The kid looks at his gang. ‘A fiver.’ And then adds, ‘for a half hour.’
Ruiz takes out a tenner. ‘You got change?’
The kid looks at it greedily. ‘You can stay an hour.’
Ruiz balls up the ten quid note and looks at the gang. One of them is a mixed race kid, small and whippet thin. Built to run. Ruiz points to him. Motions him forward. Gives him the tenner.
‘Whoever catches you, gets the money. Otherwise, you get to keep it.’
The kid takes off, darting across the allotment, leaping a fence, dodging rubbish bins and parked cars. He’s flying down the street with the others in pursuit, screaming abuse.
Ruiz’s mobile vibrates against his heart. Fiona Taylor sounds concerned.
‘Funny thing happened after I talked to you. I typed Tony Murphy’s name into the PNC and pulled up his file.’
‘How many pages did it come to?’
‘Oh, it’s long, but I’m more interested in the pages I’m not allowed to see.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There’s a lock on some of the information. I don’t have the security clearance to access it.’
Ruiz can hear her tapping a pencil on the edge of her desk. She’s thinking. ‘It could be special ops.’
‘A surveillance operation?’
‘MI5
Similar Books
