The Follow Read online

  ‘Look, can I come inside? And apart from my kitchen what the bloody hell are you doing here?’

  Andy looked a bit awkward. ‘Burglary mate, someone saw a couple of guys break into the house and called us. They were gone by the time we arrived.’

  I shouldered my way into the house before he had finished speaking, concerned about my passport and driving licence, both of which were in the cupboard under the stairs along with the bag containing my riot gear and spare pepper spray (which I wasn’t supposed to have). After a few moments of frantic searching, I sighed with relief as I found both of the items right where they should be; buried under a mound of old utility bills and next to my untouched PSU bag.

  Andy had followed me in and I turned to him, hearing people upstairs. ‘How many of you are here?’

  ‘Me, Bobby on the front door and two other probationers upstairs. We’re a little short on tutors at the moment so we’re tripling up.’

  ‘Who called it in?’ I asked, surprised that someone had actually noticed. Almost ninety percent of burglaries were committed during the day and they were rarely discovered until the owners came home.

  Andy looked a little uncomfortable as he answered. ‘That’s the funny thing, the serial was restricted. Not even the comms supervisor could read more than the first line, it came from HQ.’

  Serials, the jobs that come in via the phone, can be restricted from view by anyone but authorised viewers and this is most commonly done when they contain sensitive information or involve a police officer. For a serial to be restricted so that not even the comms supervisor could read it could only mean one thing. PSD must have called it in, which meant that they must have either been sitting outside and let it happen or have installed technical equipment, bugs and cameras, in the house. I felt my anger stir again and took several deep breaths so that I wouldn’t blurt anything out in front of Andy. ‘Did you get a description?’ I asked when I was calm enough to speak.

  He took his flat cap off and scratched his head, looking puzzled. ‘That’s another funny thing; the descriptions were excellent.’ He consulted his notebook, pulled from the pocket on the front of his stab vest.

  ‘Two white males, mid-twenties. Male One had light brown hair, short, and had two earrings in his left ear. He was wearing a brown leather jacket with black elbow patches and blue jeans. Six foot one, stocky build.’

  ‘Male Two was five-eleven, with a green parka jacket, a black roll-neck jumper, black jeans and white trainers with blue flashes on them, and had a skinhead.’

  He was right; most members of the public wouldn’t have got half of that, so for that level of detail it had to be someone trained to remember everything. Namely a police officer.

  ‘Thanks Andy, have you got a point of entry?’

  He nodded. ‘Yeah, the front door. They slipped the Yale with a piece of plastic, we reckon. There’s no sign of forced entry.’

  I cursed, realising that I had left in such a hurry that morning that I hadn’t used the mortise lock. Yale locks were easy to slip if you had a piece of curved plastic, like half a coke bottle, and the knowledge of where to put it. It was fast and simple and there was little chance of them having left anything for forensics.

  I looked up at Andy, hoping that he would give me a break as I asked, ‘Look mate, I’ve had one hell of a week. You know I got arrested the other day?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Well the last thing I want is more coppers wandering around the house, no offence. Is there any chance you can just leave me an MG11 and I’ll drop it into the Nick when it’s done?’

  MG11s are statement forms and, while I normally did mine on the computer, I would gladly scrawl a quick aggrieved statement out by hand if it gave me a bit of peace.

  ‘Sure mate,’ he pulled a crumpled MG11 out of his trouser pocket, ‘got one right here. Just leave it at the front desk when you’re done.’ He called up the stairs and a pair of yet more fresh-faced probationers, a man and a woman, came down. They gave me matching sympathetic smiles as they headed out of the door, closely followed by Coucher.

  Alone at last, I threw my coat over the end of the banister and went into the front room, looking around carefully for anywhere they could have hidden cameras. The only things in the room big enough to hide anything were the sofa and the TV and, if they had unscrewed the plate on the back of the latter, I’d go spare as it was still under warranty.

  Throwing caution to the wind, I pulled my mobile phone out and began running it over the sofa, about a centimetre away from the fabric. The speaker on the phone should feedback from any microphones they had left, making that blipping noise you hear from speakers when your phone checks for a signal. After about thirty seconds, I was rewarded with the noise I was only half expecting and pulled up the sofa cover on the right arm to see a tiny black dot about the size of a coat button wedged in-between two parts of the cushion.

  So I’d been right, they had bugged me. Nice to see how much I was trusted after my eight years of slogging it out with the underbelly of humanity. Knowing that where there was a bug there would probably be a camera, I looked around the room again but couldn’t see anything that gave the location away. Feeling more betrayed than angry, I leaned down close to the bug and spoke into it in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘This is Broadsword calling Danny Boy, Broadsword calling Danny Boy, will you please come and take this shit out of my house? I’ve played ball with you, and this is enough for me to take out a grievance against PSD for harassment. You’ve got ten minutes before I phone the Federation, or the newspapers, whichever one I can find the number for first.’

  They would know as well as I did that I could never phone the papers and expect to keep my job, but I was getting past caring and I hoped that they knew that. I pulled the bug from its hiding place and set it on the arm cover, then went into the kitchen to start the horrifying job of washing up while I waited for PSD’s next move.

  I didn’t have long to wait; within twenty minutes there was a knock on my door and I opened it to find Steve Barnett and a tall, greying man that I didn’t recognise standing on the step. Barnett was looking at me with resignation written all over his face as if he had given up trying to catch me out but wasn’t happy about it. ‘Gareth, this is DS Peel, he’s the sergeant in charge of your case. Can we come in?’

  I nodded at Peel and stepped back to allow them entry, waving them into the front room. They sat on the sofa, studiously ignoring the bug I had placed in plain sight while I leaned against the bare wall. ‘So, I assume that you were the ones who called in my burglary? I suppose I should be grateful that Sussex Police cares enough to be keeping an eye on my house while I’m out.’ I didn’t do a very good job of disguising the sarcasm in my voice.

  Peel looked annoyed, his pinched face becoming even thinner as he pursed his lips. ‘PC Bell,’ he said, emphasising my lower rank, ‘PSD has a job to do, whether you like it or not. We have a duty to try and get to the bottom of what happened with the evidence in PC Holdsworth’s case.’

  ‘And you think that the best way to do that is to arrest his best friend and the person who saved his life? Good set of Flopsies gentlemen!’

  It sounds like I’m being rude, but I’m not. FLOPSIES is a mnemonic that sets out guidelines for an investigation, Forensics, Linked series, Other, Property, Suspects, Intelligence, Eye witnesses and Strategy. It helps to make sure that we all investigate things following the same rules to avoid confusion.

  Peel squirmed uncomfortably on the sofa. I wasn’t surprised; the springs had gone almost a year ago which was probably the only reason Lucy had left it behind. ‘It does seem that we were a little hasty, but you must admit it does look suspicious.’

  Had I just heard PSD apologise, or as close as they get? ‘Can you say that again for the benefit of the tape please, DS Peel? Are you saying that you now don’t believe that I had anything to do with the evidence going missing?’

  He ignored my flippancy, finally finding a place on the sofa that, b
y the look on his face, was no more comfortable than his original position. ‘New evidence has come to light. We checked the tape on the outside of the knife tube for prints and we came up with a partial match that doesn’t tally with anyone in the police database or the barristers that have had access to the exhibits.’

  The police database contains the prints of all officers on the force and every civilian that works directly for us. It’s there so that SOCO (Scenes of Crime Officers) can quickly run any prints found at a scene and eliminate the police officers first. Some of us apparently have sausages for fingers and it’s not unusual for us to leave dirty great prints all over a crime scene that we think we’re being oh so careful with, so they needed to come up with something that would stop SOCO putting our prints in for full analysis every time. It doesn’t, however, hold the prints of temps, which made my theory about who had done it even more valid in my opinion.

  ‘So you’re telling me that you now think someone else fiddled the evidence?’ I asked, wanting to get a clear admission out of him.

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Right. Have you considered the fact that it may have been a temp that did it?’ I asked, my need to catch whoever had done this greater than my need to make PSD look stupid.

  ‘Yes, we have. In fact that’s what we’re working on right now. Anyway, if you’ll excuse us, we need to grab a few things and then we’ll be going. Your warrant card is already on its way back to your sergeant, you can collect it in the morning when you go into work.’

  If he expected me to thank him, he had another thing coming. I followed Barnett around the house as he collected his technical equipment, nearly losing my temper again as he pulled a tiny camera out from under the free-standing bath. It had been pointing straight at the toilet.

  ‘Are you some kind of voyeur?’ I asked as I followed him back down the stairs.

  ‘Look, people feel their most secure on the bog, we have to put cameras there,’ he retorted, not looking at me.

  ‘Yeah yeah, whatever. Just remind me not to look at your holiday snaps.’

  He ignored me as he collected Peel from the front room and they left the house. Just as I was about to close the door, Barrett’s shoulders slumped and he turned back towards me, his right hand held out to shake. ‘Look, no hard feelings, huh?’ He raised the hand slightly so that I couldn’t miss the peace offering.

  ‘Of course not!’ I said, smiling sweetly as I closed the door in his face.

  11

  THE FOLLOWING morning I walked into the office to a round of applause. People stood at their desks and clapped as I walked by and I felt my face go red. I’ve never been great at accepting anything like praise even if, like now, it was only people showing their pleasure at having me back in the office. I made my way into the drugs pod, squeezing Sally’s shoulder as she smiled at me.

  Ian Rudd was there, one of the officers on the team, as was Simon Tate, the nominal team leader by dint of years in the job, both wearing the trademark short-sleeved shirts that were so useful for hiding covert kit. Both of them shook my hand and I sat at my desk to find that some wit in the office had made me a card that simply said on the front: SHAME YOU CAME BACK, I WANTED YOUR CHAIR!

  Everyone in the office had signed it and, after the embarrassment faded, I felt a warm glow when I realised how much support I had here. I shouldn’t have been surprised; when you worked as closely with people as we did, and for as long, you couldn’t help but develop a bond that was something more than friendship – but strangely sometimes less as well. I got straight to work, wanting to busy myself as my mind was still churning over the burglary the previous day. I had a strong suspicion that the intruders had been working for Davey, probably looking for the heroin, but I couldn’t tell anybody or I may as well just hand myself in.

  ‘I’ve already done the meeting sheet,’ Rudd said, swinging his chair round to face mine, ‘so I think it’s your turn to make the tea.’

  I sighed; I’d rather be writing than making tea for thirty people but I couldn’t really say no after he’d done my work. Rudd was one of those people who always look annoyingly young; at twenty-seven he could still pass for eighteen. During his uniform days this had caused him no end of grief as people seldom liked to be told what to do by people who appeared younger than them, but as a surveillance officer it made him invaluable.

  He could easily pass as a student or a young office worker, and frequently he and Kev pretended to be grandfather and grandson, much to everyone else’s amusement. He was slim, but I knew that he was deceptively strong, as years before we had been part of the same kung fu club and he had more stamina than the rest of the office put together. Last time we’d been on a run together, he had sped on into the distance and picked me up on the way back, which he kept reminding me about, much to my chagrin.

  I picked up his mug and then Tate’s, a serious-looking older officer in his early forties with a barrel-chest and a calm manner. He was almost the exact opposite of Rudd, having short brown hair instead of the younger officer’s wavy blond locks, and the only thing they really had in common was their confident manner. I’d managed to get halfway around the office and the tray was piled high with cups when Kev came into the office almost at a run, a thing all but unheard of.

  ‘I need six with kits and ready to go,’ he called before he even made it to his desk.

  I dumped the tray next to Kate, one of the researchers, with an apologetic look and ran back to my desk to get my covert radio kit. The kit is designed to be well hidden under clothing and take advantage of the natural curves of the body to look as though it isn’t there. A multitude of wires then spread out across the body, ending with a pressel that can be placed somewhere unobtrusive, with the radio safely tucked out of sight.

  The earpiece is so small that you can’t actually see it, even if you know it’s there, which is probably why the kits cost just shy of a grand each. Worth every penny though, in my opinion, as no one can tell you’re wired unless they hear you talking.

  Rudd and Tate were both getting their kits on, as were Julian ‘Eddie’ Edwards, Mike ‘Tommo’ Thompson and Ralph ‘Ralphy’ Smith. Everyone who works in any kind of surveillance ends up with a nickname – don’t ask me why – and most were fortunate enough not to have one as bad as mine. I’d gained it on my first day in the office after screwing up embarrassingly on my first follow. I’d been forced to take it in good humour, despite the fact that I hated it from the second I heard it.

  ‘Are we going to need fighting kit?’ Tommo asked, holding up the covert harness that contained spray, baton and cuffs.

  ‘Take it in a bag but keep it close. I’ll brief in two minutes,’ Kev replied, struggling into his own kit.

  Before the two minutes were up, we were all squeezed into the inspector’s office with Kev once again in the only chair. The rest of us perched as best we could on the minimal furniture dotted around the room that suddenly smelled of sweat and the other odours that congregate wherever several men gather. Kev ostentatiously cleared his throat to get our attention and I listened closely, intrigued as to what could get him in such a state of excitement.

  ‘We’ve got some intel on a robbery that’s going to happen at a jeweller's in the South Lanes when they open at nine. It’s only just come in, but we’re expecting four of them, all eastern European, with a vehicle as yet unidentified. Apparently they’re going to hit Wester’s on Union Street, just opposite the Font and Firkin,’ he said, naming a local pub that was known by anyone who had worked Brighton for more than a few months.

  ‘We need to put someone in the shop, in the back room, so we need to leave in the next five minutes. Tommo, that’s you if you don’t mind. Ralphy, you’re driving. I want the car on Ship Street just south of the entrance to Union Street. That’s the most likely place for them to park and I want the car identified as soon as it arrives. Rudd, you’re with me. We’ll be around the corner inside another jeweller’s, waiting for the call from Ralphy or Tom
mo. That leaves Ding,’ (I really hate my nickname), ‘and Eddie as pedestrians, with Tate in CCTV in case they get away, and doing the log please.’

  Every surveillance job has a log that goes with it, where the log keeper writes down anything relevant so that it can be referred to later. It’s a godsend as, after a four-hour follow, (what we call a surveillance job), it’s easy to forget key parts that could be vital if the job goes to court.

  Kev looked around the room at us, an uncharacteristically serious expression on his face. ‘I want stab vests on gentlemen. We don’t think they’re going to be armed but they may be.’ He ignored our groans as we thought about all the re-jigging of kit we would have to do to fit the cumbersome vests. It was just like Kev to let us get kitted up and then tell us about the vests, no doubt he thought it was hilarious.

  ‘We’ll have LST on standby in a van on Middle Street and, just in case, we’ve got a plainclothes firearms unit who will be parked up at Bartholomew Square. Questions?’

  Tommo half raised a hand. ‘Yeah, if I don’t hear anything first, I take it I call as soon as they enter the shop?’

  Kev nodded. ‘Yes. We’ve warned the jeweller’s and they’ve agreed to open anyway, with just one male member of staff. We should be right around the corner, so hopefully we can be inside before it gets nasty. Anything else?’

  We all shook our heads and filed out, picking up our stab vests and strapping them on as we headed down to the car park. We headed out in two cars, me, Tommo and Eddie in one and the rest in the second that Ralphy was driving. We dropped Tommo at the entrance to The Lanes that opened onto North Street and then dumped the car in King’s Place, leaving the logbook on the dash so that it wouldn’t get a ticket. Eddie and I then ambled through The Lanes together, chatting about nothing much and trying to look for all the world as if we were window shopping. I’m not sure how convincing we were at eight-thirty in the morning, but we did our best.