Raybans even though the room was dark. He also had his right hand behind his back, which was never a good sign. Trying to remain as unfazed as possible, I turned back to Mitchell. ‘I’m in a bit of a hurry, so if you can get the stuff I’d appreciate it.’
Mitchell nodded slowly, never taking his big bloodshot eyes off me, then shouted something over his shoulder in a rapid Jamaican patois that I didn’t quite catch. ‘How long you worked for Wolfe, mon?’
‘I don’t work for anyone. I work with people.’
‘Yeah, well, how long you worked with him, then?’
I shrugged. ‘A few months maybe. What does it matter?’
‘I like to know who I’m dealing with, that’s all.’
‘Someone who wants to buy some guns, then get the hell out of here.’
We stood glaring at each other for a few moments, the atmosphere souring fast. I could hear my heart pounding, and the guy behind me shuffling from foot to foot as he stood guard with his hand behind his back – a hand that was almost certainly holding a gun. A bead of sweat ran down my forehead and I was suddenly conscious of how hot it was in here, and how vulnerable I was.
A door at the other end of the kitchen opened and a big guy in a dirty apron and chef’s overalls came in with a huge leg of lamb over one shoulder and an Adidas holdall in his free hand. He dropped the holdall on the table between Mitchell and me, then threw the lamb down on one of the work surfaces, took a wicked-looking cleaver from the knife rack, and began systematically chopping it up.
‘There are the guns, mon. All there for you.’
I opened the holdall and looked down at the weaponry inside: two compact semi-automatic Remington shotguns and a black Sig P226 pistol. I rummaged around inside, quickly locating a box of shotgun shells and another of 9mm ammunition, both of which were still in their wrapping and, like the guns, looked brand spanking new. The UK has some of the strictest gun laws in the world, and we’ve had some major successes breaking up arms importation networks, so this was an unusually high-quality haul.
I took out one of the Remingtons, admiring its finish. It was a black Model 870, a lightweight weapon with a short eighteen-inch barrel, often favoured by American law enforcement officers and criminals because it was compact, easy to use, and deadly. I knew the 870 well enough from my police firearms training, and I flicked on the safety, then pumped the handgrip to check that it was unloaded.
‘All dese guns are completely clean, mon,’ said Mitchell. ‘Never been fired. Never been hired. Fresh to your crew. Now, you got me da money?’
I pulled the envelope from my jeans and handed it to him. ‘Five grand. It’s all there.’
He opened it up, pulled out the wad of cash and started counting.
Which was the moment when the far door opened again, and every undercover cop’s worst nightmare walked in.
Seven
Weyman Grimes was wearing ill-fitting chef’s overalls and carrying a sack of onions as he loped over to one of the worktops, his long, horse-like face wearing its familiar dour expression.
Five years ago he was a mid-range coke dealer working an estate in Dalston when I’d turned up posing as a customer with lots of money to spend and, along with a dozen colleagues, busted him for possession of fifty wraps of ultra low-grade gear cut with worming powder. But it was my face he’d remember because it was me who’d stood in front of him discussing prices and haggling for a bulk buy deal; me who’d told him he was under arrest; me who’d grabbed him as he tried to make a bolt for it and slammed him face first into the stairwell wall where we’d been doing our deal; me who’d been the subject of his (unsuccessful) claim of police brutality; and, finally, me who’d stood in the courtroom smiling at him as he was led away to begin a four-year sentence for intent to supply.
A wave of cold fear, the type that makes your heart lurch, hit me head-on.
Mitchell nodded slowly, never taking his big bloodshot eyes off me, then shouted something over his shoulder in a rapid Jamaican patois that I didn’t quite catch. ‘How long you worked for Wolfe, mon?’
‘I don’t work for anyone. I work with people.’
‘Yeah, well, how long you worked with him, then?’
I shrugged. ‘A few months maybe. What does it matter?’
‘I like to know who I’m dealing with, that’s all.’
‘Someone who wants to buy some guns, then get the hell out of here.’
We stood glaring at each other for a few moments, the atmosphere souring fast. I could hear my heart pounding, and the guy behind me shuffling from foot to foot as he stood guard with his hand behind his back – a hand that was almost certainly holding a gun. A bead of sweat ran down my forehead and I was suddenly conscious of how hot it was in here, and how vulnerable I was.
A door at the other end of the kitchen opened and a big guy in a dirty apron and chef’s overalls came in with a huge leg of lamb over one shoulder and an Adidas holdall in his free hand. He dropped the holdall on the table between Mitchell and me, then threw the lamb down on one of the work surfaces, took a wicked-looking cleaver from the knife rack, and began systematically chopping it up.
‘There are the guns, mon. All there for you.’
I opened the holdall and looked down at the weaponry inside: two compact semi-automatic Remington shotguns and a black Sig P226 pistol. I rummaged around inside, quickly locating a box of shotgun shells and another of 9mm ammunition, both of which were still in their wrapping and, like the guns, looked brand spanking new. The UK has some of the strictest gun laws in the world, and we’ve had some major successes breaking up arms importation networks, so this was an unusually high-quality haul.
I took out one of the Remingtons, admiring its finish. It was a black Model 870, a lightweight weapon with a short eighteen-inch barrel, often favoured by American law enforcement officers and criminals because it was compact, easy to use, and deadly. I knew the 870 well enough from my police firearms training, and I flicked on the safety, then pumped the handgrip to check that it was unloaded.
‘All dese guns are completely clean, mon,’ said Mitchell. ‘Never been fired. Never been hired. Fresh to your crew. Now, you got me da money?’
I pulled the envelope from my jeans and handed it to him. ‘Five grand. It’s all there.’
He opened it up, pulled out the wad of cash and started counting.
Which was the moment when the far door opened again, and every undercover cop’s worst nightmare walked in.
Seven
Weyman Grimes was wearing ill-fitting chef’s overalls and carrying a sack of onions as he loped over to one of the worktops, his long, horse-like face wearing its familiar dour expression.
Five years ago he was a mid-range coke dealer working an estate in Dalston when I’d turned up posing as a customer with lots of money to spend and, along with a dozen colleagues, busted him for possession of fifty wraps of ultra low-grade gear cut with worming powder. But it was my face he’d remember because it was me who’d stood in front of him discussing prices and haggling for a bulk buy deal; me who’d told him he was under arrest; me who’d grabbed him as he tried to make a bolt for it and slammed him face first into the stairwell wall where we’d been doing our deal; me who’d been the subject of his (unsuccessful) claim of police brutality; and, finally, me who’d stood in the courtroom smiling at him as he was led away to begin a four-year sentence for intent to supply.
A wave of cold fear, the type that makes your heart lurch, hit me head-on.
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