The Follow

I held it there for a few seconds, and his body went rigid as the pain shot through him. I’ve had it done to me in training and it really is horrible; it feels like your head is going to explode, so I felt more than a little sympathy for him as I did it, despite knowing that I was hurting him far less than I would have if I’d been hitting him.

His teeth remained firmly closed, so I released the pressure. There’s no point keeping it on if it doesn’t work, that’s torture, and I think the human rights people have an article or two that deal with that.

Steve Warnham, still dealing with the crowd but close enough to overhear what was happening, turned at that point and called out in a voice pitched to carry to everyone watching: ‘Please sir, open your mouth; we’re concerned that you may have heroin or crack cocaine in your mouth and if you swallow it you could put yourself in danger. We can’t allow that to happen for your own safety!’

Someone give that man a fucking medal, I thought, as I saw the crowd nodding and muttering to each other.

Adam was still shouting at the guy to open his mouth, foolishly trying to reach into it armed only with a pair of purple rubber gloves. Our prisoner unclenched his teeth just long enough to bite Werther hard on the finger, then clamped them together again and tried to laugh.

I drove my knuckle back into the pressure point, hoping to surprise him into opening his mouth again – but it didn’t work, as he went rigid once more against the pain but somehow held on. I released the pressure, getting frustrated but knowing that if I kept going, I would only be doing so in revenge for Werther’s finger.

His body relaxed as I let go, but Adam had pulled his hand away from its place on the throat to nurse his bleeding finger, and the guy swallowed whatever was in his mouth, then began shouting about police brutality in a coarse south London accent.

Now that the excitement was over, I pulled a pair of handcuffs from my covert rig and slapped them on his wrists while Barker arrested him for the drugs in the car and assaulting Adam. A pair of uniforms hauled him upright and into the back of a waiting police van; just one of about seven marked units that had come in response to the call.

Barker motioned me over to a nearby wall once his charge was safely locked in the van, and I followed, glad to be moving away from the view of the crowd. You never know who’s watching and it isn’t unknown for some of our ‘customers’ to try and take phone pictures of plain-clothed officers so that they can pass them on to anyone interested.

‘There was another one who got away,’ he began, massaging the wrist that had been keeping a lock on the prisoner. ‘He was a white male, about twenty-five, with a horizontal stripy top. I think it was George Ludlow.’

My ears pricked up at this little titbit of information. Ludlow had started off as a smalltime user, but recently had started working for Davey. ‘Oh really? Which way did he go?’ I asked, now eager to go out and search.

‘He ran off towards Bear Road, but I was too busy to see where he went after that.’

‘I’m not bloody surprised; he was a handful. Any idea who gnasher is?’ I nodded in the direction of the van.

‘Nope, never seen him before, which is unusual. Adam thinks he might have nicked him on the seafront a couple of years ago but he’s not sure.’

That didn’t surprise me. Then, there seemed to be a pecking order with drug dealing in Brighton. Either you were local and you did what you liked, you were from Liverpool and you stabbed local people until they let you do what you liked, or you were from London and you started dealing shit on the beach in the evenings until you got caught. If you managed to keep your mouth shut, you progressed to being driven around the city by a user who was paid in heroin, delivering to phone boxes and alleyways across Brighton. That way you could just claim that you were getting a lift and knew nothing about the drugs in the car. Sadly, the British justice system tended to believe this little lie on a regular basis and people got away with it in droves.

I turned my attention back to Barker, who was trying to light a cigarette with shaking fingers. I aided him by plucking the cigarette out of his mouth and placing it in my own.

He scowled and drew another from the crumpled packet. ‘Help yourself.’

‘Thanks, I did.’ I lit them both, then headed back to my car with a final wave, palming the cigarette so that no one would see and complain.

I remembered to turn the flashers off before I pulled away and then drove in the direction that Ludlow had been seen fleeing. He lived on The Avenue in Moulsecoomb, and I figured if I knew him like I thought I did, he would run straight back home to his constantly pregnant girlfriend. I was fairly sure they wouldn’t mind me stopping in for a little cup of tea and a chat and, if they did, well I’d just have to find a reason to arrest him.

5

Ludlow is a chubby Brightonian born and bred – if you factored in the possibility of chimp DNA. He’s about five foot ten with heavy jowls that he doesn’t need to shave and a mess of ginger curls that make him stand out like a sore thumb wherever he is. Not surprising really that one glimpse had allowed Barker to recognize him as he ran away.

As I drove along the Lewes Road towards The Avenue, I spotted my quarry staggering past the university building on the far side of the road. He looked exhausted, his large gut heaving and his cheeks redder than his hair. Obviously being a dealer didn’t allow much time for the gym. I pulled into the road that he would be crossing shortly and got out of the car, making sure that my baton and spray were within easy reach. Wearing a covert harness is all well and good but I frequently forget which armpit is sheltering which piece of kit and I really didn’t want to pull out my radio instead of my baton if he got feisty.

I leaned casually against a wall, flicking my cigarette butt into the road, missing the drain I’d been aiming for by several inches. Walking over and scuffing it into the drain was the perfect excuse I needed to bump into Ludlow and, as he apologized and went to walk around me, it was the work of seconds to throw my arm around his throat and put him in a chokehold.

‘Police, keep your hands out in front of you,’ I growled into his ear.

He immediately tried to use his weight to throw me off balance, but I sawed my arm sideways across his Adam’s apple. His hands flew up to grab my arm as I cut off the circulation and breathing, fingers scrabbling at me in panic. He began to make pathetic retching sounds and I released the pressure just enough that he could breathe again, but not enough for him to try and slip away.

‘Now we’re going to walk back to the wall, and then you’re going to sit down like a good boy so that we can have a little chat, okay?’

He nodded, and I walked him out of public view down an alleyway between two houses. Once safely hidden, I released him, and he moved away from me faster than you’d expect.

‘You can’t do that to me. That’s illegal. You could have killed me!’ he whined, rubbing the vivid red marks on his neck.

‘Tough shit. You shouldn’t have run away from the car. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t nick you for possession.’

He looked around as if trying to find a way to escape, and I saw that he was shaking in fear. ‘You can’t nick me! I’ve got a kid on the way and if I go away again I won’t get to see it. I’m on licence; if I get nicked I go down.’ A look of animal cunning crossed his face, clear for all to see. I can only assume he was a terrible poker player. ‘Besides, I wasn’t even there, you can’t prove nothing!’

‘That’s a double negative, George, it means I can prove something. Anyway, we’ve got a full description of a fat ginger tosser in a stripy top running away from the scene. You see any other fat ginger tossers round here, George?’

He looked down at his top, as if only noticing for the first time that horizontal hoops in fact didn’t make you look slimmer. ‘Look, you can’t talk to me like that. I’m gonna make a complaint. What’s your number?’

I almost said 999, but managed not to at the last second. Riling him even more wasn’t going to get what I wanted, despite the fact that I wasn’t quite sure what that was, yet. ‘Listen George, I won’t nick you. I wouldn’t want your kid to grow up without seeing its father once before social services take him away. That would just be cruel.’

He nodded as if I wasn’t being sarcastic. Bless him.

‘All I need is a little bit of information, George. Then, you can go back to your missus and no one needs to know about our little conversation. I’ll tell my lot that I couldn’t find anyone matching your description and you get away scot free. Fair?’

He considered it for a minute, eyeing me as if I was about to bite him.

‘What d’you wanna know?’

‘Davey,’ I began, but stopped when he backed away, shaking his head.

‘No fucking way I’m gonna say shit about Davey, no way!’

I sighed again and reached under my jacket for my handcuffs before suddenly remembering that they were on a prisoner on his way to custody. I kept my hand there anyway and said the immortal words: ‘George, I’m arresting you on suspicion of possession of class A drugs. It is necessary to arrest you to ensure a prompt and thorough investigation. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’ I smiled and stepped towards him, watching his face carefully as he weighed up the options. Finally, he put his hands up and slumped against the wall.

‘You promise no one’s gonna know?’

‘Scouts honour.’

‘Go on then. Ask. I don’t know much though. He don’t tell me much.’

I thought carefully. What did I want to know? And how would I use it if I found out anything useful? Suddenly a question sprang to mind.

‘How do you re-supply?’

‘I call a number and a car drops it off to me.’

‘The same car each time or different ones?’

‘Different, depends who’s on.’

‘Okay, when are you next going to re-supply?’

‘Tonight at about six.’

I thought furiously, wondering where exactly I was going with this. Was I really considering doing this on my own, without authority? The answer was yes. I was. I was supposed to be on restricted duties and there was no way that they would let me anywhere near Davey’s operation until I was back out on the streets officially. It would be a PR nightmare otherwise. After what had happened in court, it would be seen as harassment if Davey happened to be in the car making the drop. I doubted he would be but, like any good boss, occasionally he went along with the workers to make sure that everything was going well, and to remind the people in the lower echelons who the boss really was. But then, if all I was going to do was have a little chat with them, what harm could that really do?

‘Just a couple more questions. How many people are usually in the car?’

‘Only two. More than that and the pigs notice.’

‘What, like we did down the road? So where are you going to re-supply tonight?’

He shook his head. ‘I can’t tell you that. If you turn up after what happened today, they’ll know I talked and they’ll fucking kill me. No way.’

I realized that I’d overplayed my hand and tried to reassure him. ‘I’m not going to turn up, mate, I just wanted to make sure you were telling me the truth, that’s all. Don’t worry about it. I’ll let you get on home now. Remember, not a word about this conversation from either of us, okay?’

He looked at me suspiciously, then lumbered off down the alleyway at what he laughingly thought was a run. My gran could have caught him and she’s been dead for years.

I waited until he was long gone, which took some time, before heading back to the car. I had a plan in mind, but I knew that first I would need to explain to Kev how I had been caught up in a drug bust while I was supposed to be at the hospital visiting Jimmy. Although he’s as relaxed as supervision can get without falling over backwards, there are some things that even he has a hard time believing, and I knew if I wanted to have my little chinwag with the dealers that night then I needed to look whiter than white.

6

I dropped the car back without getting grilled for my part in the earlier arrest, Kev understanding that you don’t ignore an assistance shout, no matter what.

I faffed around the office for the rest of the day getting no real work done, and studiously avoiding looking at any kind of intelligence that related to Davey or his business. I didn’t want anyone thinking that I was going to go out looking for revenge, and I was fairly sure that at least one person in the office would have been tasked to keep an eye on me.

I was more than a little nervous about my plan for that evening, especially on the back of the evidence being swapped. It would take very little for someone to decide that it was me who had done the fiddling and haul me in for questioning. If anyone saw or even suspected that I was going to have a chat with some of Davey’s boys, I would be for it.

Four o’clock rolled around with agonizing slowness and the moment the hands hit the right position I barrelled out of the office and down into the car park.

Fifteen minutes later I was home and getting changed, selecting my wardrobe with care. I chose a pair of faded blue jeans, an old beige jacket that I never wore but was currently vaguely in fashion and a plain blue T-shirt.

I drove across town to The Avenue, the day still warm enough that I began to wish I hadn’t worn the jacket. Late afternoon sunlight streamed in through the windscreen, a golden glow suffusing the air and making me feel as if I were trapped in amber. All too soon I was parked up outside Moulsecoomb Library, facing the end of The Avenue with a clear view of Ludlow’s house. When I say Ludlow’s, I mean the council’s, as God forbid should a drug dealer pay unsubsidized rent, that just wouldn’t be on. Instead, our taxes go towards paying for their umpteen kids and their bloated wives, getting fat off the fruits of our labour while hubby is out peddling death to desperate addicts. And my friends wonder why I’m so cynical.

As I sat there waiting patiently and trying to look as if I belonged, the nerves hit me again, far stronger than they had that morning at court. My palms were sweaty enough that I couldn’t have turned the wheel had I needed to and I had a lump in my throat the size of a melon. Part of me – a small part I might add – was telling me that I wasn’t going to achieve anything by doing this. I had a sudden fear that they would just laugh at me and tell me to piss off and that I should just drive back home and get on with my evening. I buried the nagging voice, concentrating instead on what I could say that would make them worried enough to stop dealing without actually threatening them. I couldn’t think of anything, but I’ve always done my best work on the fly and I was fairly confident that I would find something at the right moment.

Besides, if it all went wrong, I figured, I could book myself on duty. That’s the great thing about being a police officer. If you see something illegal while you’re off duty, you can deal with it and, technically, it puts you on duty. I’ll give you an example:

Say I’m down the pub with some mates and I bang into some bloke and spill his pint, so he takes a swing at me. At that point, I’m still off duty. If I swing back at him, I’m still off duty. But if I decide to arrest him instead, or if I identify myself as a police officer, I’m instantly on duty and covered by all the insurance and regulations that come with it.

So if it all went bent that night, I knew I would just tell the powers that be that I was out for a walk when I saw a suspicious vehicle and went to stop check it. They might not like it, but it was all legal and they wouldn’t be able to touch me. Hopefully.

An hour or so later, just as I was beginning to think about going home and eating something to calm my rumbling stomach, a green Nissan estate pulled up outside Ludlow’s house and beeped the horn. Subtle. I wrote down the registration, or the index as we call it in the police, for later use and sat up slightly straighter as tubby George waddled out of the house and up to the car, whereupon the passenger handed over a large package and took a roll of notes in exchange.

You might think that it’s a little unbelievable, being that blatant, but doing it in plain sight like that makes them more invisible than meeting in remote locations or taking Ludlow around the block in the car. Just another shady deal in Moulsecoomb.

The car pulled away, and I knew that the only way out of the estate was back past my position or down one of two side roads that I also had covered from where I sat. In a few moments my quarry drove back past me, heading north on the Lewes Road. I pulled out and followed, leaving two cars for cover between myself and the target vehicle.

I also drove in the other lane of the dual carriageway so that they wouldn’t see me unless they looked back and left, which drivers rarely do, even paranoid ones. I could see that there were two people in the car, both in the front, both male. Another bout of nerves hit me as I began to wonder if I was lying to myself and really I was looking for a fight to salve my wounded ego.

We carried on heading north for a few minutes, and I was nearly caught out as they did a sharp left turn into Wild Park and followed the gravel track that leads to the café. It was closed that time of night, so I could only assume that they were meeting someone else or picking up drugs from a stash point. I drove past and pulled up in a lay-by slightly further up the road before doubling back on foot with a choke chain held loosely in one hand.

I kept the chain in the car for emergencies, as it made a brutal weapon in close quarters but was totally legal to own and carry. It was also the perfect surveillance tool. How many people do you see walking in parks every day with a lead but no sign of a dog? Dozens, I’ll bet.

I ambled up the path, occasionally calling to my non-existent hound, and got up to the Nissan without so much as a raised eyebrow from the occupants. It was parked at the side of the café, well hidden from the main road with the engine off and both the windows wound down, while the occupants enjoyed what smelled like very good quality weed. As I drew nearer, I could see that the passenger was a man whom I knew well but who didn’t know me.

That’s the joy of my particular job: you know all the faces, places and cars, and no one recognizes you in turn unless you blow out on a surveillance job, and then you’re screwed. I’ve only done it once, but every time afterwards that my mark saw me in town he had shouted, ‘Copper!’ at the top of his voice so that everyone else would spot me. Sadly for him, he died of a heroin overdose a few weeks later, so it stopped being a problem. Had he not, I would have had to leave the unit and go back to uniform, or even change division.

So this particular chap, one Dave Budd by name, had been one of my nominal targets a few months before, which meant I knew more about him than his mother did, despite the fact we’d never met face to face.

He was known for drugs, violence, weapons and was on the sex offenders register for life after he sexually assaulted his five-year-old niece at a christening party last year. The driver was his brother, Billy, and if anything his record was worse. He was a distraction burglar, fooling old people into opening their doors so that he could check their meters and then robbing them blind.

On the odd occasion that they became suspicious, he would tie them up and beat them until they gave up their valuables. Somehow, he had only been given minor prison sentences so far, and the only reason we could think of was that he was a grass. Judges will sometimes shorten sentences if the defendant gives up useful information; although in Billy’s case it would have been more appropriate to ignore the information and throw him in the darkest hole we could find for as long as possible. He is also the father of the girl that Dave had assaulted, yet didn’t seem to care, which is apparent by their relaxed attitude to each other.

Both brothers are in their late thirties and hard to tell apart. They both have the same lank brown hair and squirrel-like faces, and are both five foot nine or so and wiry rather than skinny. The easiest way to tell them apart is that Billy’s nose has been broken so many times that it sticks out in several directions at once and he tends to grow a beard, if you can call it that. Other than that, they could be twins.

I got right up to the car, leaning into the driver’s window and smiling before Billy turned to look at me.

‘’Scuse me, lads,’ I asked in a cheerful tone, ‘you haven’t seen a springer spaniel come past, have you?’

Billy breathed a lungful of smoke into my face, and the smell of grass mixed with the odour of rotten teeth was almost enough to make me gag. ‘Police dog, is it, officer?’

So much for anonymity. I tried to bluff it instinctively, despite the fact I was about to show out anyway. ‘I’m sorry? What the hell are you talking about?’

He laughed at my miserable attempt at dissembling. ‘I saw you in the court this morning, mate, running out with your tail between your legs. Didn’t know pigs’ tails could do that!’

He and his brother both laughed, confident that I would be helpless to do anything.

As they laughed, something inside me settled, my nervousness washed away and was replaced by a cold anger that drove out all other feeling. ‘Step out of the fucking car, Billy, and don’t do anything stupid. We need to have a word.’

‘Why, you going to hit me with a rubber baton?’ he asked, sliding his right hand down the side of his seat surreptitiously.

‘No, mate, this is a personal call. I’m not carrying. I just want a chat.’ I opened my jacket to show that I was unarmed, and he didn’t seem to register the lead in my hand. ‘Keep your hands where I can see them and get out of the car.’

I moved back to give myself what we call a reactionary gap, so was fairly unsurprised when he hurled the door open and dove at me with a knife clenched in his right fist. I’d moved back quickly enough to avoid the door and, as he came out knife first, I kicked the opening door as hard as I could, slamming it shut on his arm. He howled in pain and dropped the knife, his arm hanging at an angle that told me it was broken.

I didn’t have time to care, as his brother leapt out of the car and skidded across the bonnet towards me holding a steering lock in his hand. I stepped back again and waited until he swung the weapon at me, ducking the blow aimed at my head and whipping the chain I held across his leg, hitting the nerve point on the outside of the thigh. He dropped as if stunned, and I stamped on his wrist hard enough that I heard the bones grinding together. He screamed in pain and let go of the steering lock, which I kicked away before taking the other foot off his wrist.

Both of them were crying in pain, and Billy was fumbling for his phone with his left hand. I reached down and took it from him, then moved to the car and took the keys out of the ignition as a precaution.

Ignoring their cries, I raised my voice to be heard. ‘Right, gentlemen, now that I have your attention I would very much like to know where the drugs are.’

Billy glared up at me, his face a mask of pain. ‘You’re fucking going down for this you wanker, you’re fucking dead!’

I smiled and shook my head. ‘No, mate, I’m not. I’ve got a dozen witnesses that clearly put me at a police leaving do tonight, and you know how we all stick together.’

It was a barefaced lie but I suspected that they were too preoccupied to tell. Hopefully, they also couldn’t see the horror I was feeling at what I’d just done. This was supposed to be a warning chat, not a brutal attack that left them broken and bloody. I’d slipped across the line without thinking, and the realization was making me shake more than the adrenaline ever could. I took a deep breath and forced my voice to come out steadily. ‘So you can either tell me where the drugs are or I can shove this chain up your nose and pull out the pathetic thing you call a brain. Your choice.’