London Falling (3 page)

But there was meant to be a firewall between his present UC life and the nick where he’d first worked.

And, however he knew, Costain had decided that
now
, on the night the op was going to crash and burn, was the time to really have a go. He’d been at Sefton ever since he was brought
in. That superior look in his eye, ’cos he was the real thing and Sefton was the fraud, the posh boy with the put-on accent. There were so many things Costain had stopped him from mentioning
in his reports: so many little infringements that added up to a damning picture. ‘Let’s not mention how long I was alone in there, mate. I might have been a bit rough with him there,
mate. Not worth mentioning the toms, is it, mate?’ He was always so friendly during that thirty seconds, and Sefton always kept silent, and then the smile dropped away and the mask was back.
He had rank on him, but that was no excuse.
He’s put a gag on you, and you let him! You keep letting him!

It was obvious the man was using. Sefton suppressed his fury yet again. You did undercover one of two ways: you either stayed yourself, playing a part all the way; or you became something else,
something that suited your undercover situation.
I’m still me. But you’ve lost yourself
. Undercover was a big deal for black coppers, because so many of the OCNs were of African
ethnicity. Maybe you didn’t get to do all the management courses, maybe your experience became too narrow to attract promotion, maybe you were just a tool like a phone tap or a surveillance
team, but it felt like the most meaningful contribution you could make. And that in a culture where, no matter what anyone said, your opportunities felt narrow anyway. But, when Sefton saw that
glazed-eye coldness in Costain’s face tonight, he knew:
This bastard’s going to bring me down with him
.

Sefton’s mum had taught him something, from his earliest days of getting kicked about. ‘Wish good things at them,’ she’d said. ‘Wish good things at them
hard
.’ Then she’d make a serious, ridiculous face. He had kept that as a habit of mind, like not walking under ladders. He glanced at Costain now and wished paydays and promotion
for the sod, contorting his face with the effort of wishing it.

‘You all right, Kev?’ asked Toshack. Which made Costain look round quickly, and satisfyingly.
There, Mum, wherever you are now, it worked – sort of.

He instantly dropped the expression. ‘Come on, boss,’ he said, in that West London accent he’d sold to Quill as a black kid trying too hard. The voice he hated, if he was being
completely honest, because it reminded him of all the kids around him when he was growing up, but not of himself. It was a voice he’d learned to adopt. ‘We’ll move heaven and
Earth for you, you know that?’
Yes, sir, master
– Toshack liked that, so Costain gave it to him. ‘But tell us who we’re after. We all want a drink at midnight,
don’t we?’

There, the look on Costain’s face! Fabulous, darlings. ’Cos second UC Sefton kept daring to show initiative, and that was recorded on that bloody tape of his. Assuming Quill had
actually passed it to him. And assuming he’d switched it on.

‘You’ll get to toast the New Year at midnight,’ Toshack reassured him. ‘Back at the house. If we don’t find it this time . . . it’s last orders for me,
’cos I’ll be gone soon after.’

Sefton looked just a bit worried and puzzled, but inside now he was yelling.

As the soldiers strode up the path of their last suburban semi, Sefton finally made eye contact with Costain. They hung back until everyone else had gone inside.

‘Your call, skip,’ he said to Costain, as the familiar crashing noises began inside.

Costain looked splendidly uncertain. His lovely criminal lifestyle was coming to an end, and he was going to have to either call it now or add to the pile of disciplinary charges. ‘Go on,
then,’ he said.

Sefton looked towards the house, then carefully took his mobile, with the tracer in it, from out of his other pocket. He texted one word to a number which, if called, would connect to a bloke
who called himself Ricky, who would ask, ‘What’s up, Kev?’

The single word:
Midnight.

Costain had placed himself between Sefton and the window, and now he pointed to himself. ‘
I’m
going to get him,’ he said, ‘before it goes down.’

Sefton watched the lead UC, as he marched towards the house, and once again he sent all his bloody good wishes after him.

Gipsy Hill was indeed a hill, and the nick was situated near the top of it; at the highest point above sea level that any police station in London occupied. Quill had just
stepped out of his vehicle in the Hill’s car park which was, as usual, lit up like a stadium. Well, a stadium where a few of the lights were broken. It was just past 11 p.m., at the very end
of the old year.

‘Midnight!’ he was saying into his Airwave radio, while Harry marched beside him, talking equally urgently into his phone. ‘So we’re assembling at a quarter to, round the
corner from the house in Bermondsey, which means we have to be out of here—’ He paused when he heard the sound of engines behind him, and turned to see a line of unmarked cars rolling
in, followed by an Armed Response Vehicle out of Old Street. ‘—right now!’ He then exclaimed, ‘You beauty!’ before correcting himself, ‘Sorry,
ma’am.’

Harry waited until his superior had switched off the radio. ‘You still reckon Toshack’s going to run for it?’

‘Not so much now. I’ve been talking to the uniforms who’re moving in on every place he’s been to, and he’s been making a fuckload of noise at every one of them.
That’s hardly
sneaking
out of the country. That’s more like desperation. He’s looking for someone important to him: an old flame, or a kid he lost track of. If he’s
cashing in, it’ll be with a shotgun to his own forehead on the stroke of midnight. Only, instead, we’ll be there to hear his confession.’

Harry coughed a laugh. ‘At least then we’ll get him for possession of a firearm.’

They got into one of the waiting cars. As police officers in Metvests came running out of Gipsy Hill police station to start filling up the other vehicles, Quill waved for his driver to join the
convoy.

Costain watched as Rob Toshack stepped slowly down from the cab of the SUV. His last hope had gone with that final house. ‘What would you do if you were me, son?’
the boss asked.

The question you could never answer. You started making suggestions, saying hit them here and here, and a jury would start to wonder if these fine gentlemen would have done any of that without
you egging them on.
Run for the airport, Rob. Take me with you. The fuckers who’re after you, you’re worth ten of them.
‘I don’t know what the problem is,
boss.’

‘I’m just going upstairs for a minute.’

Rob went inside, and Costain walked quickly after him, aware of Sefton catching up, but he didn’t look back to check on him. Upstairs meant Rob was going to lock himself into his den.
They’d searched that room in the past, and Rob only kept it locked when he himself was inside. He’d spend hours up there, and come down looking elated, telling some new story of how a
certain someone either wouldn’t be getting in their way much longer, or had been persuaded over to their point of view. Or that would be the moment he’d choose for sorting and then
sending out the supply. As if having the supply in his own home wasn’t a risk at all; it had proved not to be. Costain followed him upstairs, and heard the other boys switching the telly on
down below, their laughter rising; crisis over, they thought. Sefton had stayed down there, too, thank Christ.

‘Rob,’ Costain said, ‘what’s wrong?’

But Rob just shook his head and went on into his den. He locked the door behind him.

Costain waited a few moments, then put his ear to the door.

He didn’t hear Rob talking to anyone. Instead he was fumbling with something. The den was actually quite a big space, obviously a spare bedroom from the days when that meant showing off
some square feet. Rob had lined it with shelves stacked with cardboard boxes, most of which – as the two UCs had discovered on that day of blissful hope when they’d made a search in
there – were empty. Nor, Costain was sure, having had a look at the plans and done some tapping on walls, was there enough room in the house for a hidden den or passage.

There was a sudden noise, and for a moment Costain thought something must have fallen. But then there was silence again. Very aware of time rushing past, Costain kept listening. It was twenty to
midnight when he heard another sound from inside, and he had to stand up quickly and get away as Rob’s footsteps approached the door.
What had the man been doing in there? What did he ever
do in there?

Rob emerged from the den looking as if he’d had the last tiny bit of hope shaken out of him, but his dignity seemed to have returned as a result. ‘Having earlier sampled a bit of
what we sell, Blakey,’ he said, ‘I find I don’t like it very much. So, in the next ten minutes, I’d like to get as pissed as humanly possible.’

The pair of them sat in an empty bedroom, London cloud glowing dull-orange through the window. From downstairs Costain could hear the sounds of the party getting raucous.
Sefton would be sweating now, aware that, just for once, he had to let his colleague make the play.

‘When Dad died,’ said Rob, ‘my brother Alf was left in charge. He was older than me, and he was shagging the proverbial deer with no eyes – literally had no fucking idea.
All these vicious kids, with their crack and their guns, were sprouting up around us. We had no resources to match that. We had community, yes, but community don’t mean a thing when it gets
in the way of money. Nothing to stop a jeep mowing down the gnomes in the front garden and then some twat from Jamaica chucking a grenade through your window. Here’s the secret, Tony:
London’s always about what’s moving underneath, about what’s pushing what. It was understanding that which let me get past what Alf left me with.’ He raised his can of
lager, managing a smile as if at some private joke. ‘To Alf.’

Costain joined in. ‘You never did talk much about him dying.’

‘You’re right there, Tone. There’s a lot of memories you don’t want to dwell on.’

‘I know you. You’re not going off after midnight. You’ll be staying put.’

‘Nah, I’m off. To somewhere abroad. Oh, get that look off your face. I don’t mean right now. It’s just that things are going to change now, maybe very quickly, starting
at midnight, and I haven’t got . . . I haven’t got the protection no more. When everyone realizes that . . . well, all I’ll have then to protect me is loyalty and
tradition.’

‘Maybe sometimes loyalty and tradition actually count. They do between me and you, anyway. You know I’ve always watched your back.’
Just go out front, get in the car, and
go. I’ll say you tricked me. I’m going down, anyway.

‘You have indeed, Tone, and I’ll see you lot right. I’ll distribute a shitload of working cash to the soldiers, and use the rest to leg it.’

Maybe give me something I can give them. Just tell me about the freelancers. About the supply.

‘Anyway, it’ll all go to hell.’ He threw aside the empty can of lager and grabbed another. ‘I caused chaos in this town on my way up, but that’s nothing compared to
when they’ll start fighting over what I’ve left behind. And they don’t have the advantages I had. It’ll be back to the old days, to shootings on the doorsteps. It’s
meant to be the end of the world soon, innit?’

‘Always is.’

‘I thought tonight I might manage to keep my edge, that I might get someone I know to extend a deal, but . . .’

Costain inclined his head, waiting.

‘Now I might be on the wrong end of it. Someone might make a better offer. And then—’

Costain looked up just then and saw Sefton in the doorway, making out that he was heading for the bog. He held his hand up: five minutes until they arrive.

Okay.

He actually found he was smiling now that they’d got to it. He was the star of this picture – inside, at least – and he’d either pull this off or it’d kill him.
‘Rob . . . you know what you mean to me. And that’s real, that’s solid, but this comes from the same place, okay? No reason for me to even say it, otherwise. You see . . . Blake
isn’t my real name.’

‘What?’

‘Rob, mate, I’m an undercover copper.’

Sefton was out of the doorway like a shot, a horrified expression on his face, away and down the stairs without a sound.
Yeah, you just scuttle off
. Costain’s gaze flicked quickly
back to Rob.

The king of London, his expression now a mask of horror, was getting slowly to his feet. ‘I could have known,’ he said. ‘I could have asked.’

Oh, Christ, where did
that
come from?! Why did he have to go and say
that
?!

‘I didn’t, though,’ Rob continued, ‘’cos it didn’t seem like there was anything you lot could do.’

Costain stayed sitting. ‘None of what you’ve built up can protect you from the other gangs. Or from your freelancers if they’ve been turned. All it would cost you is those
fuckers. The dark side of your network. The ones who let you down.’
The ones you could have ‘asked’ about UCs!

Toshack held his gaze for a moment. Then he went for his gun.

Sefton went into the front room, where he ignored the soldiers drinking in front of the telly. He looked at his watch. Three minutes.

No, Costain, the stupid bloody sod, didn’t even have that much time.

So, which window? That one. He went over to a lamp, and checked nobody was looking at him. He quickly moved the table the lamp was sitting on by couple of feet, and switched it on. He stood
between it and the window, but was smiling and watching the telly again when Mick looked round at him. Then, when Mick turned away, Sefton raised one arm in a loop right up against the window, and
touched the top of his head.

Costain was staring at the tiny O-shaped cavity of the end of the gun. Toshack’s hands were shaking, but he was aiming at Costain’s stomach: the certain shot, the
lingering death. ‘You bastard,’ he said. ‘Did
you
take it away from me? Can coppers do that?’