Serious People (17 page)

Early looked through the spy hole into the interview room. The young woman, who had said she was called Crystal, was no older than her late teens and dressed in a manner that could only be described as cheap. She had refused to talk to them until her brief was present and now, with the time almost nine pm, he’d finally arrived.

Early should have left for home four hours ago. He’d wanted to go, but something kept him here. Khan had said she was fine to stay on her own and that he should go. There was something stopping him though; what with the connection between the transit van it seemed like there was a case forming. As annoying as it was, now was not a time to leave.

Early and Khan led the young woman and her solicitor to an interview room and sat down opposite them. Early looked at Crystal, who couldn’t hold either of their gazes. Instead, she kept looking down her nails—deciding to bite them occasionally. Every so often, she repositioned herself in her seat. She's either really nervous or here to tell some lies, Early thought. Both could be a possibility at the moment.

“Hi Crystal, my name is Miriam. I’d just like to hear what you said to the officer earlier,” Khan said, her voice low, almost a whisper.

“There was no need to get your solicitor Luv, we’re no different to the last officer you spoke to,” Early said.

“Nah, I'm not stupid. You suits are serious shit. I ain’t saying nothing; you can’t make me,” Crystal said, looking at her brief.

“Crystal,” Khan said quickly.  “You obviously care about the guy who was beaten up. That’s why you came here.”

“I didn’t say that,” Crystal replied.

“Well, you should know that what you’ve started by coming here today, is likely to be the first in a chain of events. And if you don’t want anyone else to come to further harm, you must help us get to the men who did this,” Khan said, still quietly but now with a hint of coldness in her voice.

Early didn’t like the fear Khan that was trying to instil in the girl; who knows what she’d say if she was scared.

“Just tell us what you’re comfortable saying,” Early said, feeling Khan’s glare on him.

“I just came here because it was the right thing to do; you coppers are meant to stop this kind of thing from happening. I’ve only made it worse by coming here haven’t I?”

“These are dangerous people Crystal. You did the right thing. But, if you don’t co-operate with us now, then you’ll be right—you will just have made things worse,” Khan continued. “What happened?”

“My client doesn’t need to say anything, unless you’ve cautioned her?” the solicitor said, with a calm authority.

Something didn’t sit right to Early. What was this young girl doing with a solicitor? She’d come to them and was fine talking to a uniform; but as soon as senior officers had wanted a word she got briefed up. Something screwy was going on.

Crystal looked at Khan and then quickly towards the door, appearing to decide on her two options. Early studied the girl’s face, trying to work out if he knew her from somewhere.

“We’ll make sure Zebbie’s safe,” Khan said with assurance. “I promise, speak to me and Zebbie will be safe. If you don’t, you might get him killed.”

What a bitch; that was cold, Early thought.

“I always come in early on a Sunday,” Crystal started, sinking more into her seat. “Zebbie and I… well you know,” Crystal said, looking between Early and Khan for acceptance. Khan nodded back.

Early guessed that Zebbie was closer to his age than Crystal’s.

“I walked into the bar and saw Zebbie tied up to a seat. These guys—these guys were just taking it turns punching him,” Crystal continued, her eyes starting to well up. “So I screamed at them to stop and they just stared at me. So I said I’d phone the police and that stopped them. The one who seemed to be in charge, said he’d get his brother to slice me up if I did that.”

“You’re very brave being here Crystal,” Khan said.

It sounded more stupid than brave to DS Early; he knew Zebbie and he could picture him now. This was one of O’Neil’s clubs. Early moved uncomfortably in his seat; what was going on here?

“They made such a mess of Zebbie.” Tears started to stream down Crystal’s face. “He wouldn’t do anything to hurt anyone.”

“Just say what you’re comfortable saying kid.” Early said, glancing at the brief.

“Yeah, so I ran outside and got their registration number. Zebbie begged me not to go; he said it would just make things worse,” Crystal continued.

“It was just a threat,” Khan countered.

Early looked again at the solicitor; he’d never seen one that was so quiet. What the hell was he here to do?

“I don’t care; they can’t just get away with this!” Crystal said almost screaming.

“Can you tell me what these men look like? Had you ever seen them before?” Khan said, putting her hand on top of Crystal’s.

“Of course, it was these guys called Blake—the Blake brothers. They come in every so often; they’re real creeps you know,” Crystal said shuddering at the memory. “Zebbie always passes them a brown paper envelope, and then they normally leave.”

“Could be anything,” Early, shrugged.

Blake; this must be Billy Blake—the one with the transit outside Robert Payne’s. This sounded messy—not right—these were professional criminals who left nothing to chance. And here was a complete mess of evidence that was forming right in front of a career hungry Khan.

“Billy Blake?”

“What will happen next, will you protect us?” Crystal asked.

“The best way I can protect you is by arresting these men; that will send out a message and will keep people like them out of Zebbie’s nightclub.”

Crystal bit her lip, while she thought about this.

“If you want to protect your boyfriend, you need to think about what you say next. Because if I know these types of people they will already have guessed that you’re here,” Khan said, pressing the young woman.

“Ok,” Crystal replied quickly.

After taking the description down, Early and Khan walked out the interview room. Early could sense that Khan felt a case that was beginning to come together. All she needed was a testimony from Zebbie to bring in Billy Blake and his brothers.

If she knew Zebbie was part of O’Neil’s protection racket, then there may be a criminal path that leads to O’Neil. Khan also now had an important piece to barter with him in Crystal. It seemed too incredible to believe that, in one fluky day, this young DI had stumbled into something so important. Early had some thinking to do; some planning—quickly.

“Right, we'd better get to the golf club,” Early said, pulling his jacket on.

“What are you talking about; we need to get to the nightclub?” Khan replied.

“It’s Hawkins's birthday do. We've all got to show our faces,” Early said. “It won’t be that bad. He likes to see all the troops there to say happy birthday; but he normally puts on a good spread.”

“This is crazy. You know yourself; these are dangerous people. They'll probably know Crystal was here today and may well be heading straight for Zebbie’s Club again,” Khan said in a pained voice.

“Oh you believed all that crap; come on Guv. She’s a prossie! It’s obvious—that’s why the brief was there. She thought we’d bang her up; that place was probably some whore house,” Early smiled.

“What! She was only here to protect Zebbie!” Khan said losing her temper. “And we have a real link with this Billy Blake now—GBH. A man whom we can place at Robert Payne’s was committing GBH just hours earlier!”

“Listen you’re desperate to link things together, I get it. You want to make a case. But you’re seeing things that aren’t there, Guv. And we’ve got somewhere we need to be; if you care about your career that is.”

“Going to a senior officer’s birthday bash is hardly a career step,” Khan argued.

“I tell you what Guv, you can tell him that. And I’ll see you on traffic duties tomorrow—then they’ll be no more talk of Charlie O’Neil,” Early replied. “I’m surprised you don’t know about politics with your background. The endless value of a good arse licking.”

Khan looked at Early for a moment, her face flushing with anger. He had crossed the line there and he knew it. Speaking to a senior officer like that could get you suspension; he even thought about apologising.

“Let’s go then. I’m never one to miss a good arse licking opportunity,” Khan said smiling. “First thing tomorrow we’re following this up though.”

Early watched Khan storm towards the door, unsure what had just happened. She must have known she could have had his warrant card for that? He decided to quickly forget about it though, just like she appeared to, and followed her out the door.

The annual event, that was Hawkins birthday bash, was well attended by the whole of the SOCA and various others from the Yard. There was a more than liberal representation of a variety of other special operational teams—people whom members of the general public would think might have far better things to do.

After Early had found some of his old mates at the bar and got comfortable with a couple of pints he noticed that Khan was sitting along in a quiet part of the room, watching the drunken antics of her colleagues. He wondered if he should try and help her fit into the group; it must be hard for a Muslim lady at these types of functions, Early thought. Women like her seemed to have an invisible ring of protection around them against any drunken men who might want to chance their arm; but such a ring of protection must have its downsides.

He could see, from her serious expression, that she was probably thinking about the case. He sighed; this was an opportunity he couldn’t miss to try and change her approach. This case was starting to look like it would have a real negative effect on his retirement plans.

He walked over, pint in hand, and gave her his best winning grin. Khan returned the smile.

“Not drinking then?” Early nodded to Khan’s coke.

He instantly felt like an idiot.

“Yeah, I normally start slow… you know on the
Diet Coke
before I move onto the full fat stuff later into the night,” Khan replied.

“Sorry Guv…”

“Hello, hello.”

Early was about to apologise, when DCI Hawkins was suddenly stood in front of them, holding a pint of beer and slurring his words, clearly intoxicated.

“Sir,” Khan responded.

Early almost saw how the next few minutes could go badly.

“I just wanted to say,” Hawkins said, stopping to steady himself. “I am very impressed by you. Some new D.I.’s, who stroll in to the department, tend to tread the safest and easiest line possible but not you… no...”

Khan looked down at her feet. The chivalrous thing to do would be for Early to whisk Khan away form here, before Hawkins said something or did something he shouldn’t. Both offences would be well in character for him.

“I just wanted to say, that I think you have balls!” Hawkins was now shouting more than talking.

Khan blushed; a small audience had started to watch the conversation from afar. Like Early, they all knew Hawkins reputation at these events.

“I don’t mean it in a physical type of way.” Hawkins continued, oblivious to the growing audience and the volume of his voice. “I mean, I'm not saying I think you look like a man!”

Khan looked around at her new colleagues and the other senior officers who were now crowding around her and Hawkins, clearly enjoying the show.

“Because you are clearly a woman,” Hawkins continued.

Khan didn’t reply but instead made a sudden burst through the crowd, trying not to run whilst rushing away from the bar as quickly as she could.

“D.I. Khan, come back here!” Hawkins cried. “What did I do?”

Early looked at the mess of the condition that Hawkins was in and shook his head. The detective was a disgrace. He couldn’t help reproaching himself; he might have helped his boss out. But there again, maybe there was a bright side. Perhaps Khan, who evidently cared a lot about what people think, might never want to come into work again after this. He hoped!

“No hats allowed, I’m afraid bud,” the man behind the ticket kiosk grinned.

No hats allowed. Do you not know who I am?  I’ll strap your face to the back of my car and circle London until you stop screaming, you motherfucker.

“Come on Mick, I want to get in there. I reckon we’ve already missed the first band,” Seamus said, with an expression on his face reminiscent of a child desperate for a toy they’d just seen.

“I’d like to keep my hat on, thanks,” Mickey said, through gritted teeth.

“Buddy I’m sorry. I don’t make the rules. I’m a hat wearing type of guy as well; but we got this procedure set up by the police when they put up this CCTV stuff. And all hats have to be off—for our license,” the man said, gesturing up to a small camera that was pointing down at Mickey.

You don’t fuck around with the CCTV lark; it’s serious shit. London has more CCTV cameras than any city in the world. Mickey was sure they weren’t there just to watch the honeys, so it was always best to be on your best behaviour when those little bastards are close by.

Mickey nodded and passed some money to cover his and Seamus’ entry. He glimpsed at the camera before removing his hat, thankful that the poor light that would hopefully cover the remaining streaks of blue.

Seamus tugged at Mickey’s arm. “Come on Mickey, let’s rock!”

Mickey shook his head as he followed Seamus into the rock venue; it was the type of place Mickey had spent most his life extorting from. It was nothing more than a round hall with a slightly elevated stage on one side. These types of places are completely interchangeable; it might be a cult rock venue right now, but a quick change of management and it would be a club banging out heavy bass dance music. Mickey didn’t have a preference; if pushed he preferred a club that housed dance music, mainly due to the better clientele. This place would be full of greasy kids, badly dressed and in need of a bath.

He got a whiff of the greasy smell he expected, then smiled when he saw the ridiculously oversized speakers that surrounded them and made a mental note to make sure they didn’t spend much time near them. Just when he thought the place couldn’t get any worse, he saw a row of plastic beakers behind the bar, waiting for anyone who ordered a drink.

“Classy place,” Mickey said, still looking around.

He scanned the room for dealers; in moments like these, Mickey went into automatic mode: understand the threats, the competition and the business opportunities. This being one of the few venues in London he wasn’t familiar with, he wondered who was running the traffic here, and hoped it was one of his many subsidiaries.

It didn’t take him long to clock a longhaired teenager patrolling the entrance to the toilets; definitely a dealer. The systematic glances to a suited man sat in a booth seat in the corner of the hall, indicated where the muscle behind the operation was. The club security was clearly in on it, as there was no way any bouncer worth his salt wouldn’t see these amateurs.

A part of Mickey missed the old days; the days where they would have walked into this place and wrestled for control of the money being driven from protection and drugs. He looked around and couldn’t help but see prime meat. Sure, there was not a great deal of money at this venue; but the thought of the challenge got Mickey’s heart pumping.

“Max, this place is rocking,” Seamus beamed.

Mickey turned to see that Fame had joined them, dressed in a ridiculous looking suit that, from a distance, must have looked like it was made from tin foil.

“Jesus Christ Max, I didn’t know it was fancy dress tonight!” Mickey sniggered.

“This is an expensive suit, thank you Mr Dunne. Some of us have to stay on the cutting edge of fashion,” Fame replied.

“I think you look wicked mate,” Seamus said, looking Fame up and down.

Cretin, Mickey thought. “When’s this band on then?”

“Born Stupid?” Max asked.

“No, I heard the Pistols were getting back together for a gig tonight,” Mickey said, his eyes going cold. “Who else would I be down here to see?”

Fame raised his hands defensively. “Fair point. I think about ten minutes or so.”

“Good, I need a piss.”

Mickey didn’t wait for a response and walked towards the toilets. He could see the young drug dealer clock his approach and was now honing in on him. Mickey deliberately didn’t avoid him and smiled.

The dealer walked up close to Mickey. “Hey mate, what you after?”

Mickey let his eyes meet the dealer’s for a moment; he could see almost instant regret cross the young man’s face. Then, with near martial art speed, he grabbed the dealer's long hair and threw him to the floor with an Olympic like hurl.

Mickey could feel a weight of people now looking at him and the dealer, who was now sprawled on the floor. Part of him wanted to shout out, “I’m Mickey Dunne, and I fucking love it! Who wants some?”

It wasn’t like he had a super-human strength, or even any trained skill in hand to hand combat, beyond the boxing schooling most the kids where he came from got. But despite this, he always had a better than average chance of winning a fight.

Mickey always qualified it in the same way. A manual labourer, who was used to performing a mundane task, slowly got better and better at it. So equally, if you got used to people attacking you, you consequently got very good at defending yourself; and the same of course applied to attacking people.  He had honed the art of surprise and viciousness; a combination of both, most people wouldn’t want or even handle dealing with.

Mickey stood over the fallen dealer and noticed the teenager glance across to the booth. Mickey followed the glance and met eyes with the suited man, who quickly looked down in submission. The power of influence and reputation, Mickey grinned, as he walked into the toilets. Either he knew who Mickey was, or he was just a pussie.

Mickey was still feeling pleased with himself as he relaxed and leant over the urinal. He didn’t like to think of himself as being particularly power crazy, but he didn’t mind the buzz he got off occasions like this.

“Your hair’s banging man.”

Mickey turned to his side and saw a young teenager, in denim and dock martens focused on his hair. “I’ve been trying to get mine a similar colour; what’s your secret?”

Mickey looked up at the bright light above him and wondered how brightly the blue in his hair must now be shining through. For fucks sake.

“I’ve tried mixing it black and blonde and different peroxides; but I have never seen a blue achieved by anyone as true as that man,” the teenager continued.

Mickey concentrated on the urinal in front of him and hoped the teenager would go away.

“Hey Baz, look at his hair,” the teenager's high excited voice announced.

“Wow man, that’s wazo!” a new voice exclaimed.

Mickey finished relieving himself and walked back into the hall, ignoring the two teenagers. He hoped a few whiskeys when he got home would help him forget about the ordeal. As he walked out, he was met by a barrage of sound coming from the stage—he turned to see a three-man punk band starting a set of songs.

Two of the men were skin heads covered in tattoos and with a mix of leather and denim clothing, but one man stood out from the rest, dressed in a similar manner but with a Mohican haircut that was dyed bright red. The Mohican was shouting out what was passing for vocals, while jumping around the stage with unbounded energy.

That must be our man, Mickey thought. Another fucking twat.

“It’s Born Stupid—what do you think Mick?” Seamus said, bursting with excitement.

“They sound bloody dreadful; this is just noise and shouting,” Mickey replied, giving an honest summary.

“They’re punk. They're meant to be dreadful,” Fame replied.

“Mickey, you don’t know anything about this type of music. It’s all about passion and attitude,” Seamus said, watching the performance intently.

“Not too much about musical talent,” Mickey replied.

The three men watched as the band’s set progressed, with very little variety between the different songs. Even Mickey was surprised by the unfaltering energy the mohicaned man exhibited. The audience though at no stage seemed at all engaged by their offerings; but if you watched that man perform, you’d think there was a full stadium of fans cheering him on.

“That’s Mohican,” Fame said, pointing to the man with the hairstyle matching the name.

“No shit,” Mickey replied.

In the midst of what Mickey hoped was one of the punk band’s final songs, a young bearded man approached Fame and tapped him on the shoulder. He was not dressed in the same leather or denim clothes as most of the audience and stood out slightly as a result; but his long hair and earrings more than suggested to Mickey he was adhering to some kind of musical following.

“You’re Max Fame aren’t you?” the bearded man said.

Fame kept his focus on the stage, barely acknowledging the man. “Yes.”

“Well, I’ve got this band and…” the bearded man began, in a fashion that Mickey thought had all the hallmarks of a rehearsed line.

Fame, still not looking at the man, interrupted him. “And you think you’d like for me to listen to your demo or maybe come down to one of your shows?”

The man looked uneasy and not sure how to respond. “Yeah.”

Fame now turned to look at the musician—with no pity—and continued. “I tell you what; when you have over fifty thousand hits on YouTube, then give me a call.”

Fame turned back to the band on stage not waiting for a response.
The bearded man didn’t move for a moment, not knowing if a response was expected or not. When he realised none was forthcoming, he disappeared back into the crowd.

“You are a real mean piece of shit, do you know that?” Mickey said.

“Please; this from the man who has threatened me with a variety of forms of assault since we met,” Fame replied.

“That was business; you just crushed some kid’s dreams there,” Mickey said, surprising himself with the emotion in his voice.

“No, this is business. This is my business. I just taught him a valuable lesson,” Fame said, continuing his defence.

“Max’s business is a cutthroat business, Mickey,” Seamus said, wading into the argument with the stupidity that Mickey was now learning was typical of him.

Mickey turned to Seamus. “More cutthroat than ours?”

The argument was finished by the break in the barrage of sound from the speakers that signalled the end of Born Stupid’s set.

“Come on, let’s go back stage and talk to them,” Fame said, walking towards the rear of the venue.

“Do you hear that, Mick, backstage bloody passes!” Seamus said excitedly, before trailing behind Fame.

“Jesus Christ,” Mickey said, for a moment letting the two men walk off together without following them.

To Seamus’ obvious disappointment, no one checked the group's validity for going backstage to the dressing rooms, and it took them only moments to reach a door, which had a piece of paper blue tacked to the outside reading; Born Stupid.

The door was ajar and there were excited drunken voices coming from within. Fame motioned towards it. “Let’s get this done then.”

Mickey put his hand on Fame’s shoulder, stopping him. “Always know your quarry,” Mickey said, creeping to the door and looking through the gap into the dressing room.

The three band members were sat on a worn out looking sofa in a small room, which in name only served as a dressing room. They were passing a bottle of whiskey between them and all taking generous swigs before passing it on.

“We rocked it man!” said one of the punks, wearing a t-shirt with
I was an accident
emblazoned across it.

Mickey looked the fella up and down and reckoned his parents would probably agree.

“That place was jumping. I could literally feel it rock. It was like we were bringing the house down!” the other band member shouted.

This man stood out from the others; one of his ears was covered in safety-pins. Mickey grimaced at the blood stains. The wounds suggested that this had been a new idea.

Mickey didn’t like what he saw; he could see how the situation could kick off. They walk in and offer the lead sing a new break. Yeah, that ain’t going down well with Safety-Pin Ear and his mate. What also didn’t help was that Mickey had never understood punks. Punk music had been huge for his generation. In his final years at school, the radio was full of bands like the Sex Pistols and The Damned; most teenagers back then would dress in a similar manner to the three men he was looking at. But Mickey had never understood the whole craze. Who would want to dress like that—surely people wanted to look the best they could? And, as for the music, it was all two fingers to ‘the man’ and why? Most punks certainly didn’t know! Elvis—now that was what Mickey called music. Elvis dressed to get ladies, which made perfect sense. And if you wanted to broaden your tastes, there was Motown. All pure music—gold. What type of moron would choose punk music over that?

“Yeah! Fucking Rock!” Mohican shouted at the ceiling, before getting up and walking over to the corner of the room for the final bottle of whiskey and last few bottles of beer. It was more than likely that this was how the band had been paid for playing that evening. In any case, Born Stupid’s certainly represented the very lowest rung on the ladder of a career in music, playing venues when your payment takes the form of free drinks.