I came abreast with the man and glanced over at him. He wasn’t the copper who’d been stationed outside Zarco’s office that morning while detectives conducted a fruitless search of his desk and filing-cabinet drawers. That man was long gone. This one was different. Perhaps a little too different.
‘Have you got the time?’
‘Sure.’
The man stopped and lifted his wrist, which gave me a chance for a closer look at him.
‘Five past seven,’ he said.
‘Thanks.’
He was tall, with slightly too-long hair, and badly pitted skin on his face, but it wasn’t any of this or the dope on his breath that gave me pause for thought; it was the job-stoppers that were tattooed on his knuckles. Back in the nick there were plenty of cons who went in for prison tats, with ACAB being one of the most popular. It stood for All Coppers Are Bastards and was a sentiment with which I heartily agreed. But it seemed unusual that a policeman should have had those four initials on his knuckles; just as it seemed unusual that a policeman from the Essex Police — which was the force on the scene — should have been wearing a badge on his flat cap from the Surrey Constabulary. The cap badges were the same colour, all right — blue and red — but the Essex badge had three scimitars and this one had a lion couchant. I could see why the Essex law had called in detectives from the Yard, that made sense, but I really couldn’t understand why the Essex Police should have felt they required the help of the Surrey Constabulary.
I told myself that it wasn’t any of my business if a copper should have been sneaking a quiet toke on an upper floor when things were a bit slack; the job was probably very boring. I told myself that maybe the rules about coppers not having tattoos on their hands had been relaxed since I’d had much contact with the law. I told myself that my hatred and distrust of the police was becoming an obsession and that I should tell Sonja and ask her if she thought I needed professional help. I told myself I had enough trouble with the Met without pissing off the Surrey Constabulary as well. I told myself I just wanted to go home and have a nice bath and eat the sushi dinner I supposed Sonja had ordered in for us from the Jap restaurant on the King’s Road. I told myself that if he was impersonating a police officer then he’d leg it when I asked to see his warrant card and that I’d better be ready for a thumping.
He nodded and turned away.
‘Just a moment,’ I said. ‘Would you please show me your warrant card?’
‘Come again?’
‘Your warrant card. I’d like to see it please.’
‘Don’t need one, sir,’ he said. ‘Police Act 1996. ’Sides, I’m off duty. My warrant card is in the car downstairs. I was just dropping off some spare forensic kits for the coppers here. I’m not even part of the local force. So it wouldn’t be right for me to be carrying a warrant card. If I was arresting you, sir, then I would certainly need my card. Although the uniform is meant to be a bit of a clue for dozier villains.’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘Sounds fair enough. But only if you can tell me what the local force is.’
‘You what?’
‘Simple. The uniformed coppers here. Are they Metropolitan Police or Surrey Constabulary? And which one are you?’
The man faced me down. ‘Look, sir, it’s been a long day and I really don’t need someone getting clever with me right now. So why don’t you just fuck off?’
Now ordinarily I’d say that was standard chit-chat from a copper, and I’d have taken it, too; but not this time.
‘You know, if I was impersonating a police officer,’ I said, ‘in a building where there are lots of coppers, I might have a joint in the car outside, just to calm my nerves a bit. To give me the bottle for the job. Whatever that might be.’
The man shot me a sarcastic smile and then ran for it.
Which was like a hare setting off in front of a racing dog.
As a defender I’d earned my fair share of red cards; sometimes you have to take one for the team. A striker gets through and then you simply have to chop his legs and bring him down — like Ole Gunnar Solskjaer. I’d seen some pretty criminal tackles in my time, too. None worse than Roy Keane in 2001 when he tackled Alf-Inge Haaland. I still remembered the red card the Man U captain had got from David Elleray — again — when he took down the Manchester City midfielder. But that’s football, as Denis Law has famously said.
As tackles went, this one was just as high as Roy’s, and of course was well off the ball; and it was probably just as well that the fake copper’s leg wasn’t on the ground when I struck with both feet against his knee, otherwise I could have done him a lot more damage. The man went down and he must have banged the back of his head on the floor, because he lay there stunned just long enough for me to get up and call Maurice on my phone.
A few seconds later the two of us were marching the still-groggy man back to my office for a little Q & A.
A quick search of his pockets revealed another copper’s warrant card, not to mention a couple of joints, and an automatic pistol that gave me more than a pause for thought.
‘It’s a Ruger,’ said Maurice, examining the gun carefully.
‘Is that fucking real?’ I asked.
The fake copper sat down on the chair opposite my desk.
‘What do you think?’ he sneered.
‘It’s real all right, boss.’ Maurice thumbed out the magazine and inspected the bullets. ‘Loaded, too.’ He smacked the man on the back of the head. ‘What are you fucking thinking of, you stupid cunt — bringing a gun to football? There’s tooled up and there’s tooled up, but that shooter’s just asking for trouble.’
‘Fuck off,’ said the man.
I was still searching his pockets; wallet, car keys, a map of Silvertown Dock with an X to mark the spot somewhere on the second floor, a couple of grand in new fifties, a mobile phone, and a door key with a number on it.
‘Tell you what,’ I said. ‘It’s handy that we’ve got so much law upstairs. Makes it easy for us. And for you.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Tell us what you were up to, and we’ll let you go,’ I said. ‘Or else we’ll hand you over to the filth. It’s as simple as that.’
The man moved suddenly for the door but Maurice was there before him — or more accurately Maurice’s fist was. It connected with the side of the fake copper’s head like a wrecking ball and sent him crashing onto the floor.
‘Fuck,’ said Maurice, shaking his hand and flexing the fingers. ‘That hurt.’
The burglar was still lying on the floor.
‘Not as much as it hurt him,’ I said. ‘He’s out cold, I think. Still. Can’t be too careful, eh?’ I pulled open my desk drawer and found the handcuffs I had taken from Zarco’s desk the night before — the ones I guessed he’d used for his sex games with Claire Barry. I took the key out of the lock, dropped it into my pocket and then cuffed the unconscious man’s hands behind his back.
‘That’s handy,’ said Maurice. ‘Christmas present from the wife?’
‘Don’t ask.’
‘You play your games and I’ll play mine.’ Maurice chuckled obscenely.
We pulled the man back onto a chair and waited for him to stop breathing so loudly and to straighten up again. For a moment we thought he was going to puke so I put a wastepaper bin between his feet, just in case.
‘Tell us what you were up to and we’ll let you go,’ I said. ‘My guess is that you’ve got form for this kind of thing. A professional. Talk to us and you can be on your way.’
‘That’s a good offer, cunt face,’ said Maurice. ‘Me and the boss here, we’ve both done some bird, so we’ve got no love for the law. You cooperate with us and you can be on your toes again. But stay shtum and we’ll hand you over wearing a fucking ribbon on your hat. With this gun in your pocket, you’ll get five years.’