‘Fuck knows,’ said Parry. ‘It could be anywhere.’
The sight of a man approaching caught his eye and Jarvis turned to see Fabio jogging towards them. ‘Did you know about this? The coach?’ he asked, slowing to a walk and stopping in front of them.
Jarvis shook his head. ‘No, this is new to me. I've got no idea what's happening.’
Fabio took a deep breath and turned his head to look at the coach. ‘OK, well we will follow it and see where they go. I think you should come with me.’
Jarvis nodded. ‘Yes. I think that would be a good idea. But we'd best go in one of your cars. It might be suspicious if we tail them in ours.’
Fabio smiled. ‘Of course, but I must warn you, there has already been a bit of trouble in the city. Some of your fans were attacked in a bar about an hour ago.’
Jarvis let out a curse and then reached into his pocket as his phone let out a shrill ring. He listened for a while and then closed it. ‘It gets worse,’ he said. ‘Steve, that was Al Harris. He's had the DCI all over him. It seems like there's about four hundred lads already in the city and more on the way, not including our lot. It's looking like it may well kick off again later on. The Italians have asked for more spotters and as our part of this operation is over, at least for a while, that means you two I'm afraid.’
Parry let out a curse and looked at Fabio who was shaking his head.
‘I'm sorry, I did not know about that. You must understand, there are many departments in the Carabinieri: in situations like this, things happen.’
Parry looked at Jarvis. ‘And Terry?’
‘The DCI wanted us to pull him but the Italians have insisted he's left in. At least for the next few hours or until I decide he's in danger:’
Parry let out a low whistle. ‘Nice buck-pass by the DCI. Put all the responsibility onto you.’
Jarvis rubbed the side of his head. He hadn't expected anything less. If the next few days were going to see a lot of trouble, everyone would need to cover their arses. His DCI was no different.
Parry swung round and tapped Neal White on the shoulder. ‘We best be off then. Can your lads escort us into the city?’ he added to Fabio.
‘Of course, I will arrange that at once,’ he replied and began speaking into his radio.
Parry looked across at Jarvis who had returned his gaze to the coach. ‘Be careful Guv.’
Jarvis looked round and smiled. He walked over and leant forward, his voice lowered almost to a whisper. ‘Don't worry. As soon as I know where they're going, I'm gonna pull him out. And I don't give a shit what anyone says.’
A dark blue patrol car came hurtling round the corner and Fabio waved it over. ‘Here, these men will take you to where you need to be. Just follow them.’
Parry climbed into the Mondeo and, with a final wink at Jarvis, followed the Italian police car into the darkness. Jarvis watched them go and then turned to Fabio and Phil Williams.
He was getting cold and began rubbing his hands together for warmth. ‘Right, this is your operation Fabio, what do you want us to do next?’
The Italian looked at them and smiled. ‘We will follow the coach into the city, if that is where they are going of course. When they stop, then we will see …’
Jarvis nodded and grinned, but inwardly he felt a growing unease. This was all too haphazard. All this ‘play-it-by-ear’ stuff. That was no way to run an operation like this. And there was the small matter of Terry Porter to consider. ‘We must stick together. If things go wrong, then we must do whatever it takes to get our man out from there. He could be in grave danger.’
Fabio grinned. ‘Of course. Leave everything to me.’
Jarvis looked at him for a moment and then glanced at the coach. ‘As if I have any bloody choice,’ he thought. He turned back to face the Italian. ‘I have to ask you two questions: when the coach leaves, is there any way we can get into Evans's Mercedes before they come back? We may learn something.’
Fabio rubbed his chin and shrugged before lifting up his hands and raising his eyebrows. ‘We can try, but it is a big risk. We do not know if all of them will be on the coach. And if someone sees us …’
Jarvis turned crimson with embarrassment at his mistake. Shit, he must be tired to make a fundamental error like that and now he'd made himself look like an idiot. He stole a quick look at Williams but he was still looking at the coach and wasn't listening. Thank Christ for that at least.
‘You had another question …?’
Jarvis lifted up his hand and scratched the side of his head. ‘Yes … sorry. Where can we get something to eat? I'm bloody starving.’
Part Four
Chapter 17
Tuesday, 26 October
19.30
Terry Porter watched as the city of Rome swept into view before him. Tall, brightly lit buildings passed by on either side as the traffic, a chaotic mixture of flashing lights and blaring car horns, battled to get to wherever it was it was going. Ordinarily, he would have been enthralled by such a sight but not this time. This time he was terrified and was struggling to stop himself from shaking. In the seat behind him, Fitchett and Hawkeye were, as they had called it, riding shotgun for him while, further up the bus, Evans was walking around, handing out beers and joking with the others. He'd been doing that since they'd set off. Geeing everyone up and getting them in the mood for the evening he had planned for them. And so far, it had worked. Except for him of course; for him every single second had been a nightmare. He closed his eyes, his leg hurt like hell and that bastard Fitchett hadn't helped. As they'd walked to the bus, he'd just followed along a pace or two behind to make sure he didn't bolt for the police cars. Thank Christ he'd been the last one on and the front seat had been empty. He couldn't have handled being made to sit at the back. Someone behind him started singing ‘No surrender’, and the rest of the bus quickly joined in, following it up with ‘There ain't no black in the Union Jack, send the bastards back’. He sat there and stared out of the window. Ordinarily, he would never take shit like that. He'd have turned round and sorted out the scum responsible. But not this time: there were too many and his leg was in agony.
A tap on the head made him jump and he looked up to see Hawkeye leaning over the chair. ‘Fuck me mate, you're nervous.’
Porter closed his eyes and gave his heartbeat a few seconds to revert to something approaching normal. ‘That's an understatement mate, but it's not the Italians that bother me,’ he said, hooking his thumb towards the back of the bus, ‘it's these wankers.’
Hawkeye put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Don't worry about them twats, we'll look after you. Here …’ He handed across a cigarette and Porter took it gratefully. He felt strangely relieved by this show of solidarity and wondered what was going on in the heads of the two men sitting behind him. Whatever it was, he'd decided that Fitchett would pay. One way or another. He took a drag from his cigarette and settled back in his chair as the coach pulled up at a set of traffic lights. For a moment, he considered diving for the door but knew it would have been a waste of time. He could hardly move his leg now and Fitchett would have been on him like a flash, then what? Fed him to the animals probably.
A loud thump echoed through the bus and Fitchett turned to his left and spotted a small group of Italian football fans standing across the road. They were hurling missiles at the bus and gesturing furiously for the passengers to get off. He stared at them for a split second and then all hell broke loose behind him. A shout went up and the bus almost tipped over as everyone on board dived over to that side, hammering on the windows and screaming at the tops of their voices.
Suddenly, Billy Evans came flying down the gangway and grabbed the microphone on the dashboard next to the driver. ‘Leave it you wankers! Leave it! Sit down, come on for fuck's sake, sit down!’ Gradually, the bus fell quiet and after a reassuring word with the driver, it pulled away and carried on towards the city centre.
Evans climbed up the two steps from where the driver sat and sto
pped next to Porter. ‘Listen you bastards,’ he shouted angrily, ‘there'll be enough of that tomorrow. Just fuckin’ jack it in till we get there all right!’
‘Where we goin’?’ came a shout from the back.
‘You'll see. Just settle down and have a few beers, we'll be there in a bit.’ He stood there while a general hum of calm conversation returned to the coach and then began to move back to where he had been sitting.
‘Ay Billy!’ He stopped and looked up as a thick Yorkshire accent broke out above the din.
‘What?’
‘I don't mind drinking with wops, but I ain't drinking with no blackies.’
The coach fell into silence and Porter tensed himself, unsure of what he should do next.
‘Well I don't see why not, we have to drink with you you fucking pie-muncher!’
Porter turned his head and looked at the reflection in the window on the other side of the bus. Fitchett was standing up and pointing towards the back. Like almost everyone else now, he was laughing.
Another voice broke out, this time southern, and it was one Porter knew. ‘Well fuck me! If it ain't the mouthy Brummie. Where's your pet then, Brummie?’
Porter closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He'd fought against shit like that all his life and the realisation hit him that if he took it now and did nothing, he'd never be able to live with himself. He exhaled slowly and felt the fear drain out of him to be replaced by anger. Not just at the scum on the bus but at Fitchett, Billy Evans, everyone. He grabbed the armrest on the chair and pushed himself up. He hadn't joined the police force for this. He'd joined to help people, to be a good person. And here he was, on a bus with a load of racist thugs heading into the middle of God knew what. Well fuck them, fuck them all. Whatever happened, he'd go down fighting.
Leaning on the back of his seat, he turned round and knelt down on the cushion, taking his weight on his good knee. ‘You want some of me, you wanker?’ he asked, his calm voice totally at odds with the way he felt. ‘Then come and fucking get it!’ He knelt there and watched as the two men who had attacked him in the car park got up and came walking down the gangway towards him, their faces blank but filled with hate. They were shouting, but he couldn't make out a word they were saying. All he could hear was the steady thudding of his heart as it threw adrenalin into every corner of his body, preparing him for the ordeal ahead. But he was glad. After all he'd been through in the last few days, he needed to hurt someone, make them pay.
They were almost within striking distance when first Evans, then Fitchett and Hawkeye appeared in front of him, throwing punches and pushing them backwards and away from him.
‘Sit down Terry you twat! Just sit down!’ Hawkeye barked and, turning, pushed him backwards and he fell, knocking his knee. A surge of pain shot through him and he almost screamed out loud.
‘For fuck's sake, what is it with you lot!’ shouted Evans above the noise. ‘We'll be there in five fuckin’ minutes!’ Porter glanced up to see Hawkeye standing above him. He was looking down and grinning. ‘What a pair of cunts, eh? I told ya, stick with me. We'll do them later on. I'll enjoy that,’
Porter gave him a half-hearted smile and then looked down at his leg. The knock on the knee had clearly caused more damage than he had thought and the bandage was covered in blood. He could see it through his torn trousers.
He looked up to see Billy Evans staring down at him, an anxious look on his face. ‘Listen Terry, we'll be there in a bit.
I know your leg's fucked and all that, but the second that door opens, you'd better get the fuck out of this bus.’
Jarvis leant forward excitedly and stared out of the window as the back of the coach came into view. He felt totally refreshed after eating, and now that the combined efforts of Fabio and the Italian police had brought them back to within sight of their targets he felt ready for anything. ‘Where are we?’ he asked, as if knowing would make any difference.
‘This is Via Momentana, the Stazione Termini, er … the train station. It is this way.’ Fabio shook his head. ‘I feared this, this is a bad area of Rome. We have many problems here.’
‘Such as?’ asked Williams.
‘Drugs, prostitutes, immigrants, you know. It is the same as any city. We have already had trouble with some of your fans near here, the ones who have come by train.’
Jarvis glanced around. ‘Is this where my men came?’
‘Yes,’ nodded Fabio. ‘They are working around here with some of my men.’
Jarvis looked out of the window as Rome passed him by. The wide street was lined with cafes, bars and the occasional police car. He let out a sigh. Usually, he'd have been at the forefront of this whole operation, liaising with the Italians and making sure known troublemakers were spotted and taken out, but he'd been so wrapped up in all this, he didn't even know what was happening. ‘What are your plans for dealing with the England supporters?’
Fabio turned and gave a broad grin. ‘We have asked your Mr Mellor for advice.’
Jarvis and Williams burst out laughing. When trouble had erupted the last time England had played in Rome, the former Tory MP turned radio DJ and supposed spokesman for fans everywhere had been vociferous in his condemnation of the Italian police who, judging by Fabio's smirk, clearly regarded him with some contempt.
When the laughter subsided, Fabio continued, the tone of his voice more serious. ‘We are ready for them and if they behave, then they will be welcome. But if they do not … then we will deal with them.’
Jarvis sucked on his teeth noisily. ‘Do you know how many are coming?’
‘We are expecting about seven thousand, but who knows? It is a big game and many will come without tickets. It could be eight, nine, even ten thousand. We will only know tomorrow.’
Williams leant forward. ‘Do you know how many are already here?’
Fabio shook his head. ‘We think about one thousand but it could be more. Many are in bars around here but others are outside the city. We have provided places for them to stay, for camping.’
Jarvis nodded, his professional curiosity satisfied. Once he'd got Porter out, he'd have more time to get involved, do some spotting of his own. He pulled out his phone and rang Steve Parry but, despite leaving it ringing for a while, there was no answer. He cancelled the call and rang Harris in London. ‘Al, anything happening?’
‘Nothing at all Guv. Until something happens at your end, I'm in limbo. I've been helping co-ordinate the surveillance of some of the other Cat Cs. The ones not with you.’
Jarvis nodded to himself. There were hundreds of known hooligans in England and, with a game as serious as this one, they all had to be monitored in case they travelled. With five officers tied up on Operation Legion, the Unit must be stretched to the limit.
‘How are the mad, bad streets of Rome then?’ Harris asked cheerily.
‘You tell me,’ replied Jarvis. ‘All I can see is traffic. Have there been any reports yet?’
‘Yeah, it's been all over Sky News. One of their film crews was attacked earlier and had their gear wrecked. Some of the lads they were filming took exception to the attention.’
‘Where were they?’
‘Near the station I think. It sounded as if it was really nasty.’ Jarvis flashed a look at Fabio as Harris continued. ‘And some England lads were attacked in a bar about an hour ago. By a group of Italians.’
Jarvis chewed his lip for a second. ‘What time are you going home, Al?’
‘Christ, you know better than that Guv! I'm here for the duration.’
‘Good, give me a call if anything big kicks off will you? And tell the DCI I called as well. He'd best know I'm still alive.’
They said their goodbyes and Jarvis told the other two about the TV crew.
‘It happens a lot here,’ said Fabio. ‘The fans are fearful of the media these days. They do not want to be seen in the papers. It is too bad for them. That is why most of them wear scarves across their faces.’
Fabio's radi
o interrupted them and he listened intently for a moment before answering and putting it on the dashboard. ‘There is more trouble. Near the Via Veneto. There are many bars there and it sounds bad.’
‘Is that far from here?’ asked Jarvis nervously.
Fabio shook his head. ‘No, it is just along here, on our right.’
‘Well that looks like where we're going.’ The three men watched as the coach indicated right and turned.
‘This is Via Saldra, the trouble is further up.’ Fabio pointed and then pulled the car sharply into the side of the road as the coach slowed to a halt and its brightly coloured orange hazard lights began to flash. ‘They must be stopping here. This is not good for us.’
They watched in silence as the door opened and a man almost fell out onto the pavement and limped towards the back of the bus closely followed by Gary Fitchett.
‘There's Terry!’ exclaimed Williams, leaning forward between the two men in the front. ‘Bloody hell, he looks in a bad way.’
Jarvis bit his lip but said nothing. He was too busy watching the front of the bus as the thirty-eight other passengers poured off and made their way towards a large, brightly lit cafe. A few tables and chairs were scattered outside but they were empty and the men went straight through them and into the building. ‘What is that place?’
Fabio screwed up his eyes and looked through the darkness. ‘It's called Bar San Marco: it is just a simple bar but it has a bad reputation. In the past, we have seen a great deal of trouble here with Irriducibili.’
‘The what?’
Fabio smiled and shrugged. ‘Sorry, Irriducibili. They are the Ultras from Lazio. Like a supporters’ group but with more, erm … passion. There are two at Lazio, the other are the Vikings, but they are not so bad.’ He looked back out of the window and looked towards the bar, a thoughtful expression on his face. ‘And also when England came to Rome last time, it was very bad around here.’ He lifted up his radio and chewed at the aerial for a moment. ‘This would begin to make sense,’ he said, an excited tone clearly evident in his voice. ‘Lazio have had a strong following from the far right for many years now, right back to II Duce … Mussolini,’ he added, for the benefit of the two Englishmen. ‘And there has been some trouble with Irriducibili lately.’