The look on Fitchett's face when they'd come through the door still worried Jarvis a little. He didn't like working in other people's nicks: too many strange faces, and he was very aware of the possibility that their arrival had not been unexpected. That was one of the reasons for taking the two prisoners back to London. Besides, he felt tired and dirty. He needed to go home, have a bath and get some decent sleep before having a crack at an interview. Especially these two.
‘You found anything in there?’ asked Williams, nodding towards the pile of papers on the table.
‘Nothing yet,’ said Jarvis. He picked up a photocopy of a telephone bill and passed it across the table. ‘It's all just normal stuff. We'll have to get all these numbers checked out, but to be honest I doubt we'll find anything. I reckon he's got another mobile stashed somewhere for Saturdays. People like him usually do: that way, unless we find it, we can't trace any of the numbers he rings when he's planning an off.’
Williams looked through the bills on the table in front of him. ‘Well, if you're looking for an Essex number, there's none here,’ said Williams. ‘And I should know, being an Essex lad.’
Jarvis looked at him with feigned surprise. ‘Don't tell me you know every telephone code in Essex,’ he said.
‘No Guv,’ laughed Williams, ‘but I know the code for Romford, and that's where Evans lives isn't it.’
It wasn't a question, it was a statement, and it threw Jarvis a bit. Williams saw that and quickly began working through the papers on the table leaving the two men in an embarrassed silence. Jarvis took a mouthful of coffee and broached the subject that had been on both their minds for days but for different reasons. ‘When are you going to ask me then?’
‘Ask you what Guv?’
‘About Billy Evans.’
Williams shrugged his shoulders. ‘I know what you told me, of course, and there's the stuff I got out of the file. The other lads on the unit have filled me in on a lot.’
Jarvis looked down at the table and then back at Williams. ‘Did they mention Euston at all?’
Williams looked uneasy. This was before his time and he knew it still rankled with a few of the older hands. ‘Some of it,’ he said, ‘but … well, you know Guv.’
Jarvis nodded. He did know. The death of a fellow officer always left a scar and it was something you didn't talk about if you didn't have to. After all, it could happen to any of them at any time. They all knew that. Jarvis sighed. If Williams was going to hear about it, he'd best hear about it from him. He took a deep breath and began.
‘About a year after I joined the unit, we had a tip-off that a mob of Millwall were going to be ambushed by West Ham at New Cross station. Word was that this was revenge for an attack on a Hammers pub the previous season but we were certain it was to give a boost to the CSS after their no-show during Euro 96. Anyway we did know that the West Ham boys weren't going to mess about. They were going tooled- up and they wanted to settle things once and for all. I was a DS at that time and our advice to the Met lads was to flood the place with uniforms and simply keep the two groups apart. We went along to observe and see if we could identify any of the main players.’
He took a sip of coffee and glanced out of the window. ‘Millwall were at West Brom that day while the Hammers were at home and so we thought we'd have plenty of time to get everything in place for them coming back. What we didn't expect was for the West Ham lads to throw us a curve and head off on the tubes to kick it off at Euston.’
Jarvis stopped talking and watched as a young woman walked past the two of them. He leant forward and continued, his voice lower than before. ‘I was one of three spotters at Euston. Me, and two DCs. We were supposed to follow the Millwall lads when they got off the train to let the Met know where they were. But when they got to the bottom of the second lot of escalators, the West Ham appeared from somewhere and it all kicked off. There were probably a hundred lads rucking down there and this was on a Saturday night in a tube station. It was bloody chaos.’
‘Shitty death,’ said Williams.
Jarvis took another mouthful of coffee and continued. ‘Anyway, what could we do? We just had to keep out of the way until the cavalry arrived, but after a couple of minutes, more West Ham must have turned up because the Millwall lads came steaming back up the escalators and past us trying to get away. That's when we got attacked. They must have thought we were West Ham.’
‘And that's when DC Peterson was stabbed,’ interrupted Williams.
Jarvis leant back and raised an eyebrow. ‘So you did know,’ he said.
Williams shrugged his shoulders. ‘I'd heard,’ he said, ‘but what else could you have done?’
Jarvis looked at him. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Except get the bastard who set it all up.’
‘Billy Evans,’ said Williams.
‘Exactly. From what we found out later, he made it to top boy just after that so this would all have been down to him. But even though we bust our nuts, we could never prove anything. Not about that nor about anything else. I've turned over his house, his business - everything, but nothing. I know that he's responsible for the death of a police officer but I'd begun to think we'd never get the bastard. Maybe now we've got another chance because I just know he's up to something. Let's just hope the DCI has got the balls to let us run with it.’
Gary Fitchett sat in the back of the police van as it sped down the Ml towards London. He was desperate for a cigarette but when he'd asked for one the two coppers in the front had just laughed at him. ‘Pair of wankers,’ he'd thought. He let out a loud sigh, shut his eyes and leant his head back against the metal panel. For the thousandth time, his thoughts returned to the raid on his house. He'd always known, deep down, that one day the police would come through his front door. It was an occupational hazard and, to be honest, he was surprised that he'd got away with it for so long. After all, he'd been at it since he was thirteen. When they'd told him he was being charged in connection with affray and an assault in Camden High Street, he'd almost laughed out loud at the irony of it. After all the rucks he'd been in with his lads, not to mention the stuff with England, he ends up getting tugged for a nothing off with a few Chelsea faggots. ‘Fucking cameras,’ he'd thought. ‘That was careless; we didn't check for cameras.’
He opened his eyes and stared at the roof of the van. The idea of the police going through his house annoyed him a bit. He knew they wouldn't find anything because there was nothing to find. If you live your life expecting to be raided, you're not going to give them any help when they do come are you? But that didn't make it any easier to take. And who was to say they weren't nicking anything they could get their hands on? Bastards. And the copper who'd nicked him was an odd one. Fitchett smiled at the thought of him being all silent and moody in the charge room, trying to wind him up. ‘What a tosser,’ he thought. ‘He must think I give a shit.’ He had a sneaky feeling they would meet again, and in a perverse kind of way he was looking forward to it. The next part of the game. See what they throw at me and see how I deal with it.
He'd been lucky over the years in so much as he'd never been arrested or charged with anything. He'd spent a few nights in the cells, but had always been kicked out in the morning. He was careful like that. Tow the line and grovel for all you're worth then get back out there and do the business. But it would be interesting to see what it was like being interviewed. ‘I wonder if it really is like The Bill?’ he thought. He could handle it, no problem. One thing he was sure of though, they had more on him than the fight in Camden. They had to have, otherwise they wouldn't have got authority to mount a raid on his house. But what was it? That was the only thing that worried him.
The thought that someone could have grassed him up for something entered his head but he dismissed it immediately. He knew his lads and trusted them all without question. None of them was capable of anything like that. He wondered if they'd raided anyone else. No one had said anything to him and he hadn't seen anyone he knew in the police statio
n. God only knew what Al's missus would have said if they'd gone through his front door at five thirty in the morning. Fitchett wasn't afraid of much, but she scared the shit out of him.
Sitting up straight, he turned his mind to work but that was even more depressing. Even though he was sure he'd walk in the end, he knew that his boss would give him the elbow. Not even being the top salesman last year could save him from the sack if there were the remotest hint of a scandal. You just couldn't afford it in his line of work. Still, he knew what he was risking every time he walked out the door to go to a game. To be honest, that was part of the attraction. Seeing how far he could push his luck. Maybe he'd pushed it just a bit too far this time.
He shifted around on the hard seat. ‘Do you lot make these fucking things uncomfortable on purpose?’ he called out to the two policemen.
The passenger looked round. ‘Give it a rest. You'll be back in a cell soon then you can moan all you want.’
He shut his eyes again. He hadn't enjoyed last night, sleeping in a cell. The smell had been disgusting. Stale piss and vomit. For a time, his old fears about being closed in had resurfaced but he had learnt long ago that simply looking out of a window had helped. Even if it was frosted like the one in the cell. It was a link with the outside world and that was all he needed to calm himself down. He certainly wasn't looking forward to doing any time. He'd heard enough stories over the years to know what went on in prisons and none of it appealed. He let out another long sigh. ‘What a fucking waste,’ he thought.
He needed cheering up and began to hum some of his favourite songs to himself but one of the coppers in the front turned round and told him to be quiet. He thought about starting again to wind them up but decided against it. ‘Why rock the boat?’ He looked at the two men in the front. Separated from him by the mesh screen. He hated coppers. They were the scum of the earth. Everyone goes on about hooligans but what about the coppers? They're just as bad but because they wear a uniform, they get away with it. Like the time they had been arrested in Liverpool and the coppers there had beaten the shit out of him and Al, and then dumped them down the docks with no shoes on. Or at New Street station, where that copper had whacked him across the kidneys with his truncheon. The bastards abroad were even worse. Rome, Katowice, Marseille, Stockholm, fucking savages. They'd had their moments though. Like at Derby when they'd got the copper off his horse and kicked the fuck out of him. Or the time in Norwich where Baz had stolen a bottle of oil from a garage and thrown it on the road in front of a police biker. He'd gone down with an almighty crash and had then slid along the road on his arse. Funniest thing he'd ever seen.
He was smiling now. Looking back at happier times. The great away trips and the rucks. Wolves, when they'd ambushed the Bridge Boys at New Street and kicked the shit out of them. Boro away, when their pub had been attacked by the Frontline but they'd fought back and run them. The time at Sheffield United where the Blades Business Crew had tried to trap them in a cul-de-sac, but Al had taken half the lads through an alleyway and attacked them from the back. What a ruck that had been. Or the time they'd been on a coach stuck in traffic and someone realised that just behind them was a bus full of West Brom's Section Five. ‘Mayhem on the M6’ the headlines had read. Swansea in the cup a few years ago. Cheeky Jack bastards, thinking they could do us at home. His lads had taught them a lesson they'd never forget. Portsmouth away, where he'd earned the title of top boy by throwing the leader of the 657 through the front window of Tesco's and then diving straight in after him.
Barnsley away, when Al and him had walked into a pub full of Five-O by mistake and had to sneak out the toilet window.
What else? Oh yeah, Luton, when they'd gone through the Arndale Centre like a whirlwind and run their crew around all afternoon. Bradford, when they'd met up with the Ointment at Corley services on the M6. The Selector had given them such a hammering, they'd ended up running across the motorway to get away. Leicester, when they'd set fire to a hot-dog wagon to keep the police busy while they went off to ambush the Baby Squad's main pub. Stoke: they'd had some major offs with the Naughty 40 over the years but the attack on their buses when they'd come to Brum had to be the best. Pillow's idea to throw paint bombs at the windscreens had been inspired. And Millwall, fucking Millwall. He hated going there; it was the only ground that really scared him. The locals were mental.
He took a deep breath and shifted around on his chair. He ached all over. He turned his thoughts to England and the trips he'd had with them. Christ he'd been in some right scrapes over the years. Poland, Holland, Sweden, Italy, Norway, France. Turkey was the worst. He shuddered at the memory of it. When he'd been pissed and dropped his trousers at the train station. Fucking stupid. The police had grabbed him and dragged him off before the others could protect him. They'd beaten the shit out of him, stolen everything he had and then kicked him out. It'd taken ages to find his way back to the others. Dublin. What a crack that was! Someone else picking up the tab for two days on the piss and the biggest result of all time. Best of all, when they'd battered the Scots in Trafalgar Square and almost had the coppers on the run in London. They'd been so close but the Cockneys had fucked up by not organising things better and the police had got themselves together just in time.
The memories of Euro 96 were still passing through his head when Fitchett became aware that someone was pushing him in the side. ‘Wake up fuckwit, we're here.’
He opened his eyes to find the van had stopped and the back doors were open. One of the policemen was reaching inside and motioning him out.
‘Shit, must have dozed off,’ Fitchett said as he climbed out and stretched himself. He was stiff as a board. Looking around, he could see he was in a yard surrounded by a tall brick wall and which was half full of cars. To his left was a tall, grey, nondescript building with windows which betrayed nothing. He assumed it was a police station and he knew he was in London. But apart from that, he could have been anywhere.
Jarvis grabbed his briefcase and his overnight bag and climbed out of the taxi. He was halfway up the stairs to the station before Williams had paid the driver, and by the time the young DC arrived at the front desk, Jarvis was already in the lift. He hadn't wanted to come back to the office at all but he wanted to speak to the DCI before he went home.
Although it was almost seven, the office was still half full of people when he walked in. ‘Is the DCI in?’ he asked.
‘No Guv, he's gone home for the weekend. There's a note on your desk and DS Harris is in the briefing room.’
Jarvis dropped his bags, sat down and grabbed the envelope. He read the contents eagerly and, as he did so, a broad smile spread across his face. He'd been given exactly what he'd asked for. Three men and DS Al Harris as the office manager to co-ordinate things. On the bottom of the letter, Allen had scrawled ‘You've got seven days to convince me’.
He heard the lift doors open and looked up as Williams came in. ‘Phil,’ he called as Williams approached. ‘We're on.’
The young DC's face broke out in a broad grin. ‘That's great Guv.’
Jarvis stood up. ‘It's not just great, it's fucking tremendous.’
He picked up the phone and dialled the number of the custody sergeant but put it down before it could ring. He told Williams to go home and then headed for the briefing room.
He bumped into Harris on the way. ‘Sorry Guv, I didn't know you were back, I was on my way home.’
Jarvis looked at him and smiled. He really rated Harris as a copper and liked him as a bloke. He certainly hadn't asked for him by accident. ‘It's OK Al,’ he said. ‘Just fill me in on the details and then you can get off. I know this has all been a bit of a rush job.’
Harris looked at him and nodded. ‘That's the truth; I didn't know anything about it until two hours ago. Anyway, you've got me of course, DS Steve Parry and DC Neal White, who arrested Bailey, and Phil Williams who was with you in Brum. I've briefed Steve and Neal already and they're back in at nine tomorrow. I haven't spoken
to Williams yet but I'll give him a ring at home.’
Jarvis nodded thoughtfully. ‘Is everything in place in there?’
‘Yes Guv, the board's been done and all the files are in there and locked up.’
Jarvis rubbed his hands together and grinned. ‘Nice one Al. You get off and say sorry to Sue for me. I know she already hates my guts.’
Harris laughed out loud and began walking towards the lift. ‘See you in the morning Guv,’ he called over his shoulder.
Jarvis walked towards the briefing room and tried to open the door. It was locked. ‘Shit.’ He suddenly felt very grubby again and was incredibly hungry. After all, he hadn't eaten since breakfast. He walked back to his desk and picked up his bags. Before he went home there was one last thing he wanted to do.
Gary Fitchett lay on the hard mattress and stared at the ceiling. He was bored out of his mind. To relieve the monotony, he began singing some of his favourite football songs. At first quietly and then at the top of his voice. ‘My old man said be a Villa fan, I said fuck off bollocks you're a cunt.’’ ‘When I was a little boy, my granddad brought me a brand new toy, a Villa fan on a piece of string, he told me to kick his fuckin’ head in. Fuckin’ head in, Fuckin’ head in, he told me to kick his fuckin’ head in …’
The hatch on the door flew open and an angry face pushed itself forward, filling the small metal frame with rage. ‘Shut the fuck up!’ it screamed, but Fitchett could only laugh. Someone had scratched the shape of a backside around the opening and the face looked like a talking ring-piece. ‘Any more noise like that and I'll sort you out.’
The hatch slammed shut and Fitchett laughed out loud. ‘Twat,’ he shouted. As he lay there, something caught his attention and he sat up. He could have sworn he could hear someone else singing. Moving over to the door, he pressed his ear against the closed hatch and strained for all he was worth. The unmistakable sound of a Brummie voice could be heard and at once he knew who it was.