PRAISE FOR GRAHAM BARTLETT

  ‘City on Fire is such a thrilling instalment … like being given secret access into an incident room’

  Araminta Hall

  ‘An immersive, gripping and tightly plotted thriller’

  Nadine Matheson

  ‘Enthralling … told with the confidence and verve that you’d expect from a writer who’s been there and seen it for real’

  Neil Lancaster

  ‘Authentic, pacy, gripping and first-class characters’

  Steve Cavanagh

  ‘An absolutely electrifying read’

  Imran Mahmood

  ‘Bartlett has set a new standard for the police procedural’

  Kia Abdullah

  ‘A brilliantly gritty slice of British crime’

  T. M. Logan

  ‘Explosive’

  Vaseem Khan

  ‘A fast-paced, just-one-more-chapter thriller’

  Clare Mackintosh

  ‘This one’s a cracker!’

  John Sutherland

  ‘If you want to walk on the wild side, read City on Fire’

  P. D. Viner

  CITY ON FIRE

  GRAHAM BARTLETT

  For Julie, Conall, Niamh and Deaglan who believe in me even when I do not.

  I always tell authors that the story and characters must come first. With that in mind, this is a work of fiction, hence some structures, titles, locations, even some police procedures, have been modified to serve the story and the characters for your enjoyment.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  By Graham Bartlett

  Copyright

  1

  ‘I said strip,’ boomed the voice from behind the pistol, which was trained rigidly between Ged’s eyes.

  ‘Jesus. Fucking calm down mate,’ said Ged, trying to steady the wobble from his voice. ‘What is this? I thought we were sweet.’

  ‘You’re either a grass or a fed,’ the man said as a statement, not a question, in the faux-patois lilt that without the barrel so close, Ged would have mocked.

  He glanced around, weighing up his chances of flight or fight. The basement looked – and smelt – like a disused beer cellar. The reek of stale yeast and the chill suggested that it was months, maybe years, since a jolly publican had scurried down here to change the lager.

  The only door was guarded by a masked-up meathead who, by the way he held his Glock pistol across his chest, had clearly watched too many episodes of Narcos. Surrounding Ged were three others, all of whom looked desperate to rip his head off should he try to escape. There was even one stood under the beer-drop hatch as if, even at his most athletic, he could possibly scale the clammy bricks to launch himself out of that.

  His only option was to style it out.

  ‘Let’s not get excited,’ he said. ‘I know you have to be careful, but we’re all in this game together and you seeing my todger, such as it is in these temperatures, might scar you for life.’

  ‘Fam, if you don’t strip now I swear to God, I’m going to plug a bullet right through your brain.’

  Ged couldn’t allow the gunman’s anxiety to become contagious. There was no telling what the other numpties would do if a drop of adrenaline found its way into their bloodstreams.

  ‘OK, but bear in mind what I said about it being cold down here.’

  First he unzipped, then slowly removed, his grey hoodie. He was about to drop it on the floor when a girl’s voice to his right snapped, ‘Chuck it here.’

  Ged looked round, genuinely shocked. He turned back to the mouthpiece with the gun. ‘Really? Does she need to see this?’

  ‘You ain’t shy boy, are you?’ the gunman sniggered.

  Ged shrugged. No point arguing, but to be called boy by a scrote young enough to be his son was taking the piss. He launched the top over and the girl caught it in both hands.

  ‘Keep going,’ said the gunman.

  Each time Ged removed an item of clothing and threw it over, there was a shuffle from a different direction as if the ring of steel were growing anxious that they were running out of reasons to kill him. He strung the striptease out as long as he could until he was butt naked and shivering.

  ‘Happy?’ he said, his hands out in supplication.

  ‘I’ll tell you if I’m happy, but you’ve got some reassuring to do.’

  ‘Ask away mate but I promise you, I’m much better company with my clothes on.’ As he was saying this, another of the lieutenants stepped up and, with his mobile phone torch, checked every inch of Ged’s naked flesh. ‘Each to their own,’ said Ged.

  A couple of minutes passed before the excruciating exercise was over and the man with the flashlight and the girl checking the clothes grunted that they’d found nothing.

  ‘Get dressed,’ came the command.

  Ged complied as quickly as his icy fingers would allow. As he zipped up his jacket, the man jabbed the pistol into his side. ‘You ever cross us, fam, we won’t be so nice. You get me?’

  Ged stepped back and turned. ‘Listen pal, if this thing is going to work, we have to show some mutual respect and …’ He cast his hand around. ‘You didn’t need to do that.’

  ‘I ain’t taking no chances.’

  ‘And what’s this shit about being a grass or fed?’

  ‘Fam, I trust you for now. No wire, no piece.’

  ‘So, are we doing this?’ said Ged.

  ‘Sure. The brown should be here by the end of the week. You got the “ps”?’

  ‘I don’t carry money like that. Not on me, as you’ve just seen, but I’ll get it.’

  ‘£250k by tonight, the rest when we deliver.’

  ‘Sure, like we agreed,’ said Ged, his inner terror only now starting to dwindle.

  The boss set out the terms and where the drop would happen. Ged nodded and checked some details which, as only he knew, were completely irrelevant.

  Fifteen minutes later and having succumbed to the temptation to blow the thug manning the door a kiss, Ged was back on the street pacing to his next meeting.

  Having doubled back a few times, stopping suddenly to look in shop windows and jaywalking the bustling high street, Ged disappeared down an alley and in through a nondescript door. Taking the stairs two at a time he burst into a room to be greeted by his cover officer, Nick, holding a Starbucks Americano and a doorstep bacon sandwich while busting a gut to stifle his giggles.

  ‘Just fuck off,’ Ged said as he grabbed the coffee and sarnie. ‘And stay fucked off.’

  ‘I’m sorry mate, but put yourself in my shoes. Or any shoes come to that.’

  ‘Ha, fucking, ha.’

  ‘You seeing my todger, such as it is in these temperatures, might scar you for life. Fucking priceless, mate.’

  For the first time Ged cracked a smile. ‘You’ve no idea how cold it was down there. Then the bloody bird piped up. Shit, I wish the ground could have swallowed me up.’

  Nick chuckled, then switched into work-mode. ‘Well, the good news is, we got it all on tape.’ Ged subconsciously twiddled his ear stud. The only thing on him they didn’t search, thank God. ‘Obviously the bad news is that we still haven’t got a nailed-on drop time. You going to be able to work on that?’

  ‘I reckon so. Providing they don’t make me go through that palaver again, I think I can start getting a bit impatient.’

  ‘Just be careful of Code C,’ said Nick, referring to the Police and Criminal Evidence Act guidance that was the bible for undercover officers.

  ‘You didn’t get an egg and straw with that butty, did you?’

  ‘No one’s teaching you to suck eggs. I’m just doing my job as your cover officer to ensure the right people end up in prison.’

  ‘Fair dos,’ said Ged just as the encrypted app on his undercover phone buzzed. Ged opened the screen and scanned the message, a beam lighting up his face. He turned the phone to Nick. ‘We’re on,’ he said just as his mind started to race about how he’d work this, the final stage of the two-year operation.

  2

  Three months later

  Chief Superintendent Jo Howe, her deputy, Superintendent Gary Hedges, and ‘the father of the station’, Detective Inspector Bob Heaton, shuffled away from the crematorium, snatching what shelter they could beneath the overhanging trees that lined the 500-yard driveway.

  At any other police funeral, th e hearse would have been flanked by a white-gloved guard of honour, snapped to attention. As close friends, Jo, Gary and Bob would have been among the lucky ones to have allocated seats inside but, for most, it would be standing room outside with the proceedings relayed through loudspeakers.

  This was no ordinary send-off though. Phil Cooke, now being vaporised in Woodvale’s furnaces, had suffered a catastrophic fall from grace, and the fact that his only living relative had been whisked back to HMP Pentonville in a prison van seconds after the committal only underlined the reason why so few ex-colleagues wanted to be associated with him. Alive or dead.

  The tiny plus point of the sparsity of mourners was that rather than having had to park miles away, Jo’s car was within sight of the chapel.

  Each were lost in their own thoughts, memories of a man they all had reason to admire and love. A man to whom, whatever he later did and became, they each owed their careers.

  Jo zapped the key fob as they approached the police-issue Peugeot 508 Hybrid. The hazard lights winked their hello, accompanied by the reassuring clunk that invited them to step in from the rain. Jo and Gary removed their hats and both unbuttoned their dress-tunics, while Bob, the only one in plain clothes, slid into the back seat.

  The two more senior officers went to the boot of the car and carefully laid their jackets inside, resting their caps on top. As Jo closed the lid, Gary broke the silence.

  ‘Christ on a bike, have they no respect?’

  ‘Who?’ said Jo, following Gary’s gaze to the grass verge.

  ‘Bloody junkies,’ he said, as he kicked the three hypodermic needles further from the road. ‘Can’t they go somewhere more suitable to pump that muck into their arms?’

  ‘In fairness, at least it’s not a park or the beach. Probably the safest place.’

  ‘They could just not do it at all,’ said Gary as he squeezed between the trees and the car to get in the passenger side.

  ‘Simple as that,’ muttered Jo as she climbed into the driver’s seat.

  ‘What is?’ asked Bob as he looked up from his phone.

  ‘Oh nothing. Attila the Hun here is moaning about some needles on the road and I’m just saying where else do you expect them to go?’

  ‘Not that again. Just leave me out of it,’ said Bob as he returned to his screen.

  ‘Well, if you did your job, Bob, and nicked the dealers, we’d have no issues,’ said Gary.

  ‘Not now. I haven’t got the energy for this,’ said Jo as she pulled out of the space and snaked her way towards Lewes Road.

  Gary huffed, then changed the subject. ‘Nice eulogy, Bob. I’d love to have seen the old boy running naked down Old Shoreham Road that New Year’s Eve.’

  ‘Really?’ said Bob. ‘It’s an image I’ve not been able to shift in twenty years.’

  ‘I bet. Shame there weren’t a few more there to hear about the true man. I counted ten, including the prison officers, and I reckon two of the rest were journalists.’

  Jo kept quiet and let the men chatter inanely. She was lost in her own thoughts. It seemed only yesterday she’d driven from this very spot having said a premature farewell to her sister, Caroline, after she’d succumbed to her heroin habit with a massive overdose.

  The two Gary had spotted were indeed reporters and she predicted the headlines later that day would not be pretty. Instead of carrying on into the city centre, Jo circumnavigated the Gyratory roundabout and headed out of town.

  ‘Hey, where we going?’ said Gary.

  ‘Pub,’ she said.

  ‘I’d love to,’ said Bob, ‘but I’ve got a conference with CPS re Op Vellum at three. I’m taking them through all the undercover evidence.’

  ‘We’ll be back by then,’ said Jo. She caught his eye in the rear-view mirror. ‘I can make it an order if that helps.’

  3

  In his early days in the police, Sergeant Dale Scott would have been somewhere near the foot of anyone’s list to be the friendly face of the war on drugs. A former county-level weight-lifter, he spent most of his PC years in riot vans. He almost never got into a fight, as his mammoth presence was more than enough to subdue the most truculent of crowds.

  Since promotion he’d flitted between the response and neighbourhood teams before Phil Cooke, the former divisional commander, created the Street Community Policing Team, put Scotty in charge and vowed to keep him there. He even allowed him to handpick two PCs and a PCSO to work alongside him.

  In the five years since Scotty’s unit had been running, they had built up an encyclopaedic knowledge of the toings and froings of Brighton and Hove’s homeless and begging population. His only flaw was that he rarely committed much of this to paper so, when one of his clientele was murdered – as happened all too frequently – one of his officers would be seconded to the Major Crime Team to share all they knew.

  Dodging the traffic as he crossed Grand Junction Road, heading for the arches by the Palace Pier, Scotty felt a gust of wind sting his face. ‘There better be the mother of Indian summers coming to make up for this,’ he grumbled to PC Saira Bannerjee. She threw him a look, tinged with a half-smile.

  ‘Am I allowed to say that?’ he asked.

  ‘Bit late now if not.’

  ‘I can’t keep up,’ he said, pacing ahead.

  They reached the other side and headed to the steps that led towards the lower promenade.

  The area beneath the pier had used to be rich pickings for drug users and dealers but since the council blocked it off, they nestled in whichever arches hadn’t been taken over by arty gift shops or boutique cafés. Scotty spotted a pile of rags nestled by the door to a vegan ‘seafood’ restaurant. He prodded it.

  ‘All right chief?’ he called out. ‘We’re police. Stand up for me, will you?’

  ‘Fuck off. You ain’t Old Bill and I ain’t got nuffin you can rob.’

  Both officers reached for their warrant cards while Saira said, ‘Surprisingly we are. You’re not in any trouble, we just want to see who you are and what you’re up to.’

  ‘I’m sleeping.’

  With that they held out their credentials and Saira illuminated them with her torch. ‘PC Bannerjee and Sergeant Scott from the Street Community Team.’

  The man shuffled to his feet and Scotty and Saira took a precautionary step back.

  ‘I’ve heard of your lot. They say you’re the only pigs I can trust.’

  ‘Nice,’ said Scotty, almost gagging at the stench of urine and pound-a-pint cider. The man could have been anywhere from late teens to mid-thirties. His matted hair was dragged into a ponytail held in place by a knot of twine. His stubble had long since abandoned any designer pretence. The parka coat that hung off him might once have been green but now was mottled with grime, vomit and unrecognisable foodstuffs. Same with his jeans, although there might have been some other bodily fluids added to the mix there.

  His complexion had an all too familiar pallor.

  What surprised Scotty most though was that he didn’t recognise the man. That meant he was new to town, and newbies brought challenges; never in a good way.

  ‘What’s your name fella?’

  ‘They call me Spanners.’

  Scotty and Saira looked at each other.

  ‘Why Spanners?’

  The man said nothing.

  ‘Righto. Where are you from?’

  ‘Originally from York but I was in Winchester nick up to a couple of weeks ago.’

  ‘You been here since?’ said Saira.

  ‘Nah. I went to Eastbourne, then Hastings. Shitholes.’

  ‘Hold up. I’m from Hastings,’ lied Scotty.

  ‘No offence.’

  ‘Listen chief. Obviously we’re Old Bill but we are here to help. By the look of it, you need a bloody hot shower, a change of clothing and to score. Not necessarily in that order. Am I right?’

  Spanners shrugged.

  ‘Now you’ll forgive us if we can’t help you with the last one – our boss is funny like that – but we can find you somewhere to get cleaned up and some food.’

  ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘’Cos you’re killing the tourist trade looking like that. No, honestly, we’re the opposite of your average drug dealer. We woo you with hot water, shower gel and clean clobber. Fill your belly with McDonald’s—’

  ‘Other fast foods are available …’ Saira interjected.

  ‘Indeed,’ continued Scotty, ‘then we have a little chat about all the wonderful things we can do if you go into drug treatment and all the horrible things we’ll do to you if you don’t.’

 

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