Tango One (4 page)

“I'm not interested in slapping the wrist of a recreational drug-user, Fullerton, but I am very interested in knowing if you're serious about wanting to be a police officer. A real police officer.”

“Yes, sir. I am.”

Latham looked at Fullerton, his mouth a tight line. He nodded slowly.

“Very well. From this moment on I want absolute truth from you. Do you understand?”

Fullerton licked his lips. His mouth was bone dry.

“Agreed, sir.”

“Thank you,” said Latham.

“Exactly what drugs do you use?”

“Cocaine, sir. Occasionally. Cannabis. Ecstasy on occasions.”

“Heroin?”

“In the past, sir. Only inhaling. Never injecting.”

“LSD?”

“Not since university, sir. I didn't like the loss of control.”

“Would you consider yourself an addict?”

Fullerton shook his head emphatically.

“I don't have an addictive personality, sir. I use because I enjoy it, not because I need it.”

“That's what all addicts say.”

“I've gone without for weeks at a time, sir. It's not a problem.”

“And you switched urine samples?”

“I gave a friend fifty quid for a bottle of his piss.”

“And your tutor at Oxford? You pressurised him?”

Fullerton nodded.

“But only for the cannabis thing, I swear. I got the first on merit.”

“Do you still deal?”

Fullerton grimaced.

“That depends, sir.”

“On what?”

“On your definition of dealing.”

“Selling for profit.”

Fullerton grimaced again.

“I sell to friends, and it'd be stupid to make a loss on the deal, wouldn't it? I mean, you wouldn't expect me to sell at a loss.”

“That would make you a dealer,” said Latham.

Fullerton could feel sweat beading on his forehead, but he didn't want to wipe it away, didn't want Latham to see his discomfort.

“What's this about, sir?” he asked.

“I assume there's no way I'm going to be allowed to join the force. Not in view of ... this.”

For the first time, Latham smiled with something approaching warmth.

“Actually, Fullerton, you'd be surprised.”

“Don't think you think it's going to be tough for you in the Met, being a nigger?” said Assistant Commissioner Latham.

At first Cliff Warren thought he'd misheard, and he sat with a blank look on his face.

Latham folded his arms across his chest, tilted his head back slightly and looked down his nose at Warren.

“What's wrong, Warren? Cat got your tongue?”

Still Warren thought he'd misunderstood the senior police officer.

“I'm not sure I understand the question, sir.”

“The question, Warren, is don't you think that being black is going to hold you back? The Met doesn't like spooks. Spades. Sooties. Whatever the latest generic is. Haven't you heard? We're institutionally racist. We don't like niggers.”

Warren frowned. He looked away from Latham's piercing gaze and stared out of the window at the tower block opposite. It was like a bad dream and he half expected to wake up at any moment and find himself looking at his brand new uniform hanging from the wardrobe door. This didn't make any sense. The drive to the Isle of Dogs. The lift with a security code. The empty office, empty except for a desk and two chairs and a senior police officer whom Warren recognised from his many television appearances, who was using racist language which could lose him his job if it was ever made public.

“I'm not sure of your point, sir,” said Warren.

“My point is that it's not going to be much fun for you, is it? Pictures of monkeys pinned up on your locker. Bananas on the backseat of your patrol car. Memos asking you to call Mr. K.K. Clan.”

“I thought the Met wanted to widen its minority base,” said Warren.

Latham raised an eyebrow.

“Did you now?” he said.

“And you were eager to take up the challenge, were you?”

“I wanted the job, yes.”

Latham steepled his fingers under his chin like a child saying his prayers and studied Warren with unblinking eyes.

“You're not angered by what I've just said?” he said eventually.

“I've heard worse, sir.”

“And you're always so relaxed about it?”

“What makes you think I'm relaxed, sir?”

Latham nodded slowly, accepting Warren's point.

“That was a test, was it, sir?”

“In a way, Warren.”

Warren smiled without warmth.

“Because it wasn't really a fair test, not if you think about it. You're in uniform, I'm hoping to become an officer in the force that you command, I'm hardly likely to lose control, am I?”

“I suppose not.”

“See, if you weren't an Assistant Commissioner, and you'd said what you'd said outside, in a pub or on the street, my reaction might have been a little less .. . reticent.” Warren leaned forward, his eyes never leaving Latham's face.

“In fact,” he said in a low whisper, “I'd be kicking your lily-white arse to within an inch of your lily-white life. Sir.” Warren smiled showing perfect slab-like white teeth.

“No offence intended.”

Latham smiled back. This time there was an amused glint in his eyes and Warren knew that he'd passed the test. Maybe not with flying colours, but he'd passed.

“None taken,” said the Assistant Commissioner.

“Tell me about your criminal record.”

"Minor of fences said Warren without hesitation.

“Taking and driving away when I was fourteen. Driving without due care and attention. Driving without insurance. Without a licence. Criminal damage.” Warren's criminal past had been discussed at length prior to his being accepted as a probationary constable.

“And there's nothing else that we should know about you, nothing that might have influenced our decision to allow you to join the force?”

“The interviews and tests were wide-ranging, sir,” said Warren.

“You didn't reveal your homosexuality,” said Latham.

“I wasn't asked,” said Warren without hesitation.

“You didn't think it relevant?”

“Clearly the interviewers didn't.”

“Your home situation would have been enquired about. Your domestic arrangements.”

“I live alone.”

“So you have random sexual partners?”

Warren's lips tightened. It appeared that Latham was determined to keep testing him, but Warren couldn't fathom what was going on. The time for such questions had long passed: all the Met had to do was to say that his services weren't required. There was no need for such taunting, especially from a senior officer like Latham.

“I'm not sure that my sexual history is relevant, sir,” said Warren.

“With respect.”

“It might be if it left you open to blackmail,” said Latham.

“Homosexuality isn't illegal, sir.”

“I'm aware of that, Warren, but any deviation from the norm makes an officer vulnerable.”

“Again, sir, I don't think that homosexuality is regarded as a deviation any more. These days it's seen as a lifestyle choice.”

Latham nodded slowly.

“One that you're not ashamed of?”

“I'm not ashamed of being black and I'm not ashamed of being gay, sir. So far as revealing my sexuality, I wasn't asked and I didn't tell. I certainly didn't lie.”

“And your criminal record? How do you feel about that?”

“Do you mean am I ashamed of what I did?”

Latham didn't react to the question, clearly regarding it as rhetorical, and continued looking at Warren.

Warren shrugged.

“Of course I'm ashamed. I was stupid. I was undisciplined, I was running wild, I was just an angry teenager out looking for kicks who didn't know how close he was coming to ruining his whole life. I was lucky not to be sent down, and if it wasn't for the fact that I was assigned one of the few social workers who actually appeared to care about her work, I'd probably be behind bars right now and not sitting here in your office.” Warren looked around the bare office.

“This office,” he corrected himself.

“Wherever we are, I assume this isn't where you normally conduct your business. What's this about, sir? My criminal record's an open book, and I don't see that my being gay is a bar to me joining the Met.”

Latham tapped his manicured nails silently on the desktop. The windows were double-glazed and sealed so no sound penetrated from the outside. It was so quiet that Warren could hear his own breathing, slow and regular.

“What sort of criminal do you think you would have made, Warren?” Latham said eventually.

“Back then? A very bad one. If I'd been any good at it, I wouldn't have been caught so often.”

“And now?”

Warren raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Now?” he repeated.

“Suppose you hadn't been turned around by the altruistic social worker assigned to you. Suppose you'd continued along the road you'd started on. Petty crime. Stealing. Where do you think it would have led to?”

“Difficult to say, sir.”

“Try.”

Warren shrugged.

“Drugs, I guess. Dealing. That's what most crime comes down to these days. Everything from car break-ins to guns to prostitution, it's all drugs.”

“And what sort of drug dealer do you think you'd make?”

Warren frowned. It wasn't a question he'd ever considered.

“Probably quite a good one.”

“Because?”

“Because I'm not stupid any more. Because now I'm better educated than the average villain. I've a knowledge of criminal law and police procedure that most villains don't have. And to be quite honest, I consider I'm a hell of a lot smarter than most of the police officers I've come across.”

“I don't suppose you were that blunt at your interviews,” said Latham.

“I think we've moved beyond my being interviewed, sir. Whatever it is you want from me, it's not dependent on my being politically correct. I'm not going to Hendon, am I?”

“Not today, no,” said Latham, 'but this isn't about stopping you becoming a police officer, Warren, I can promise you that. You scored highly on all counts during the selection procedure, you're exactly the sort of material we want." Latham pulled on his right ear, then scratched the lobe.

“The question is, exactly how would you be able to serve us best?”

Warren's forehead creased into a frown, but he didn't say anything.

“You see, Warren, putting you in a uniform and having you walk a beat might make for good public relations, but realistically it's going to make precious little difference to the crime figures.” Latham took a deep breath, held it, then exhaled slowly.

“What we'd like, Warren, is for you to consider becoming an undercover agent for us. Deep undercover. So deep, in fact, that hardly anyone will know that you work for the Met.”

Warren's eyes narrowed.

“You're asking me to pretend to be a criminal?”

Latham shook his head.

“No, I'm asking you to become a criminal. To cross the line.”

“To be a grass?”

“No, you'll still be a police officer. A grass is a criminal who provides information on other criminals. You'll be a fully functioning police officer who will be keeping us informed of the activities of the criminals you come across.”

“But I won't wear a uniform, I won't go to Hendon? No probationary period?”

“You'll never pound a beat. And the only time you'll go anywhere near a police station is if you get arrested. The number of people who'll know that you are a serving police officer will be counted on the fingers of one hand.”

“For how long?”

“For as long as you can take it. Hopefully years. Ideally, you'll spend your whole career undercover.”

Warren ran his hand over his black hair, closely cropped only two days earlier in anticipation of his new career.

“So I'd be a police officer, but undercover? I'd never be in uniform?”

“That would be the intention, yes.”

“If I'm not going to Hendon, how would I be trained?”

“You wouldn't,” said Latham.

“That's the whole point. We don't want you tainted.”

Tainted?"

“At present undercover operatives are drawn from the ranks,” said Latham.

“We spend years training them to be policemen, then we send them undercover and expect them to act like criminals. It's no wonder it doesn't work. Doesn't matter how long they grow their hair or how they try to blend, they're still policemen acting as criminals. We don't want you to put on an act, Warren. We want you to become a criminal. You already have the perfect cover you have a criminal record. We want you to build on that.”

“I can break the law? Is that what you're saying?”

For the first time Latham looked uncomfortable.

“That's not a conversation we should be having,” he said, adjusting his cuffs.

“That'll come later with your handler. I'm here to ask you to take on this assignment. I have a high profile: you know that if you have my word that the Met is behind you one hundred per cent, then you're not going to be left hanging in the wind down the line, if that's not mixing too many metaphors.”

“And if I refuse?”

Latham grimaced.

“As I've already said, you'll be an asset to the force. You can start at Hendon tomorrow, just one day late. I'm sure you'll have an exemplary career, but what I'm offering you is a chance to make a real difference.”

Warren nodded.

“How much time do I have to think about it?”

Latham looked at the large clock on the wall.

“I'd like your decision now,” said the Assistant Commissioner.

“If you have to talk yourself into the job, you're not the person that we're looking for.”

“Can I just get one thing straight?” asked Tina, fidgeting with the small gold stud earring in her left ear.

“Am I joining the Met or not?”

“Not as a uniformed constable, no,” said Assistant Commissioner Latham softly.

Tears pricked Tina's eyes, but she refused to allow herself to cry, “It's not fair,” she said, her lower lip trembling.

“You shouldn't have lied, Tina. Did you seriously believe we wouldn't find out?”

“It was a long time ago,” said Tina, looking over the senior policeman's shoulder at the tower block opposite.

“A lifetime ago.”

“And you didn't think that being a prostitute would preclude you from becoming a police officer?”

“I was fifteen!” she protested.

Latham sat back in his chair.

“Which doesn't actually make it any better, Tina. Does it?”

A lone tear trickled down Tina's cheek. She shook her head, angry with herself for the way she was behaving, but she'd been so looking forward to joining the Met. It was going to be a new start. A new life. Now it had been snatched away from her at the last minute. She groped for her handbag on the floor and fumbled for her cigarettes and disposable lighter.

“I think this is a non-smoking office,” said Latham as she tapped out a cigarette and slipped it between her lips.

“Fuck you,” she hissed, clicking the lighter.

“I need a fag.” She lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply, then blew a plume of smoke at the ceiling.

“You knew that if your criminal record came to light, you'd be in trouble,” said Latham quietly.

Tina glared at him.

“I don't have a criminal record,” she spat.

“I was cautioned for soliciting. Twice. Under a different name. I wasn't even charged.”

“You were a prostitute for more than a year, Tina,” said Latham.

“You were known to Vice. You were known on the streets.”

“I did what I did to survive. I did what I had to do.”

“I understand that.”

“Do you?” said Tina.

“I doubt it. Do you know what it's like to have to fend for yourself when you're still a kid? To have to leave home because your stepfather spends all his time trying to get into your knickers and your mum's so drunk she can't stop him even if she wants to? Do you know what's it like to arrive in London with nowhere to stay and a couple of quid in your pocket? Do you? I don't fucking think so. So don't sit there in your made-to-measure uniform with your shiny silver buttons and your pimp's fingernails and your pension and your little wife with her Volvo and her flower-arranging classes and tell me that you understand, because you don't.”

Tina leaned forward.

“Don't think I haven't met your sort before, because I have. Squeaky clean on the outside, pillar of the fucking community, but what you really want is a blow job from an underage girl in the front seat of your car because your little wife hasn't had her mouth near your dick since England won the World Cup.”

She took another long pull on her cigarette. Her hand was shaking and she blew smoke straight at Latham. He didn't react, just kept looking at her through the cloud of smoke.

Tina closed her eyes.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered.

“I'd expect you to lash out, Tina,” said Latham.

Tina opened her eyes again. She took another drag on her cigarette, this time taking care to blow the smoke away from the Assistant Commissioner.

“If I could turn the clock back, I would. But back then, I didn't have a choice,” she said. Tina looked around the office, her eyes settling on the large clock on the wall, the red hand ticking away the seconds of her life.

“You had to bring me here to tell me this, yeah?” she said.

“You couldn't have written? Or phoned?”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

She turned to look at him and fixed him with her dark green eyes.

“You wanted to see me squirm?”

Latham shook his head.

“It's not that, Tina.”

“So what is it, then?”

“I've a proposition for you.”

“I knew it!” Tina hissed.

“You're all the bloody same. I do it for you, you turn a blind eye to my past. Quid pro fucking quo.”

Latham smiled sadly and shook his head.

“I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm probably the most happily married man you've ever met. Just listen to what I have to say. Okay?”

Tina nodded. She looked around for an ashtray, but there wasn't one so she stubbed the cigarette out on the underside of the desk, grimacing apologetically.

“Okay,” she said.

“Your past precludes you from joining the Metropolitan Police as a normal entrant,” Latham continued.

“You can understand why. Suppose you had to arrest someone who knew you from your previous life? Suppose your past became public knowledge? Every case you'd ever worked on would be compromised. It wouldn't matter how good a police officer you were. All that would matter is that you used to be a prostitute. It would also leave you open to blackmail.”

“I know,” sighed Tina.

“I just hoped .. .” She left the sentence hanging.

“That it would remain a secret for ever?”

Tina nodded.

“Pretty naive, yeah?”

Latham smiled thinly.

“Why did you apply to join the police, Tina? Of all the jobs that you could have done.”

“Like what? Serving in a shop? Waitressing?”

“There's nothing wrong with either of those jobs. You can't be afraid of hard work or you wouldn't have applied to join the Met. I've seen your CV, Tina. I've seen the jobs you've done to make a living and the courses you've taken to get the qualifications you never got at school.”

Tina shrugged.

“Why the police?” Latham asked again.

“Why not the army? The civil service? Nursing?”

“Because I want to help people like me. People who were shat on when they were kids.”

“So why didn't you become a social worker?”

“I want to make a difference. I want to help put away the bastards who break the rules. Who think it's okay to molest kids or steal from old ladies.” Tina rubbed the back of her neck with both hands.

“Why all these questions? You've already said that I can't join the police.”

“That's not what I said,” said Latham.

“I said you couldn't join as a uniformed constable, but there are other opportunities available to you within the force.”

“Washing up in the staff canteen?”

Latham gave her a frosty look.

“It's been obvious to us for some time that our undercover operations are being compromised more often than not. The reason for that is quite simple villains, the good ones, can always spot a police officer, no matter how good their cover. Police officers all undergo the same training, and pretty much have the same experiences on the job. It's that shared experience that binds them together, but it also shapes them, it gives them a standard way of behaving, common mannerisms. They become a type.”

Tina nodded.

“We could always spot Vice on the streets,” she said.

“Stuck out like sore thumbs.” She grinned.

“Thumbs weren't the only things sticking out.”

For a moment Tina thought that the Assistant Commissioner was going to accuse her of flippancy again, but he smiled and nodded.

“Exactly,” he said.

“So what we want to do is to set up a unit of police officers who haven't been through the standard Hendon training. We need a special sort of undercover officer,” said Latham.

“We need people who have enough strength of character to work virtually alone, people who have enough, how shall I describe it ... life experience ... to cope with whatever gets thrown at them, and we need them with a background that isn't manufactured. A background that will stand up to any scrutiny.”

“Like a former prostitute?”

“While your background precludes you from serving as a regular officer, it's perfect for an undercover operative,” said Latham.

“The very same contacts that would damage you as a regular officer will be a major advantage in your role under cover.”

“Because no one would ever believe that the Met would hire a former prostitute?”

Latham nodded.

“I have to tell you, Tina, it won't be easy. Hardly anyone will know what you're doing; you won't be able to tell anyone, family or friends. So far as anyone will know, you'll be on the wrong side of the tracks.”

“What if anything went wrong?”

“You'd have back-up,” said Latham, 'but that's down the line. What I need now is your commitment to join the unit. Then your handler will take over."

“Handler? You make me sound like a dog.” Trisha grinned.

“How much does the job pay?”

“You'll be on the same rate of pay as an ordinary entrant. There'll be regular increases based on length of service and promotion, and overtime. But again, these are details to be worked out with your handler. My role is to demonstrate that your recruitment is desired at a very high level. The highest.”

“Does the Commissioner know?”

Latham frowned slightly.

“If you're asking officially, I'd have to say that you'd need to put a question of that nature to the Commissioner's office. Unofficially, I'd say that I wouldn't be here if I didn't have his approval. I'm certainly not a maverick.”

Tina reached over and picked up her pack of cigarettes. She toyed with it, running her fingers down the pack, standing it on each side in turn. She took a deep breath.

“Okay,” she said.

“I'm in.”

Latham beamed.

“Good. That's very good, Tina.”

“What happens now?” she asked.

“You go home. Someone will be in touch.” He pushed back his chair and held out his hand.

“I doubt that we'll meet again, but I will be watching your progress with great interest, Tina.”

Tina shook his hand. It was smooth and dry with an inner strength that suggested he could crush her if he wanted.

It was a familiar sensation, and Tina struggled to remember what it reminded her of.

It was only when she was in the lift heading back to the car park that she remembered. One of her first customers had been an obese man with horned-rimmed spectacles with thick lenses who wheezed at the slightest exertion. He'd wanted to take her home, and at first Tina had refused because all the girls on the street where she worked had told her that she was safer staying in the punter's car, but he'd offered her more money and eventually she'd given up and gone with him, only after insisting that he paid up front.

Home was a two-up, two-down house in East London with stained carpets and bare light bulbs in the light fittings. He'd shown Tina into his front room and stood at the doorway, wheezing as he watched her reaction to the dozens of glass tanks that lined the walls. In the tanks were snakes. All sorts of snakes. Big ones coiled up like lengths of hose pipe small ones that dangled from bare twigs, some asleep, others watching her intently with cold black unfeeling eyes, their tongues flicking in and out.