‘Where from?’ Fitchett sneered.
Jarvis scratched the side of his mouth. Now or never: ‘Well, you're the one in an interview room, Gary. Work it out for yourself.’
Fitchett let out a loud laugh and turned back to the wall. ‘You're bull-shitting,’ he said. ‘No one would ever believe I'd grass my own lads, no one. You've got fuck all new or you'd have dumped it on me by now.’ He stubbed out his cigarette and lit another.
The atmosphere in the room was getting oppressive and Jarvis waved his hand in front of his face to move the smoke away. ‘OK Gary. If you think I'm bluffing, I'll prove it to you.’ He leant across to Williams, whispered something in his ear and the young DC got up and left the room.
Fitchett continued to chainsmoke as Jarvis stared at him. ‘I don't get you Gary,’ he said, almost sympathetically. ‘Here I am offering you the chance to help yourself and you throw it back in my face. I just don't get it.’
Fitchett let out a grunt and then suddenly spun round. ‘What bit of it don't you get?’ he smirked. ‘Let's see shall we … the bit where you raided my house, the bit where you got me sacked or what about the bit where you got me to walk into a room full of lads and then tell you what went on? Or maybe it was the bit where you want me to take an undercover copper to Italy?’
Jarvis watched impassively while he ranted on. He was almost relieved to get some kind of response out of him.
‘Or what about the bit where I'm left freezing my bollocks off in a cell all morning and can't call anyone to tell them where I am? What about that? And where's my fucking solicitor you wanker?’ He stubbed out his cigarette, sat back in his chair and folded his arms.
Jarvis noticed him glance briefly at the window above the door and smiled. ‘Feel better for that do we? Got it off your chest now?’ asked Jarvis facetiously. He paused for a moment and then leaned forward. ‘Listen Fitchett, don't forget that we raided your house for a reason. And you may have walked into a room full of faces that's exactly what you are and that's exactly why you're here.’ He was about to go on when the door opened and Williams walked in. Behind him walked Terry Porter.
Fitchett looked up, the expression on his face changed to one of outright horror. ‘Nick! What the fuck have they got you for?’
Jarvis stood up and looked down at Fitchett. ‘Sorry to disappoint you Gary. But this is Detective Sergeant Terry Porter. He's an undercover police officer.’
Fitchett stood up and stared at the man who, up to ten seconds before, he had thought of as a trusted friend. His face showed every emotion possible, from fear to fury. ‘But you … you were with us when … you dragged me out.. He sat down with a thump and put his head in his hands. ‘I don't believe it, I don't fucking believe it.’
Jarvis looked at Porter. He looked not a little gutted. Suddenly, Fitchett was up and diving across the room at Porter sending the table and chairs crashing against the wall. ‘You bastard,’ he screamed. ‘You fucked us over.’
Porter side-stepped, but not before Fitchett had struck him on the side of the head with a right hook. He was about to spin round when both Jarvis and Williams sprang into action and threw him to the floor. Williams grabbed his right arm, twisted it behind his back and shoved it up toward his shoulders. Fitchett let out a yell and then went limp as all the energy seemed to drain out of him.
‘Ay, come on Fitch, fair's fair,’ said Porter, rubbing his head vigorously. ‘I've got a job to do.’
Williams relaxed his grip and Fitchett rolled over onto his back and began to rub his shoulder. His eyes were fixed on Porter. ‘You're scum,’ he said, his voice full of venom and hate. ‘People slag us off but you're the worst kind of scum. I trusted you.’
Porter shrugged his shoulders. ‘Maybe so, but at the end of the day I'll be going home tonight and you'll be in a cell.’
Fitchett shook off Williams and stood up. ‘Yeah, but at least I'll be able to sleep.’
Jarvis looked at Porter and motioned for him to leave the room. He nodded and walked over to the door. ‘See you, Fitch,’ he said as he left.
The response was as expected. ‘Screw you, filth.’
Jarvis sat in the interview room and cursed to himself as he waited for Williams to bring Fitchett back from the toilet. Telling Fitchett Terry Porter's real name had been a bit careless. Still, it had certainly had the desired effect and, in any case, Porter was out of it now. A large envelope and a tray of tea sat on the table in front of him but he'd drunk his already. He was about to drink Williams's as well when the two men walked back in. Fitchett sat down with his customary thump and Jarvis pushed a cup over to him. He picked it up and took a long, slow drink.
‘All right Gary, now you know the score. We can put together enough stuff on you to put you away for a fair while. Not just you either; but almost everyone in your crew.’ He picked up the envelope and pulled out a pile of photographs. After looking at the first one for a moment, he pushed it across the table. ‘We know this one already don't we? Alex Bailey. Or what about this one; Barry, or Baz, Easton.’ He began flicking the pictures across the table so they stopped right in front of Fitchett. ‘… Steven Brown, Gareth Miller, Kelvin Tatchell better known as “Pillow” …’ Jarvis left a pause and then asked, ‘Do I need to go on Gary? I've got another fifteen or so yet?’
Fitchett sat there and looked at them. One by one his mates, people he knew and trusted, were having their lives turned upside down and they didn't know a thing about it. It was all over now. He knew that. All he could do now was what was best for himself. He let out a deep sigh and glanced up from the photographs, his face reflecting the fact that he'd all but given up. ‘All right, I'll do it.’
Part Three
Chapter 12
Sunday, 24 October
06.10
The bedroom was in half-darkness, what light there was provided by the glow of the streetlight outside forcing its way through the tightly closed curtains. Fitchett lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling while the events of the previous week danced around the shadows in front of him. He'd given up trying to sleep about three hours ago; now he was just reliving his nightmare. Well, nightmare was an understatement: it was worse than that. Much worse. At least if you have a nightmare you'll wake up one day and it'll be finished. He reached over, took a cigarette from the packet on the bedside table and stuck it in his mouth. The thought suddenly struck him that someone might be looking at him while he lay there. Well why not? From the moment he'd walked back in two weeks ago he'd felt as if he were being watched. The phone was tapped, he knew that much, but what else was in there? Had they put cameras in? Or bugs? After all, it hadn't felt right since he'd got back on that Friday. After that bastard Jarvis had finally let him go after giving him what he'd called a ‘debriefing’. Debriefing, what a fucking joke that was. All he'd done was promise that they'd be keeping an eye on him every step of the way and that no one would ever know that he'd helped them out. Then he'd given his word that he'd do all he could for him when this was all over. Lying bastard. The word of a copper, what was that worth? He put his hands behind his head and rocked the still unlit cigarette backwards and forwards between his lips. What choice had he had? They had him by the nuts, he knew it and they knew it. He had to co-operate because he needed all the help he could get. Real or imaginary. He glanced around the room: if they were watching him where would they have hidden the cameras? He shook his head. ‘You're getting paranoid, mate,’ he said out loud to himself.
What a day that Friday had been. By the time the coppers had finished with him on the Thursday it had been too late for him to get home and so he had been forced to spend another night in the cells. But at least they'd left the door open this time and they'd even given him some stuff to have a shower and a shave. First thing in the morning he'd been out of there and on the first train back to Brum. He'd felt relieved to get into New Street but the feeling of unease had returned as soon as the taxi had turned into his road and had got worse as soon as he walked through
his front door Was it unease or was it guilt? He still hadn't worked that one out yet. He sat up and looked at the clock; it was only 6.18, too early to get up, and so he dropped back down on the pillow and finally lit his cigarette. He formed the first mouthful of smoke into a perfect ring and watched as it drifted upward and into the still dark corner of his bedroom.
Guilt or unease, once he'd sorted himself out, he'd finally rung a few of the lads and told them exactly what Jarvis had told him to say: that he'd been charged in connection with the fight in Camden High Street and was out on bail pending further enquiries. However, he'd kept the conversations short so that no one dropped themselves in it. After all, the coppers were listening to everything and, if nothing else, he owed his lads that much. He had purposely avoided calling Alex. He had tried to work out what he would say but hadn't known if he would be able to handle it. But when the door bell had rung at about six o'clock that night, it was his friend who'd been standing there. They'd gone to a pub and talked about what had happened, but Alex had seemed different; almost frightened or even suspicious. Fitchett hadn't been able to work out which. After a couple of hours, Alex had said that he was staying away from football for a while to keep his head down. He couldn't risk going inside and he wouldn't risk losing his wife.
It was a side of his friend Fitchett had never seen before and he'd found it quite unsettling. If he hadn't known better, he might even have said that the police had got to his friend rather than the other way round. Maybe they had: how was he to know? He took a final drag from his cigarette and then lit another from the stub. When they had left the pub, it was on good terms but it had been obvious to Fitchett that it was the end of their friendship. To be honest, they had little in common other than football, and without that … well.
Fitchett drew a mouthful of smoke and blew another perfect smoke ring. Poor Alex, he hoped the coppers would leave him out of all this when it was all over. He wasn't really even a fighter he was the brains. The man who put it all together and kept his head while the rest were all over the place. Lads like him were vital in a good crew and they'd been a good crew. The best. They'd never run from anyone. Not even Portsmouth when he'd got battered and Nick …
Fucking Nick, or Porter or whatever his name was. He took a drag on his cigarette and held it in for a while before opening his mouth and letting it drift out. He wondered for the thousandth time how they had fallen for it. How they had let some copper crawl his way into their mob. Looking back, it all made sense. Fitchett had never seen him do any real fighting, just loads of running about and shouting. It looked good but was all bollocks. Yet they'd fallen for it because of what had happened in Portsmouth.
And now … A long shaft of ash slowly folded over and then fell on to his chest. He studied it for a while before blowing it off onto the bed. ‘What a wanker,’ he said out loud. And now he was off to Italy, with an undercover copper in tow. It was almost funny. He stubbed out his cigarette and after a glance at the clock, lay back on the bed. Six twenty- two.
Christ, he was going to Italy this afternoon. The call he had been dreading had come on Friday night. Evans had told him to bring his minder and meet him at Dover train station at two o'clock Sunday. That was today. It had been a brief conversation, almost one-way in fact. All Fitchett and his minder had to take were enough clothes to last them for the week, their passports and their driving licence. Everything else was taken care of. And then, after a brief chat about this and that, he'd gone. Fitchett had then rung Jarvis, told him what had happened and had then gone out and tried to get drunk without success. And now time was pushing on. His train left New Street at 09.03 and Nick - or was it Porter? - would meet him at Euston. They were then being driven part way to Dover so that the coppers could go over everything and then put on a train at the station before. From then on, everything depended on what happened with Evans. One thing was for sure though, it was going to be quite a few days. He looked around at his bedroom and wondered just when he'd see it again.
Just after eleven o'clock, he was walking out of Euston station and heading towards Stephenson Way where he had arranged to meet the police. Even on a Sunday morning Euston was busy and he hadn't wanted to run the risk of meeting anyone he knew. He crossed the zebra crossing almost without looking and thought about the journey down. It had, to say the least, been an anxious trip. Not only was he worried about bumping into someone, but he was also getting increasingly frightened about the whole idea. He had thought about turning up and telling the coppers that he wasn't going to help them or even doing a runner, but in the end he had dismissed both of these ideas as pointless. He had no choice really. He had hated being locked up even for a few short nights and had to do what he could to stay out for as long as possible. If helping the coppers would go some way to reducing his time inside, then it was a price he was prepared to pay.
Turning the corner, he spotted Porter leaning against a car smoking and after a brief glance over his shoulder; walked towards him. As he approached, Porter stood up and faced him but he walked past and carried on to the end of the road. He then turned round and, after a pause and a good look around, walked back, handed Porter his bag and climbed into the back seat where Jarvis was waiting with a smirk on his face.
‘Bit cloak-and-dagger there, Gary.’
Fitchett gave him a glare. ‘Yeah, well let's get this over with shall we?’ he muttered.
Porter slammed down the hatchback and climbed into the front passenger seat. He turned round to face the men in the back. ‘All right Gary? Looking forward to it?’
Fitchett looked back at him. ‘Well you wouldn't be my first-choice companion, put it that way.’
Jarvis tapped Williams on the shoulder. ‘Let's go Phil,’ he said and within a few minutes they were struggling through the North London traffic heading for Dover.
‘Fitch!’ The brash Cockney accent cut through the cold October air and Fitchett turned to see Billy Evans walking along the platform towards him. He was, as usual, immaculately dressed and his face wore a beaming smile. They shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. Evans glanced around the platform. ‘Where's Alex?’ he asked curiously.
‘Alex hasn't come,’ said Fitchett. ‘You know he won't have anything to do with stuff like this.’
‘Oh, right,’ replied Evans, ‘so where's your lad?’
Fitchett nodded towards the toilets. ‘Having a slash. He'll be out in a minute.’
Evans nodded. ‘We'll have a laugh on this trip, mate,’ he began excitedly. ‘There's plenty of lads on the way already and we're the last to set off by car. I thought we could go down together, in convoy. I've got Hawkeye waiting in the car outside.’
Fitchett nodded as Porter came out of the toilet. Evans's face registered a brief look of surprise but quickly broke out into a grin. ‘Terry, Billy. Billy, Terry.’
Porter held out his hand and Evans took it tentatively. ‘A word,’ he said and, grabbing Fitchett's arm, pulled him over to one side. ‘Are you off your fuckin’ chump or what? Why've you brought a fucking darkie along?’
Fitchett shook him off. ‘He's one of my top lads, Billy; he's fucking sound,’ he replied, surprising himself with the venom in his voice. ‘If you've got a problem, then we'll fuck off back to Brum right now.’
Evans held up his hands. ‘Alright, calm down fella.’ A smile spread across his face and he put his arm on Fitchett's. ‘Look,you know me, I ain't got a problem at all, but there's a few lads going on this trip who might have. Know what I mean? I just don't want any strife that's all.’
Fitchett pushed him away and pointed aggressively at Evans's chest. ‘There won't be any, not from us. Just keep them out of our way and everything'll be fine. Terry knows the score, believe me.’
Evans took a step forwards and put his arm round Fitchett's shoulder. ‘Look, forget it, I shouldn't have said anything. It'll be cool, all right? I just expected you to bring Alex, that's all.’
Fitchett nodded and then walked over and picked up his ba
g. ‘Well,’ he said brightly, ‘are we going to spicville or what?’ He stood there, looking at Evans who, after a brief pause, let out a muted laugh.
Evans hadn't expected this and it was a problem he didn't want. If it had been anyone else, he'd have told them to sod off but he knew Fitch better than most of the others and that counted for a lot. He'd have to deal with the problem of Terry when it arose. And he had a sneaky feeling it would.
‘Come on then,’ he said, ‘let's get going. We've got a boat to catch.’ The three men walked along the platform and out of the exit to find Hawkeye sitting in an almost new black Mercedes C200 Estate. He too was disappointed that Alex hadn't come but if he was surprised that Fitchett had brought a black lad along, he didn't show it. In fact, he welcomed Porter like a long-lost friend before driving out of the station and heading into town. As they travelled, conversation in the car avoided the trip ahead and centred around the football of the day before. But the unease was growing in Fitchett and he stayed out of it. He had surprised himself at the station, arguing like that, it had come too easy. But he doubted he could carry it on for long.
‘You're quiet Fitch.’
He looked up to see Hawkeye staring at him in the rear view mirror ‘Sorry Hawk, miles away. I was just wondering how the fuck Billy can afford this car.’
The two men in the front laughed. ‘It's off the lot Gary, like all of them. You wait till you see what I've got for you to travel in.’
‘Oh aye. A fucking Skoda, I suppose,’ said Porter. Evans gave a chuckle. ‘I only deal in the best Terry, mate. Only the best. Here we go.’
The Mercedes swung into a car park and Hawkeye threaded his way through the parked cars until he came to a dark blue Lexus. ‘Here we go,’ announced Evans triumphantly. ‘This is yours for a few days. It's fucking lovely. I almost kept it for myself.’