As kick-off time approached, PC 3876 watched the crowd make their way across Baker Street and vanish into the tube station. The British Transport Police were stopping everyone and taking any alcohol off them, which was annoying a few people but that was their problem now. He'd done his bit. This had been his first time at the Globe and he had quite enjoyed himself. Truth to tell, he'd actually been a bit apprehensive when they dropped him off. After all, at the briefing they'd told him that the place was a haven for football hooligans and he hadn't been that keen. I mean, judging by the photographs he had looked at, who in their right mind would want to walk into the middle of that lot? But apart from the Brummie bloke getting a bit stroppy it had been all right. He looked across at the others. They were getting a bit worried that the van taking them up to Wembley would be late and they might not make kick-off but he wasn't concerned. He'd never been that much of a football fan anyway. Motorsport was his thing.
Rather than listen to the others moaning, he decided to have a final look inside the pub, and after telling them where he was going, walked round the corner and through the front door. It was only two-thirds full now and, in any case, was under orders to shut at 7.00 p.m., which was only ten minutes away. It looked a right toilet. The kind of place he wouldn't normally be seen dead in. Glancing round, he caught sight of the guy he had pulled earlier, the Brummie. He was laughing and joking with three other men, and PC 3876 smiled when he realised he hadn't left for the match. ‘I knew he was lying,’ he thought, congratulating himself on his powers of deduction. ‘Probably gave me a false name as well, the twat.’ He was just about to leave when something about one of the men he was standing with clicked. The stocky one: he was one of the faces he'd been shown earlier at the briefing. No doubt about it. PC 3876 turned and walked out. The van was waiting for him and his colleagues were all inside. It didn't take any of his considerable powers of detection to work out that they were, to say the least, agitated.
‘For Christ's sake Dave, get a hurry on. We'll be late.’
He walked over and climbed inside, the vehicle moving even as the door shut with an almighty bang.
PC 3876 settled into his seat and pulled out his pocket book. He wanted to write down a quick description of the two men in the pub before he forgot it. He could do with a few brownie points.
Across the street, Paul Jarvis leant back away from the net curtains and shouted out, ‘Get the number of that van and make sure that crew reports to me tonight before they go off shift.’
‘Yes Guv,’ came the instantaneous reply, the voice speaking on the phone almost before Jarvis acknowledged it. He wanted to speak to the copper who'd gone into the Globe to try and find out if he'd seen Evans inside and who he had been talking to. If that meant pissing the others off for a while then too bad.
He let out a sigh and looked around. He hated this room, it was a right shit hole. Full of rubbish and smelling of stale fags and sweaty coppers. Every time England played at Wembley, he was guaranteed to spend at least four hours in here. Watching the front of the Globe and taking pictures of low-lifes getting drunk across the road. Tonight, rather than sit there on his own, he'd had three other members of the Unit for company and they had watched while the targets had gathered. Pointing out the faces of the known hooligans and trying to identify new faces. It had been no different from any other night and then, in the space of ten minutes, it had all changed. First, he'd spotted the Brummie lads from the Camden High Street ruck. That had been a good move by the boss to stick their pictures in the briefing, although he would never acknowledge that. Then he identified the lad from West Ham, Hawkins, and had been very surprised to see him speak so openly to the Brummies. He had been very careful to get lots of pictures of the three of them for future reference. But what had really made his night was the appearance of Billy Evans. Jarvis hadn't expected that and had been almost apoplectic with delight. He'd been alone but had headed straight into the pub without speaking to anyone outside. It was too purposeful, Jarvis had thought. If it was a social visit then he'd have talked to some of the lads outside. Jarvis knew from experience that he was familiar with at least fifteen of the lads drinking outside the pub.
‘Guv, it's Evans!’ Jarvis span around and caught sight of Billy Evans as he stepped out of the Globe. The sound of clicking cameras and winding motors filled the room but Jarvis continued to glare at his adversary, his head straining forward until it was almost touching the glass. As the three men walked out behind him, Jarvis raised his eyebrows in feigned surprise and even though he knew it was already being filmed called out, ‘Get that, someone.’ As if making sure to himself. Only once the four men had crossed the road and vanished into the tube station underneath them, did the men in the room relax. Jarvis stood up straight and rubbed his hands together in delight. ‘Well lads, that was a fucking turn-up. Our old mate Evans is out and about then is he? I wonder what that little shit's up to?’ He looked across at the other people in the room. They were busily packing up their gear but glanced across at Jarvis and smiled as he spoke. ‘If he's back in the game then this time I want him. The twat's got it coming.’
Chapter 4
Thursday, 30 September
05.24
Jarvis pulled his collar up around his neck for what seemed like the hundredth time and took a long look at the clock on the dashboard of the Ford Mondeo. Five twenty-four. Six minutes to go. He leant forward, picked up the radio and mentioned this fact to the other members of the team before settling back into his seat. He'd be glad to get going just to get some warmth through him.
To get his mind off the cold and on to the job in hand, Jarvis began running over the events of the last three weeks: the fight in Camden High Street; the sighting of Billy Evans at the Globe; the debrief of PC 3876; it all led to here. A small two-bedroomed house on a mid-eighties housing estate on the outskirts of Birmingham. Jarvis had taken the decision to raid the homes of both Fitchett and Bailey the day after the England game. He knew he was sticking his neck out, but the photographs from the fight in Camden High Street had been cleaned up and even the DCI thought that they were now good enough to stand up in court. In fact, they were so good that when Jarvis had met Terry Porter to tell him he was being pulled out, Porter had been able to put names to most of them. With any luck they would all be picked out on CCTV and arrested at the next Birmingham City home game. Jarvis, however, was convinced that Fitchett and Bailey could give him information on Billy Evans, and that was why he wanted to get them in custody fast and then search their homes. If he could get that link, then he might be able to use it as a lever, and then, who knew where it would lead? That's why he was here personally and why he had another team waiting outside Bailey's house in Bordesley Green who would go in at the same time as he did. He hadn't left it to the West Midlands coppers because he couldn't afford to miss anything.
His thoughts returned to Terry Porter. That had been a bit strange. Usually when he told undercover coppers they were being pulled off an operation they were pissed off. After all, it was a good earner for most of them and Jarvis knew better than most that the majority of them enjoyed it. Usually for the wrong reasons. But Porter had been obviously relieved. He'd actually said he'd be glad to get back to doing proper police work. Jarvis would speak to him when he got back off the three weeks’ leave he had been given. If there was a problem, it needed sorting.
‘Guv.’ The voice jolted him back to life and he looked across at his young DC, Phil Williams. It had been Jarvis's idea to bring Williams along. He wanted to see how he performed under pressure and, besides, if he was going to stay on the squad he needed to learn some of the tricks of the trade. ‘The light's come on.’
Jarvis looked across at the front of the house as, one after another, the downstairs lights went on. ‘Shit,’ he said out loud, before grabbing the radio and saying, ‘Target is mobile, repeat, target is mobile. Go-go-go.’ He dropped the microphone and leapt out of the car. Within seconds, the street was alive with unifo
rmed coppers and the noise of stomping Dr Martens. To Jarvis, as he strode purposefully towards the front door, it seemed deafening. He wanted to be one of the first there but wasn't going to run. This was his operation and he wanted to show he was calm and collected. He couldn't do that if he was running, and anyway, he had the warrant in his pocket. Nothing would happen until he was there.
At the top of the short path, he stopped and glanced around. The others had slowed and were now falling in behind him. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Let's do this.’ He stepped aside as two uniformed officers leapt forward with a bright red battering ram in their hands. One crash and the door went in. A flood of policemen poured through, some running upstairs and others down the short downstairs corridor, vanishing into the rooms on each side. Jarvis was last in and he waited to see what response came from the others as they searched through the house. A shout drew him towards the end of the downstairs corridor and he walked along and into the kitchen. Sitting at the breakfast bar was a man in a very smart and obviously expensive pale yellow shirt with a blue tie. In front of him was a bowl of cornflakes and a cup of orange juice. He looked at Jarvis and smiled.
‘Come in why don't you. If you'd have just given a ring on the bell I'd have let you in.’
Jarvis looked down at him and grinned back. ‘Hello Gary,’ he said, ‘you're up early aren't you?’
Fitchett turned back to his breakfast and drained the glass of orange juice. ‘I was expecting guests. You know how it is.’
Jarvis grinned and looked around the kitchen. It was immaculate. All white wood and glass. ‘So, expecting us were you?’
Fitchett smiled and returned to his cornflakes.
Jarvis pulled the warrant out of his pocket and dropped it on the table. ‘Gary Fitchett, I am Detective Inspector Paul Jarvis from the National Football Intelligence Unit. I've a warrant here for your arrest and you, my son, are nicked.’
Fitchett looked up at him, his face almost expressionless. Jarvis made a mental note of the fact that he hadn't shown the slightest sign of fear, anger or anything else since they had come through his front door. It wasn't just as if he knew they were coming: it was something else. A kind of arrogant acceptance. He'd seen it before but he couldn't work out where. Yes he could, the last time he raided Billy Evans's house.
Fitchett stood up and looked Jarvis straight in the eye. ‘What about my rights?’
Jarvis stared straight back at him and laughed. ‘Gary, what makes you think you've got any fucking rights?’
Jarvis walked through the house trying to work out where to start. Fitchett had been taken to the local nick where he would charge him later on. They had him bang to rights for the Camden High Street assault and the local plods had enough other stuff on him to make sure he was facing a stretch of some sort or another. But that wasn't what Jarvis wanted. He wanted a link with Billy Evans and he was certain that there was one somewhere. He carried on his stroll through the house. There were no shrines to Birmingham City, no shelves full of National Front propaganda or anything of the kind most people would expect from a hooligan of Fitchett's obvious status. In fact, every room was immaculate. When he opened a cupboard on the landing to find it full of neatly stacked towels, Jarvis almost laughed out loud. ‘He'd make someone a lovely wife,’ he thought.
He moved back to the kitchen and noticed a laptop computer sitting on the breakfast bar. Sitting down, he switched it on and searched through the software directory to see what it contained. Nothing unusual, just tons of documents relating to work. Not even any games or hidden stuff that he could spot. He moved through the programme to the address book and searched through for any names he recognised. Nothing. ‘Bollocks,’ he said out loud and slammed the lid down. Someone would need to have a look through it later on in case anything was on there he hadn't spotted. He stood up again and walked through to the lounge. The phone was on a table by the door and he picked it up and looked at the list of stored numbers. Mum, work, takeaway, ticket office, and a list of names. Both male and female. He put it back down and walked over to a shelf stacked out with tapes and numerous books. Nearly all the videos were about football and most of those were Birmingham City. Greatest goals, season reviews, etc. The books were the predictable ones you'd find in any male household: Nick Hornby, Andy McNab, some joke books and loads about football. No different from most fans and, in truth, much the same as Jarvis had on his shelf. ‘No hooligan books though,’ he mused. With a sigh, he stood up and called out.
Within a few seconds, the young face of DC Williams appeared. ‘Yes Guv?’
‘Phil, make sure the laptop comes with us back to London. I also want someone to check out all the numbers on this phone. Anything turned up yet?’
‘Not yet Guv,’ said the young copper; ‘but the Brummie lads are still looking.’
‘Get someone up in the loft as well and make sure that we get all his phone bills including any mobile ones as well. And where the fuck is his mobile? He's a rep for God's sake. And when we get back to the local nick, make sure someone gets onto his work and gets any phone bills from them as well.’
‘Yes Guv.’
The young face vanished and Jarvis walked back into the kitchen. He sat down and ran through everything he had to do: phones, phone bills, address books, computer; that was it. He stood up and walked out to the garage adjacent to the house. A red BMW 3 series not unlike Jarvis's own sat there, a black helmet sitting on the roof. ‘Anything?’ called Jarvis.
‘Nothing yet,’ said a voice from the back of the car. ‘Just the usual stuff you'd expect. You sure this is the guy you're after? I mean, nice house, flash car. He's not your usual yobbo is he?’
Jarvis thought for a moment and watched as the uniform climbed up from the boot. ‘He's our man all right. No doubt about that.’
The uniform shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, there's nothing in here sir.’
Jarvis sighed and walked back into the house. This was odd but not unusual. When he'd first turned over Billy Evans about three years ago, it had been the same. Nothing to suggest he was anything other than a regular football fan.
‘Guv!’ The shout made him start and he walked back into the corridor.
‘Who's calling?’ he shouted.
‘Up here!’
He almost sprinted up the stairs and ran into the bedroom. Unlike all the other rooms, this one was a mess, but Jarvis had no doubt that what he was looking at had been caused by the two men in there. He looked at the man in uniform, who was idly flicking through a wardrobe packed with freshly ironed white shirts and smart dark suits, and then at the young copper from his own nick. He gave a broad grin, handed Jarvis a photo album and simply said ‘bingo’.
Jarvis took the book and turned it round so the pictures were the right way up.
‘It was under the mattress.’
Jarvis nodded and stared down at the faces on the pictures in front of him. A series of photographs showed Gary Fitchett and Billy Evans standing in front of a fountain wearing the regulation clothing of football fans abroad. Shorts and England shirts. Draped on the floor in front of them was a flag, the cross of St George, and, in the background, a group of Dutch policemen in full riot gear. Underneath in neat black ink read the legend ‘Rotterdam 1993’. Jarvis looked up at the young copper and smiled. ‘Well done Phil. This'll do nicely.’
Chapter 5
Friday, 1 October
14.30
‘Here's your coffee, Guv. Watch out, it's bloody scalding.’ Jarvis looked up from the stack of papers and took the polystyrene cup. ‘Cheers Phil,’ he said. ‘I'm ready for this.’
The two men sat silently drinking as the train thundered its way towards Euston. ‘I'll be glad to get back to London,’ said the young DC. ‘I hate going up north.’
Jarvis laughed. ‘Bloody hell Phil, if you think Birmingham's north then you need to get about a bit more. I'll have to sort you out a transfer to Newcastle.’
Williams laughed out loud. ‘Bollocks to that Guv, they
're all mad up there. I went out with a Geordie bird once: she drank more than I did and I couldn't understand a bloody word she said.’
Jarvis put down his cup and smiled at the young DC. He'd done all right. The photo album was a godsend and he'd done well when they'd charged Fitchett. In truth, the atmosphere in the charge room had been a bit strained. Jarvis had insisted all along that details of the raids remained a secret and he had been very wary of the local coppers. This had pissed them off a bit and although he understood that - after all, no one likes being told what to do in their own nick - he hadn't been too concerned about who he had upset. It had been left to Williams to smooth things over with a charm offensive that had been frighteningly convincing.
Jarvis took another sip of coffee and turned his thoughts to the two men arrested. All he knew about Bailey was that the raid had gone to plan and he, like Fitchett, was on his way to London for questioning. Fitchett, though, was another matter. As Jarvis had expected, he was an arrogant bastard. Even in the charge room, Fitchett had maintained an air of defiance. As if at any moment he expected to be released and given an apology. He'd glared at Jarvis a couple of times, probably for effect, but had just received a smile and a wink for his trouble. Jarvis never spoke to people he'd nicked until he had them in an interview room and he was saving that pleasure for when they were back in London. It was a trick he'd learned from his first DI. He had told him that the best way to get results from an interview was to have the prisoner questioned by someone he hadn't met. For some reason, it threw them completely. Jarvis had worked out that it was all to do with being familiar with voices, and so now he didn't speak to prisoners until he had to. Over the years, a few of his colleagues over the years had thought he was mad but the fact was it worked for him and he'd certainly got enough results.