Lewis Smallfandombang Fic: Terra Incognita 2/7
Story: Terra Incognita
Author: wendymr
Artist:
wallflower18
Rated: Mature
Characters: Robbie Lewis, James Hathaway, Jean Innocent, Laura Hobson, Julie Lockhart, original characters
Summary: The two of them have always been more effective together than apart.
Warning: [Under spoiler cut (PLEASE READ if you are prone to triggers)]
References and some descriptions through much of the story to physical and sexual violence against women, and one 'live action' scene containing threat of violence, all in the context of criminal acts. May be triggery for some.
Many, many thanks to my brilliant artist,
wallflower18, for the gorgeous banners, chapter headers and icon. Please, if you like her artwork, send her kudos and compliments! Also much appreciation to my BRs, uniquepov and lindenharp, for both editing assistance and cheerleading as I was writing. And thanks to the organisers of smallfandombang for all their work in organising this fic event.
Chapters will be posted at intervals throughout the day.
Chapter 1: Strange Land
Chapter 2: Initiation
What did he ever do to deserve Robbie Lewis as his governor?
Lewis said he volunteered to come to Abbotsbury, but James knows it won’t have been anything as simple as that. This kind of liaison role isn’t a job for a DI. A DS, maybe, but most likely a constable, as with Tariq. Innocent wouldn’t have agreed to this easily, so Lewis must really have pushed hard. And since he can’t imagine that Lewis would have done this for his own benefit - willingly spending a month and a half in a draughty caravan up at Bexington? - the only possible explanation is that he did it for James. Why? That just doesn’t make sense.
He owes Lewis for this - another favour he can never repay.
Sleep’s still slow in coming tonight, but once he does fall asleep he doesn’t wake up once. And in the morning he has no memory of any nightmares.
Lewis - Robbie - is right. They have always been better together than apart. And, while they might not be working directly together on this case, he’s starting to feel confident that having Lewis available to talk to when possible will make a difference. It’s already making a difference.
James ignores his razor and arranges his hair into the scruffy look that’s appropriate for Jim Henderson, and then heads out for his temporary job - and, he hopes, another contact from the gang he’s here to investigate.
______________________________________
Robbie sets out after breakfast with his map and the walker’s GPS he was provided, not only to help him with his cover but also to make sure he can find his way around. This morning’s hike will take him into Abbotsbury via Bexington Coppice, and then he’ll make his way back through a couple of the other local woods. It’ll help to establish his credibility as a tourist on a walking holiday but, more importantly, it’ll give him local bearings.
It’s hard to concentrate on his surroundings, though, as his mind keeps drifting back to James. He’s seen the lad upset or introspected in the past, of course, but it’s rare, and never this bad. Whatever’s going on, even during cases that Robbie knows affected him badly, James has always refused to admit to any need for help or support. It’s cost him - apart from cases involving his own past, Robbie still remembers the haunted look in James’s eyes in the weeks following the Zelinsky case, and during the trial. Yet he insisted he was fine, was in no need of help.
This is worse than Robbie’s ever seen him before. Yet, other than once or twice during the evening, James still insisted that he was fine, he could cope, he didn’t need any extra intervention. He did say he’s glad that Robbie’s here, and there was that clinging hug, but he just bets that the next time he sees the lad it’ll be as if that never happened.
Yes, all right, he’s worried - even more so now that he’s actually here and has seen James. It’s the case - but it’s not only the case. James, he knows, has always been a solitary sort, but that doesn’t mean that being on his own is good for him. When he’s on his own, he’s got too much time to brood.
Bad enough trying to sort a brooding, melancholy James out when they’re working together every day, but when the lad’s been alone for two months... Well. He’s just going to have to find a way to spend as much time with James as possible without putting the case in jeopardy. Simple as that.
______________________________________
James is in the Swan that evening with the group of locals he’s insinuated himself with over the past couple of months. Three of them are part of the gang, but very much on the fringes - like himself, but more trusted. He keeps hoping that these drinking sessions will lead at some point to encounters with more important members of the gang, but so far it’s not happened - though, of course, being included in the rape/murder encounter two weeks ago was a major step forward, albeit one he would rather not have had any involvement in.
It’s still important to keep up appearances: Jim Henderson is a lad about town who enjoys his drink and fags and flirting with the barmaids, and maybe occasionally buy some dodgy smokes from a shadowy bloke in a back alley, and he’s the sort who’ll easily be led astray. Persuadable, easily manipulated, and not too concerned about breaking the law.
His phone beeps just as he’s getting in another round. Frowning, he pulls it out of his pocket. The only people who have this number are his boss at the hardware shop and some of the people he’s with in the pub - and Tariq, who won’t be in contact with him again. The story, apparently, is that Tariq got a new job and is moving away. In fact, he’s been temporarily transferred to a station in Shaftesbury, in the far north of the county, to avoid any chance that he might be seen and recognised.
James doesn’t recognise the number, but clicks on the text anyway.
think i might have left my wallet round at yours last night. any chance i can pop over and take a look?
There’s no name - but James doesn’t need one. Apart from the fact that there was only one person with him at his flat last night, he recognises the text style.
“Who’s that?” Jonno, one of the gang, asks. He’s also trying to read over James’s shoulder - not an easy task.
“My uncle. On holiday in Bexington, can you fuckin’ believe it?” He curls his lip in disgust. “Had no idea he was coming until he turned up on my doorstep.”
“Close, are you?” Jonno’s grinning, highly amused.
“Hardly. He’s a teacher.” James shrugs. “But he’s going to report to my ma if I don’t at least pretend to be hospitable.” He snorts. “I can put up with him coming over for a curry once a week or so for a while if it means she’ll keep the money coming.”
This is an idea he and Robbie came up with yesterday evening. As a shop assistant and general dogsbody, James earns the minimum wage. It’s barely enough to give credibility to the flat he’s renting, the cigarettes he smokes and the battered car he drives, never mind his occasional contraband purchases. If anyone asks too many questions, the cover might fall apart. That’s partly the idea, James explained: the local men have been sucked into the operation by the promise of ready cash. So far he himself hasn’t been paid; he’s on trial, he’s been told, and pay will come later. If at all; the task force has a theory that the locals, once they’ve been drawn in via something like the cannabis cigarettes James has been buying, are offered Class A substances - crack cocaine - and then the price of further supplies is taking part in the receiving operations. And now that James has been present at one of those and been able to describe events, they’re all confident in the theory that having the foot-soldiers rape the women and then kill them is a tactic to buy their silence. Who’d talk, after all, if they knew they’d be charged with rape and murder?
Though of course it would be possible to negotiate with the police and CPS for a reduced sentence and possibly witness protection for giving evidence against the gang, and James has already discreetly tested out one or two of his local contacts to determine whether they might be likely to accept that kind of offer. It won’t fly, though. None of them know who’s ultimately behind the operation.
“Like you said, if they’re gonna draw you in properly, they’ll want you to buy drugs from them,” Robbie commented. “Can’t explain being able to do that on your income, unless you say you’ve been mugging little old ladies or breaking and entering.”
“And that’d be noticed in a village this size.”
“So how about letting it be known that your mother sends you money? And flash some cash around in the pub?”
It was a good idea, and he’s been doing it this evening. It’s not the first time he’s bought a round, or even let himself be seen with a twenty or two.
It’s been noticed tonight, as has his comment about money being sent. Jonno’s just glanced meaningfully at Pete. Good.
He texts back. Didn’t see it. Won’t be home for another hour.
ill be there, the return text - received five minutes later - says. James tries not to imagine his governor cursing at the tiny keys and managing to delete his message at least twice before sending - and tries not to want to leave the pub right now so he can spend some time with Robbie instead of with these wasters. But this is his job at the moment, and so he stays where he is.
______________________________________
Headlights bouncing up and down the rough gravel driveway announce James’s return. Robbie gets out of his car in time to see James almost fall out of his, and then stagger drunkenly towards the door.
“You never drove in that state! Bloody hell, man!” he exclaims, and it’s not all a disapproving-uncle act.
James shoots him a look of pure dislike, just about visible in the porch light. “Mind your own fuckin’ business.” But he still leaves the door open for Robbie to follow him in.
Once inside, Robbie scans again for eavesdropping devices. “Clean.” He turns to James in time to see a transformation; he’s standing straight again and moving smoothly to turn on inside lights.
He turns to Robbie then, lips faintly curved in a smug smile. “If I had been breathalysed, I’d have been well under the limit. I had just over a pint in three hours.” His smile broadens. “Convincing act, then?”
“Very. Was sure you’d been-” He shakes his head. He really does know James better than that. “How’d you manage it? Shandies?”
“No. Can’t have the bar staff know I’m not drinking like everyone else. I’ve just learned to make it look like I’m sinking pints when I’m not. Pretend to take a drink, keeping my hand wrapped around the glass, then put it down near an almost-empty glass, and that’s the one I pick up next time.” He shrugs. “I’m getting pretty good at it.”
“As long as no-one notices.” It’s a dangerous game James is playing, though it’s not as if he didn’t already know that.
James shrugs. “Anyway, you wanted to check for your wallet? Or was that just an excuse?”
He huffs. “An excuse. Don’t mind admitting I was worried about you after last night.”
“I should say you needn’t and I’m fine, but...” James’s mouth turns down faintly at the corners. “It’s good to see you.”
And that he’s admitting that speaks volumes about his continuing mental state.
“Coffee?” James asks then, and he’s already heading to the kitchen.
“Shouldn’t be encouraging me to stay, should you?” Robbie points out. “You’re only supposed to put up with me grudgingly.”
“Got to be nice to you, otherwise the fountain of riches dries up.” Another flash of a swift grin. “Managed to drop that little nugget in the pub too. It still won’t make it convincing for you to come here every night, but a couple of times a week should be okay.”
And that translates to mean that James would like him to come that frequently. Well, so would he, and he has to admit that it’s not only because he doesn’t fancy spending more evenings than he has to alone in that caravan.
“Should tell you what I did today,” he says as he watches James make coffee. “Went for a walk, of course, since that’s what I’m here for. Had lunch in the Ilchester Arms - I know you do your drinking in the Swan, so I thought I should check out the other hostelry.”
“Oh?” James quirks an eyebrow. “Anything?”
Robbie shakes his head. “Other than establishing my identity an’ that I like a bit of a natter with my pint, nothing yet. Did mention to the landlord that I have a nephew locally an’ that I’m concerned that he might be straying from the straight and narrow again. Didn’t get any nibbles, but you know how these things work. I’ll make sure I’m seen there a few times a week, and sooner or later...” He shrugs.
James nods. It’s a strategy officers they know who’ve done undercover work use pretty successfully.
“And,” Robbie continues, “my route just happened to take me past two of the murder scenes. Had to be careful no-one saw me acting suspiciously, so I didn’t search them too carefully. Just pretended to be looking at some wild-flowers - and, yeah, I did that in several places along the way.”
James frowns as he leads the way to the living-room. “What were you looking for? Local uniforms and SOCO were all over those locations.”
Robbie shrugs again. “You know how I am. Just want to be thorough.” In case someone might have missed something - though James is right; it is unlikely. But he’s always been like that. If a job needs doing well, he needs to do it himself, or have it done by someone he trusts completely to do it properly. “Going to try to take a look at all them over the next few weeks. Not every day, o’ course. But I am here to walk, so it shouldn’t look out of the ordinary.”
James’s lips curve upwards in the mocking smirk Robbie hasn’t seen in far too long. “Must be more exercise than you’ve had in years. Your daughter would be very impressed.”
“Oi, you!” Robbie’s not had occasion to practice his exasperated glare in weeks, either - yet it still comes easily. “I get exercise. Keepin’ you in line, mostly.”
“Keeping up with me, maybe.” James pointedly stretches his long legs out in front of him. Robbie jabs his elbow into James’s side, and it’s as if they’ve never been separated.
______________________________________
The next couple of weeks are the most bearable he’s had since this assignment started. It’s not that James dislikes being undercover, exactly, though he hadn’t anticipated how much of a challenge it would be to maintain his persona, and he certainly hadn’t realised the kind of things he’d be expected to do to keep his cover intact and infiltrate himself further into the gang. But it’s also been isolating, and damn lonely. For someone who’s always been happy with his own company, James has been miserable.
Now that Lewis - Robbie - is here, the situation has improved immeasurably. They don’t see each other, or even talk, every day, but just knowing that his governor is close at hand has made more of a difference than James could have imagined. Robbie comes over with a takeaway a couple of times a week, and they exchange texts occasionally in between. Not the sort of texts James would like to send - no banter, no teasing enquiries about the state of his boss’s feet - but the kind of thing that might sound reasonable between an uncle and his reluctant nephew.
run out of teabags and the shops are closed - you got any? - an excuse for Robbie to drive over to James’s flat one evening and stay for about half an hour. Need to borrow a tenner gave James the cover to meet Robbie and talk unobserved for a few minutes just outside Abbotsbury after work one evening, before he was due down the pub. It all helps.
Now, what would help even more would be if they can catch these bastards so no more women will get killed and no more drugs will find their way into the country from this entry-point - and he and Robbie can go home.
______________________________________
“You don’t seem to be making a lot of progress in this investigation. Eighteen months with nothing to show for it and one officer dead...” Robbie shrugs. “Except your Chief Constable’s starting to ask questions.”
Not exactly the best way to build a good working relationship with the DCI in charge of the investigation - but that’s not Robbie’s intent here. As James’s liaison, he’s not going to have any kind of relationship with DCI Moore, a smooth, smug copper in his late forties who’s got ambitions to higher rank. Much higher, is Robbie’s guess.
This meeting’s a courtesy only, afforded to him in acknowledgement of his own relatively senior rank and because he’s James’s governor. He and Moore are having to meet in secret in a small coffee-shop in Dorchester; Moore’s in the city for a meeting, and Robbie’s cover is that he’s playing tourist.
“Ever been on a major investigation?” Moore retorts, an edge to his voice - which Robbie can understand. Like the bloke or not, he knows how he’d react if challenged like this. “They take time, and they sometimes have collateral damage.”
Collateral damage. Robbie’s hands tense and he puts his cup down. With those two words, Moore’s just lost any possibility of earning his respect. Dead officers aren’t collateral damage. Dead victims aren’t either - and now he knows where James’s previous liaison got it from.
Is an undercover officer also potentially collateral damage, in the interests of making progress?
He won’t ask; he knows what the answer will be, or at least what the truth is, whether or not Moore would do him the courtesy of honesty. But Robbie swears there and then, on everything he holds dear - on Val’s grave - that he will not let James become ‘collateral damage’.
Steering the subject away from principles, he asks some detailed questions about progress so far, what they know and don’t know, and does his best to hide the fact that he despises the bloke and hopes they never meet again after this is over.
______________________________________
James is leaning against the wall in the hardware shop’s delivery yard, smoking a cigarette, one lunchtime almost a month after Robbie turned up on his doorstep.
It’s been a quiet couple of weeks on the investigation, with no new developments and no indication that he’s been admitted any further into the ranks of the gang. The one positive development is that the bait’s been taken as regards his hints of family money: a couple of days after his casual mention of it in the Swan, another of the local members of the gang - and one of the bastards who raped the last woman - asked him if it was true that he was getting his mother to send him drinking money. He laughed and, mindful of what he and Robbie had discussed around the possibility that he could be offered more than just a few roll-ups of cannabis, said, “Who gets the right kind of stimulation from alcohol?”
Nothing more’s been said, but the seed’s been sown. Now he has to wait.
The gate at the end of the yard swings open, and another of the gang, someone he knows only as Al, strolls in. “Oi, Jim! You skivin’ off again?”
“On me lunchbreak, aren’t I?” He sticks his cigarette in his mouth and casually makes a V-sign.
“Fuck off yourself,” Al retorts, crossing the yard. “Give us a fag.”
James passes over a cigarette, then lights it for Al. “What you want?”
“It’s your lucky day,” Al drawls. “Better tell that uncle of yours you’ll be busy tonight.”
He takes another drag. “Oh, yeah?”
“Be at the south path into Oddens Wood at 9. Don’t be late, and don’t fuck up.”
He pretends to think it over. “Yeah, I can probably be there.”
Al glares at him. “Fucking make sure you are. This is the big one for you.”
Before James can say anything else - and he’s not entirely sure what he would have said - Al’s gone. James slowly releases a breath, grinds out his cigarette and reaches for his phone.
Can’t make tonight. Got other plans, he sends to Robbie. Robbie’ll know something is up; they didn’t actually have arrangements for this evening.
sorry to hear that. Hope you have a good time. Robbie’s text comes five minutes later, as circumspect as he would expect.
And, using the encoding method in place for this kind of situation, he sends the important information. Meeting point at south trail, Oddens Wood, 9pm. Assume it’s another courier.
Robbie’s response, a few minutes later - but then he’s new to the code - is two words. Got it.
The team will be in place, observing, as before. If only that actually meant a life could be saved tonight.
______________________________________
The advantage of James now having a liaison from outside the local CID is that there’s an additional layer between him and the investigating team, making it less likely that he’ll be indentified as connected with the police. Trouble is that the additional layer is also a disadvantage because, although Robbie now knows about tonight’s meeting, he still needs to report it to the locals. And, because it’s too risky to have him simply walk into CID headquarters, or phone his own liaison, the mechanism is that he phones a number and pretends to be asking the opening hours of whatever local business he might be calling. The detective who answers will give him a time and place, and that’s when they’ll meet so he can pass on the information.
It’s mid-afternoon before a young bloke in a cheap suit - do DCs nowadays have any idea of how to blend in? - comes to sit next to him at the bar of the Ilchester Arms. After a bit of casual chit-chat about the weather and suchlike, Robbie provides the details James gave him.
He’s thanked, but the DC doesn’t appear particularly happy. “Doesn’t help much,” he explains when Robbie asks. “We thought, the first time we got information on a meeting, that it was going to be a major breakthrough, but it wasn’t. If we still don’t know how the mules are getting in, we’re no closer. There’s only ever the local boys at those meetings, and we can’t risk arresting them. The most we can try to do is follow whoever takes the drugs, see if we can find their drop-off point. So far we’ve not been successful.”
“Why not?” Sounds bloody incompetent to Robbie. Surely they’ve got people with training in surveillance.
The DC shakes his head. “Can’t figure it out. Twice we’ve followed the courier, and twice he’s managed to lose our people. Different person each time, too, so we haven’t been able to set anything up in advance.”
In other words, again all they’ll do is observe and try to follow. And, for a second time, James will have to watch a young woman be savagely attacked and murdered without being able to do a thing about it.
Robbie has to excuse himself, and he heads to the loo, where he takes a couple of deep breaths before leaving the pub to walk back to his caravan.
______________________________________
It’s almost five to nine, and James is waiting at the beginning of the trail. Pacing. He’s been here almost ten minutes, and he’s chain-smoking - has been since he got home from work. This is worse than the first meet-up he was invited to, because this time he knows what will happen.
It goes against everything in him, as a copper and as a human being, to have to stand by and do nothing while a young woman is raped and murdered, but what else can he do? Even if he wasn’t under orders, it would be him against five or six others, most of whom will be armed with knives. Maybe with other weapons as well; he didn’t see any guns last time, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any. All he’d achieve would be to get them both killed.
Though that reality hasn’t stopped him working through several scenarios in his mind. What if he creates some sort of distraction, something that appears accidental, that would allow the woman to get away? He could pretend to faint, or trip - but that wouldn’t distract enough of the gang, and more than likely only for a moment or two. He could pretend he heard someone coming. The risk of discovery would stop them, wouldn’t it? He -
“Jim, me lad!” A hand claps his shoulder firmly. It’s Al. “On time, I see. Good. The boss will be impressed.”
He takes a deep breath, then turns to face Al, who’s surrounded by four others, including Pete and Jonno. “The boss?” Clarkson, whom they already know about? Or someone else, possibly higher up in the structure?
“Oh, yeah. He’ll be here tonight, and it’s all for you. You’re a lucky bastard.”
“I am?”
Al’s hand on his shoulder tightens and steers him towards the wood, signalling that it’s time to move. “Oh, yeah. It’s time for your initiation.”
Initiation? What’s that supposed to mean?
He doesn’t have to wait long to find out. In under ten minutes, they’re in the clearing, where a young girl, probably no more than sixteen, is pacing. As with the other girl - all the other courier-victims, in fact - her skin has the olive tones that suggest Mediterranean or Latin American origins. She’s dressed in a short denim skirt and a T-shirt, and her long hair’s limp and bedraggled, which fits with several days’ travelling by sea. Cargo ship, transferred to a fishing boat in the English channel: that’s the working theory. And she’s shivering - cold or fear?
She startles and her eyes widen in sudden fear as she catches sight of them - and no wonder, because Jonno and Al are now holding long knives. Jonno’s is single-bladed and looks like a kitchen carving knife, while Al’s has a double-sided blade - a Bowie knife.
Pete and the other two are moving swiftly past the girl, and James remembers from the previous occasion what they’re doing. Getting behind and to either side of her, to cut off her escape. And another, older man whom James hasn’t seen before has slipped out from behind the trees to their right. It’s Clarkson, all right; James hasn’t met the commander of the local foot-soldiers, but he’s had a detailed description.
“Madre de Dios! Lo que está pasando?” She clutches at her throat, and James sees a flash of silver in the dying sunlight. A crucifix.
Al nudges his elbow sharply. “Off you go, Jim-boy.”
James glances at Al, a question in his mouth, but his words dry up. Al’s holding out his Bowie knife to James, handle first, and he’s making an unmistakeable gesture with his hips. It’s immediately followed by a slicing motion with his free hand.
And James instantly understands. His initiation.
______________________________________
Chapter 3: A Fine Evening for a Stroll
Author: wendymr
Artist:
wallflower18
Rated: Mature
Characters: Robbie Lewis, James Hathaway, Jean Innocent, Laura Hobson, Julie Lockhart, original characters
Summary: The two of them have always been more effective together than apart.
Warning: [Under spoiler cut (PLEASE READ if you are prone to triggers)]
References and some descriptions through much of the story to physical and sexual violence against women, and one 'live action' scene containing threat of violence, all in the context of criminal acts. May be triggery for some.
Many, many thanks to my brilliant artist,
wallflower18, for the gorgeous banners, chapter headers and icon. Please, if you like her artwork, send her kudos and compliments! Also much appreciation to my BRs, uniquepov and lindenharp, for both editing assistance and cheerleading as I was writing. And thanks to the organisers of smallfandombang for all their work in organising this fic event.
Chapters will be posted at intervals throughout the day.
Chapter 1: Strange Land
Chapter 2: Initiation
What did he ever do to deserve Robbie Lewis as his governor?
Lewis said he volunteered to come to Abbotsbury, but James knows it won’t have been anything as simple as that. This kind of liaison role isn’t a job for a DI. A DS, maybe, but most likely a constable, as with Tariq. Innocent wouldn’t have agreed to this easily, so Lewis must really have pushed hard. And since he can’t imagine that Lewis would have done this for his own benefit - willingly spending a month and a half in a draughty caravan up at Bexington? - the only possible explanation is that he did it for James. Why? That just doesn’t make sense.
He owes Lewis for this - another favour he can never repay.
Sleep’s still slow in coming tonight, but once he does fall asleep he doesn’t wake up once. And in the morning he has no memory of any nightmares.
Lewis - Robbie - is right. They have always been better together than apart. And, while they might not be working directly together on this case, he’s starting to feel confident that having Lewis available to talk to when possible will make a difference. It’s already making a difference.
James ignores his razor and arranges his hair into the scruffy look that’s appropriate for Jim Henderson, and then heads out for his temporary job - and, he hopes, another contact from the gang he’s here to investigate.
______________________________________
Robbie sets out after breakfast with his map and the walker’s GPS he was provided, not only to help him with his cover but also to make sure he can find his way around. This morning’s hike will take him into Abbotsbury via Bexington Coppice, and then he’ll make his way back through a couple of the other local woods. It’ll help to establish his credibility as a tourist on a walking holiday but, more importantly, it’ll give him local bearings.
It’s hard to concentrate on his surroundings, though, as his mind keeps drifting back to James. He’s seen the lad upset or introspected in the past, of course, but it’s rare, and never this bad. Whatever’s going on, even during cases that Robbie knows affected him badly, James has always refused to admit to any need for help or support. It’s cost him - apart from cases involving his own past, Robbie still remembers the haunted look in James’s eyes in the weeks following the Zelinsky case, and during the trial. Yet he insisted he was fine, was in no need of help.
This is worse than Robbie’s ever seen him before. Yet, other than once or twice during the evening, James still insisted that he was fine, he could cope, he didn’t need any extra intervention. He did say he’s glad that Robbie’s here, and there was that clinging hug, but he just bets that the next time he sees the lad it’ll be as if that never happened.
Yes, all right, he’s worried - even more so now that he’s actually here and has seen James. It’s the case - but it’s not only the case. James, he knows, has always been a solitary sort, but that doesn’t mean that being on his own is good for him. When he’s on his own, he’s got too much time to brood.
Bad enough trying to sort a brooding, melancholy James out when they’re working together every day, but when the lad’s been alone for two months... Well. He’s just going to have to find a way to spend as much time with James as possible without putting the case in jeopardy. Simple as that.
______________________________________
James is in the Swan that evening with the group of locals he’s insinuated himself with over the past couple of months. Three of them are part of the gang, but very much on the fringes - like himself, but more trusted. He keeps hoping that these drinking sessions will lead at some point to encounters with more important members of the gang, but so far it’s not happened - though, of course, being included in the rape/murder encounter two weeks ago was a major step forward, albeit one he would rather not have had any involvement in.
It’s still important to keep up appearances: Jim Henderson is a lad about town who enjoys his drink and fags and flirting with the barmaids, and maybe occasionally buy some dodgy smokes from a shadowy bloke in a back alley, and he’s the sort who’ll easily be led astray. Persuadable, easily manipulated, and not too concerned about breaking the law.
His phone beeps just as he’s getting in another round. Frowning, he pulls it out of his pocket. The only people who have this number are his boss at the hardware shop and some of the people he’s with in the pub - and Tariq, who won’t be in contact with him again. The story, apparently, is that Tariq got a new job and is moving away. In fact, he’s been temporarily transferred to a station in Shaftesbury, in the far north of the county, to avoid any chance that he might be seen and recognised.
James doesn’t recognise the number, but clicks on the text anyway.
think i might have left my wallet round at yours last night. any chance i can pop over and take a look?
There’s no name - but James doesn’t need one. Apart from the fact that there was only one person with him at his flat last night, he recognises the text style.
“Who’s that?” Jonno, one of the gang, asks. He’s also trying to read over James’s shoulder - not an easy task.
“My uncle. On holiday in Bexington, can you fuckin’ believe it?” He curls his lip in disgust. “Had no idea he was coming until he turned up on my doorstep.”
“Close, are you?” Jonno’s grinning, highly amused.
“Hardly. He’s a teacher.” James shrugs. “But he’s going to report to my ma if I don’t at least pretend to be hospitable.” He snorts. “I can put up with him coming over for a curry once a week or so for a while if it means she’ll keep the money coming.”
This is an idea he and Robbie came up with yesterday evening. As a shop assistant and general dogsbody, James earns the minimum wage. It’s barely enough to give credibility to the flat he’s renting, the cigarettes he smokes and the battered car he drives, never mind his occasional contraband purchases. If anyone asks too many questions, the cover might fall apart. That’s partly the idea, James explained: the local men have been sucked into the operation by the promise of ready cash. So far he himself hasn’t been paid; he’s on trial, he’s been told, and pay will come later. If at all; the task force has a theory that the locals, once they’ve been drawn in via something like the cannabis cigarettes James has been buying, are offered Class A substances - crack cocaine - and then the price of further supplies is taking part in the receiving operations. And now that James has been present at one of those and been able to describe events, they’re all confident in the theory that having the foot-soldiers rape the women and then kill them is a tactic to buy their silence. Who’d talk, after all, if they knew they’d be charged with rape and murder?
Though of course it would be possible to negotiate with the police and CPS for a reduced sentence and possibly witness protection for giving evidence against the gang, and James has already discreetly tested out one or two of his local contacts to determine whether they might be likely to accept that kind of offer. It won’t fly, though. None of them know who’s ultimately behind the operation.
“Like you said, if they’re gonna draw you in properly, they’ll want you to buy drugs from them,” Robbie commented. “Can’t explain being able to do that on your income, unless you say you’ve been mugging little old ladies or breaking and entering.”
“And that’d be noticed in a village this size.”
“So how about letting it be known that your mother sends you money? And flash some cash around in the pub?”
It was a good idea, and he’s been doing it this evening. It’s not the first time he’s bought a round, or even let himself be seen with a twenty or two.
It’s been noticed tonight, as has his comment about money being sent. Jonno’s just glanced meaningfully at Pete. Good.
He texts back. Didn’t see it. Won’t be home for another hour.
ill be there, the return text - received five minutes later - says. James tries not to imagine his governor cursing at the tiny keys and managing to delete his message at least twice before sending - and tries not to want to leave the pub right now so he can spend some time with Robbie instead of with these wasters. But this is his job at the moment, and so he stays where he is.
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Headlights bouncing up and down the rough gravel driveway announce James’s return. Robbie gets out of his car in time to see James almost fall out of his, and then stagger drunkenly towards the door.
“You never drove in that state! Bloody hell, man!” he exclaims, and it’s not all a disapproving-uncle act.
James shoots him a look of pure dislike, just about visible in the porch light. “Mind your own fuckin’ business.” But he still leaves the door open for Robbie to follow him in.
Once inside, Robbie scans again for eavesdropping devices. “Clean.” He turns to James in time to see a transformation; he’s standing straight again and moving smoothly to turn on inside lights.
He turns to Robbie then, lips faintly curved in a smug smile. “If I had been breathalysed, I’d have been well under the limit. I had just over a pint in three hours.” His smile broadens. “Convincing act, then?”
“Very. Was sure you’d been-” He shakes his head. He really does know James better than that. “How’d you manage it? Shandies?”
“No. Can’t have the bar staff know I’m not drinking like everyone else. I’ve just learned to make it look like I’m sinking pints when I’m not. Pretend to take a drink, keeping my hand wrapped around the glass, then put it down near an almost-empty glass, and that’s the one I pick up next time.” He shrugs. “I’m getting pretty good at it.”
“As long as no-one notices.” It’s a dangerous game James is playing, though it’s not as if he didn’t already know that.
James shrugs. “Anyway, you wanted to check for your wallet? Or was that just an excuse?”
He huffs. “An excuse. Don’t mind admitting I was worried about you after last night.”
“I should say you needn’t and I’m fine, but...” James’s mouth turns down faintly at the corners. “It’s good to see you.”
And that he’s admitting that speaks volumes about his continuing mental state.
“Coffee?” James asks then, and he’s already heading to the kitchen.
“Shouldn’t be encouraging me to stay, should you?” Robbie points out. “You’re only supposed to put up with me grudgingly.”
“Got to be nice to you, otherwise the fountain of riches dries up.” Another flash of a swift grin. “Managed to drop that little nugget in the pub too. It still won’t make it convincing for you to come here every night, but a couple of times a week should be okay.”
And that translates to mean that James would like him to come that frequently. Well, so would he, and he has to admit that it’s not only because he doesn’t fancy spending more evenings than he has to alone in that caravan.
“Should tell you what I did today,” he says as he watches James make coffee. “Went for a walk, of course, since that’s what I’m here for. Had lunch in the Ilchester Arms - I know you do your drinking in the Swan, so I thought I should check out the other hostelry.”
“Oh?” James quirks an eyebrow. “Anything?”
Robbie shakes his head. “Other than establishing my identity an’ that I like a bit of a natter with my pint, nothing yet. Did mention to the landlord that I have a nephew locally an’ that I’m concerned that he might be straying from the straight and narrow again. Didn’t get any nibbles, but you know how these things work. I’ll make sure I’m seen there a few times a week, and sooner or later...” He shrugs.
James nods. It’s a strategy officers they know who’ve done undercover work use pretty successfully.
“And,” Robbie continues, “my route just happened to take me past two of the murder scenes. Had to be careful no-one saw me acting suspiciously, so I didn’t search them too carefully. Just pretended to be looking at some wild-flowers - and, yeah, I did that in several places along the way.”
James frowns as he leads the way to the living-room. “What were you looking for? Local uniforms and SOCO were all over those locations.”
Robbie shrugs again. “You know how I am. Just want to be thorough.” In case someone might have missed something - though James is right; it is unlikely. But he’s always been like that. If a job needs doing well, he needs to do it himself, or have it done by someone he trusts completely to do it properly. “Going to try to take a look at all them over the next few weeks. Not every day, o’ course. But I am here to walk, so it shouldn’t look out of the ordinary.”
James’s lips curve upwards in the mocking smirk Robbie hasn’t seen in far too long. “Must be more exercise than you’ve had in years. Your daughter would be very impressed.”
“Oi, you!” Robbie’s not had occasion to practice his exasperated glare in weeks, either - yet it still comes easily. “I get exercise. Keepin’ you in line, mostly.”
“Keeping up with me, maybe.” James pointedly stretches his long legs out in front of him. Robbie jabs his elbow into James’s side, and it’s as if they’ve never been separated.
______________________________________
The next couple of weeks are the most bearable he’s had since this assignment started. It’s not that James dislikes being undercover, exactly, though he hadn’t anticipated how much of a challenge it would be to maintain his persona, and he certainly hadn’t realised the kind of things he’d be expected to do to keep his cover intact and infiltrate himself further into the gang. But it’s also been isolating, and damn lonely. For someone who’s always been happy with his own company, James has been miserable.
Now that Lewis - Robbie - is here, the situation has improved immeasurably. They don’t see each other, or even talk, every day, but just knowing that his governor is close at hand has made more of a difference than James could have imagined. Robbie comes over with a takeaway a couple of times a week, and they exchange texts occasionally in between. Not the sort of texts James would like to send - no banter, no teasing enquiries about the state of his boss’s feet - but the kind of thing that might sound reasonable between an uncle and his reluctant nephew.
run out of teabags and the shops are closed - you got any? - an excuse for Robbie to drive over to James’s flat one evening and stay for about half an hour. Need to borrow a tenner gave James the cover to meet Robbie and talk unobserved for a few minutes just outside Abbotsbury after work one evening, before he was due down the pub. It all helps.
Now, what would help even more would be if they can catch these bastards so no more women will get killed and no more drugs will find their way into the country from this entry-point - and he and Robbie can go home.
______________________________________
“You don’t seem to be making a lot of progress in this investigation. Eighteen months with nothing to show for it and one officer dead...” Robbie shrugs. “Except your Chief Constable’s starting to ask questions.”
Not exactly the best way to build a good working relationship with the DCI in charge of the investigation - but that’s not Robbie’s intent here. As James’s liaison, he’s not going to have any kind of relationship with DCI Moore, a smooth, smug copper in his late forties who’s got ambitions to higher rank. Much higher, is Robbie’s guess.
This meeting’s a courtesy only, afforded to him in acknowledgement of his own relatively senior rank and because he’s James’s governor. He and Moore are having to meet in secret in a small coffee-shop in Dorchester; Moore’s in the city for a meeting, and Robbie’s cover is that he’s playing tourist.
“Ever been on a major investigation?” Moore retorts, an edge to his voice - which Robbie can understand. Like the bloke or not, he knows how he’d react if challenged like this. “They take time, and they sometimes have collateral damage.”
Collateral damage. Robbie’s hands tense and he puts his cup down. With those two words, Moore’s just lost any possibility of earning his respect. Dead officers aren’t collateral damage. Dead victims aren’t either - and now he knows where James’s previous liaison got it from.
Is an undercover officer also potentially collateral damage, in the interests of making progress?
He won’t ask; he knows what the answer will be, or at least what the truth is, whether or not Moore would do him the courtesy of honesty. But Robbie swears there and then, on everything he holds dear - on Val’s grave - that he will not let James become ‘collateral damage’.
Steering the subject away from principles, he asks some detailed questions about progress so far, what they know and don’t know, and does his best to hide the fact that he despises the bloke and hopes they never meet again after this is over.
______________________________________
James is leaning against the wall in the hardware shop’s delivery yard, smoking a cigarette, one lunchtime almost a month after Robbie turned up on his doorstep.
It’s been a quiet couple of weeks on the investigation, with no new developments and no indication that he’s been admitted any further into the ranks of the gang. The one positive development is that the bait’s been taken as regards his hints of family money: a couple of days after his casual mention of it in the Swan, another of the local members of the gang - and one of the bastards who raped the last woman - asked him if it was true that he was getting his mother to send him drinking money. He laughed and, mindful of what he and Robbie had discussed around the possibility that he could be offered more than just a few roll-ups of cannabis, said, “Who gets the right kind of stimulation from alcohol?”
Nothing more’s been said, but the seed’s been sown. Now he has to wait.
The gate at the end of the yard swings open, and another of the gang, someone he knows only as Al, strolls in. “Oi, Jim! You skivin’ off again?”
“On me lunchbreak, aren’t I?” He sticks his cigarette in his mouth and casually makes a V-sign.
“Fuck off yourself,” Al retorts, crossing the yard. “Give us a fag.”
James passes over a cigarette, then lights it for Al. “What you want?”
“It’s your lucky day,” Al drawls. “Better tell that uncle of yours you’ll be busy tonight.”
He takes another drag. “Oh, yeah?”
“Be at the south path into Oddens Wood at 9. Don’t be late, and don’t fuck up.”
He pretends to think it over. “Yeah, I can probably be there.”
Al glares at him. “Fucking make sure you are. This is the big one for you.”
Before James can say anything else - and he’s not entirely sure what he would have said - Al’s gone. James slowly releases a breath, grinds out his cigarette and reaches for his phone.
Can’t make tonight. Got other plans, he sends to Robbie. Robbie’ll know something is up; they didn’t actually have arrangements for this evening.
sorry to hear that. Hope you have a good time. Robbie’s text comes five minutes later, as circumspect as he would expect.
And, using the encoding method in place for this kind of situation, he sends the important information. Meeting point at south trail, Oddens Wood, 9pm. Assume it’s another courier.
Robbie’s response, a few minutes later - but then he’s new to the code - is two words. Got it.
The team will be in place, observing, as before. If only that actually meant a life could be saved tonight.
______________________________________
The advantage of James now having a liaison from outside the local CID is that there’s an additional layer between him and the investigating team, making it less likely that he’ll be indentified as connected with the police. Trouble is that the additional layer is also a disadvantage because, although Robbie now knows about tonight’s meeting, he still needs to report it to the locals. And, because it’s too risky to have him simply walk into CID headquarters, or phone his own liaison, the mechanism is that he phones a number and pretends to be asking the opening hours of whatever local business he might be calling. The detective who answers will give him a time and place, and that’s when they’ll meet so he can pass on the information.
It’s mid-afternoon before a young bloke in a cheap suit - do DCs nowadays have any idea of how to blend in? - comes to sit next to him at the bar of the Ilchester Arms. After a bit of casual chit-chat about the weather and suchlike, Robbie provides the details James gave him.
He’s thanked, but the DC doesn’t appear particularly happy. “Doesn’t help much,” he explains when Robbie asks. “We thought, the first time we got information on a meeting, that it was going to be a major breakthrough, but it wasn’t. If we still don’t know how the mules are getting in, we’re no closer. There’s only ever the local boys at those meetings, and we can’t risk arresting them. The most we can try to do is follow whoever takes the drugs, see if we can find their drop-off point. So far we’ve not been successful.”
“Why not?” Sounds bloody incompetent to Robbie. Surely they’ve got people with training in surveillance.
The DC shakes his head. “Can’t figure it out. Twice we’ve followed the courier, and twice he’s managed to lose our people. Different person each time, too, so we haven’t been able to set anything up in advance.”
In other words, again all they’ll do is observe and try to follow. And, for a second time, James will have to watch a young woman be savagely attacked and murdered without being able to do a thing about it.
Robbie has to excuse himself, and he heads to the loo, where he takes a couple of deep breaths before leaving the pub to walk back to his caravan.
______________________________________
It’s almost five to nine, and James is waiting at the beginning of the trail. Pacing. He’s been here almost ten minutes, and he’s chain-smoking - has been since he got home from work. This is worse than the first meet-up he was invited to, because this time he knows what will happen.
It goes against everything in him, as a copper and as a human being, to have to stand by and do nothing while a young woman is raped and murdered, but what else can he do? Even if he wasn’t under orders, it would be him against five or six others, most of whom will be armed with knives. Maybe with other weapons as well; he didn’t see any guns last time, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any. All he’d achieve would be to get them both killed.
Though that reality hasn’t stopped him working through several scenarios in his mind. What if he creates some sort of distraction, something that appears accidental, that would allow the woman to get away? He could pretend to faint, or trip - but that wouldn’t distract enough of the gang, and more than likely only for a moment or two. He could pretend he heard someone coming. The risk of discovery would stop them, wouldn’t it? He -
“Jim, me lad!” A hand claps his shoulder firmly. It’s Al. “On time, I see. Good. The boss will be impressed.”
He takes a deep breath, then turns to face Al, who’s surrounded by four others, including Pete and Jonno. “The boss?” Clarkson, whom they already know about? Or someone else, possibly higher up in the structure?
“Oh, yeah. He’ll be here tonight, and it’s all for you. You’re a lucky bastard.”
“I am?”
Al’s hand on his shoulder tightens and steers him towards the wood, signalling that it’s time to move. “Oh, yeah. It’s time for your initiation.”
Initiation? What’s that supposed to mean?
He doesn’t have to wait long to find out. In under ten minutes, they’re in the clearing, where a young girl, probably no more than sixteen, is pacing. As with the other girl - all the other courier-victims, in fact - her skin has the olive tones that suggest Mediterranean or Latin American origins. She’s dressed in a short denim skirt and a T-shirt, and her long hair’s limp and bedraggled, which fits with several days’ travelling by sea. Cargo ship, transferred to a fishing boat in the English channel: that’s the working theory. And she’s shivering - cold or fear?
She startles and her eyes widen in sudden fear as she catches sight of them - and no wonder, because Jonno and Al are now holding long knives. Jonno’s is single-bladed and looks like a kitchen carving knife, while Al’s has a double-sided blade - a Bowie knife.
Pete and the other two are moving swiftly past the girl, and James remembers from the previous occasion what they’re doing. Getting behind and to either side of her, to cut off her escape. And another, older man whom James hasn’t seen before has slipped out from behind the trees to their right. It’s Clarkson, all right; James hasn’t met the commander of the local foot-soldiers, but he’s had a detailed description.
“Madre de Dios! Lo que está pasando?” She clutches at her throat, and James sees a flash of silver in the dying sunlight. A crucifix.
Al nudges his elbow sharply. “Off you go, Jim-boy.”
James glances at Al, a question in his mouth, but his words dry up. Al’s holding out his Bowie knife to James, handle first, and he’s making an unmistakeable gesture with his hips. It’s immediately followed by a slicing motion with his free hand.
And James instantly understands. His initiation.
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Chapter 3: A Fine Evening for a Stroll