War on the Streets. Peter Cave
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Название: War on the Streets
Автор: Peter Cave
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Полицейские детективы
isbn: 9780008155377
isbn:
The Home Secretary met his eyes with a cool, even gaze. ‘I think you’re rather stretching a point there, Lieutenant-Colonel Davies. I would hardly call the police civilians.’ He thought for a second, digging for further ammunition. ‘Besides, the SAS Training Wing works with various types of civil as well as military groups all over the world, so why not on home ground? Think of it more in those terms if it makes you feel better. A training exercise, helping to create a new counter-terrorist force.’
The man was on dicey ground, and he knew it, Davies thought. Nevertheless, his own position was not exactly crystal-clear, either. They were both dealing with a very grey area indeed. For the moment, he decided to play along with things as they stood.
‘And how would the police feel about such a combined operation?’ he asked.
McMillan spoke up. ‘We have discussed similar ideas in principle, in the past, of course. But obviously, this has come as just as much of a surprise to me as it has to you.’ He paused for thought. ‘But at this moment, my gut feeling is that we could probably work something out.’
The Home Secretary rose to his feet. He looked rather relieved, Davies thought. ‘Well, gentlemen, I’ll leave you all to think it through and come up with some concrete proposals,’ he said, collecting up his papers from the table.
‘Just one more thing, Home Secretary,’ Davies called out, unwilling to let the man escape quite so easily. ‘We’ll have full approval from the relevant departments on this one, I take it?’
The man smiled cannily. He was not going to be tempted to stick his head directly into the noose. ‘Grudging approval, yes,’ he conceded. ‘But of course you won’t be able to count on anyone with any real authority to bail you out if you come unstuck.’
It was more or less what Davies had expected. He returned the knowing smile. ‘So we’re on our own,’ he said. It was a statement, not a question.
‘Aren’t you always?’ the Home Secretary shot back.
It wasn’t a question that Davies had any answer for. He was silent as the politician left the conference room, followed by his aides. There was only himself, Commissioner McMillan, Commander Franks and David Grieves left around the table. No one said anything for a long time.
Finally, Franks cleared his throat. ‘Well, it would seem to me that the first thing you are going to need is a good, straight cop who knows the drug scene at street level,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘No disrespect intended, but it really is foreign territory out there.’
It made sense, Davies thought, taking no offence. Franks was right – the theatre of operations would be something completely new and unfamiliar to his men, and they didn’t have any maps. They would need a guide.
‘Someone with a bit of initiative, who can think for himself,’ Davies insisted. ‘I don’t want some order-taker.’
Franks nodded understandingly. ‘I’ll find you such a man,’ he promised.
The blue Porsche screamed round the corner into the narrow mews entrance at a dangerous angle, clipping the kerb with a squeal of tortured rubber and wrenching the rear wheel up on to the narrow pavement. Bouncing back down on to the cobbled street, the car slewed erratically a couple of times before straightening up and slowing down, finally coming to a halt outside one of the terraced cottages. Like everything else in this part of south-west London, the house was small but expensive.
Glynis Jefferson glanced sideways out of the car window, looking at the number on the house to check the address. There was no real need. The sounds of rave music and general merriment issuing from the house showed that the party was still in full swing, even at three-thirty in the morning. Relief showed on the girl’s strained face as she opened the car door and stepped out.
Her knees felt weak, buckling under her. She leaned against the side of the car for support, trying to control the violent shudders which shook her whole body in irregular and involuntary spasms. It was a warm night, yet she was shivering. Her young face, though undeniably attractive, was taut and lined with tension, ageing her beyond her years. Her eyes were wide, apparently vacant, yet betraying some inner disturbance, like a helpless animal in pain.
She pulled herself together with an effort and dragged herself up the three stone steps to the front of the mews cottage. She rang the bell, fidgeting impatiently as she waited for someone to answer it.
The door was finally opened in a blast of sound by a young man in his early thirties. Glynis did not recognize him; nor did it matter. Names were not important to her.
Nigel Moxley-Farrer lolled against the door jamb, appraising the young blonde on his doorstep. His eyes were glassy, the pupils dilated. He was either drunk, or stoned – probably both. An inane, vacant grin on his face showed that he approved of his attractive young vistor.
‘Well hello, darling. Come to join the bash? You’re too gorgeous to need an invitation. Just come on in.’ He lurched backwards, inviting her into the house.
Glynis shook her head. ‘I’m not partying. I’m just looking for Charlie.’
Despite his befuddled brain, Nigel’s face was instantly suspicious. His eyes narrowed. ‘Charlie? Charlie who?’
Glynis shuddered again. Her voice was edgy and irritable. ‘Aw, come on, man. Don’t piss me about.’ She paused briefly. ‘Look, I was at Annabel’s tonight. A guy called David told me I could score here tonight.’
So it was out in the open; no need for any further pretence. They both knew exactly what Charlie she was looking for. C for Charlie – the code word for cocaine among the Sloane Ranger set.
Still grinning, Nigel shook his head. ‘You’re too late, darling. Charlie’s been and gone.’ He spread his hands in an expansive gesture, giggling stupidly. ‘Hey, can’t you tell?’
Another violent spasm racked Glynis’s body. A look of despair crept over her face. ‘Oh, Jesus!’ she groaned. She looked up at Nigel again, her eyes pleading. ‘Come on, somebody’s got to be still holding, surely? The money’s no problem, OK?’
Nigel shook his head again. ‘Not a single snort left in the place. We all did our thing a couple of hours ago.’ He reached out, grasping her by the arm. ‘But don’t let that bother your pretty head, darling. We’ve still got plenty of booze left. Why don’t you just come in and get chateaued instead?’
Glynis shook free of his grip with a sudden, violent jerk. The sheer intensity of her reaction wiped the grin from Nigel’s face for a second. He stared down at her more carefully, noting the perspiration starting to show through her make-up, the nervous twitching of little muscles in her face.
‘It’s really that bad, huh?’
Glynis nodded dumbly. She looked totally dejected and pathetic. Nigel looked at her dubiously for a while, finally coming to some sort of a decision.
‘Look, I’ll tell you what СКАЧАТЬ