Ged was no football fan, certainly not where Brighton and Hove Albion were concerned. But he was more than happy after schmoozing his way back into the organised crime group to scrub up and be their guest at the Liverpool game. As a kid, his dad used to take him to Anfield to stand in The Kop and cheer Gérard Houllier’s reds on. He often wondered if his dad would have enjoyed the game so much in their leaner years.
As he ambled towards the West Stand Reception, from where he would be shown to the box, his heart fluttered as his thoughts wandered to the impending birth and how he’d spend his Saturdays with his new son.
As this was just a getting-to-know-you deployment, he and Nick agreed they could brief over the phone. The cover officer would monitor the audio feed from Ged’s covert microphone but neither were expecting anything earth-shattering to emerge. In any case, the stadium was full of cops so if he needed extracting, he was in the best place.
‘Oi, Ged,’ came a familiar voice behind him, followed by a smack on the back which nearly caused him to bite his tongue. ‘Found it then.’ 57
Ged laughed. ‘All right, Nathan? Bit hard to miss, with American Express Stadium plastered across its fucking walls. Any case, I got a cab. Just in case I was struck blind.’
‘You should have said. I’d have picked you up.’
‘You driving? I’ve got every intention of spanking the free bar.’
‘Me too,’ said Nathan with a wink. As they entered the reception, Ged flashed his e-ticket to the reader and was grateful when Nathan said, ‘Follow me.’
They climbed the stairs, showing their tickets to the yellow-vested stewards who guarded the various stairways and lounges against ticketless interlopers. Nathan didn’t even look at them as he passed, but Ged’s legend was that he was a polite, if hard-nosed, businessman so he said hello to each.
He’d worked undercover in a lot of settings but this was new to him. It was hard to reconcile the affable host, Sir Ben Parsons, as an associate of Nathan’s who, once you scratched the surface, was just a ruthless gangster. Brighton had an underworld of the suspiciously wealthy: those who operated a don’t ask, don’t tell policy around how they afforded their champagne lifestyle.
Sir Ben was a Brighton boy through and through. Leaving school at fourteen, he worked his way up through the market trade to somehow acquire a chain of pharmacies which he expanded to become a staple on every UK high street. His charitable work earned him a knighthood in 2013. The following year he became chair of Respite Pharmaceuticals, a multinational drug research and manufacturing company based along the coast in Worthing. He’d recently shot into the headlines when Respite won a licence to trial a new heroin substitute, Synthopate, which promised to revolutionise addiction therapies. That and his scalpel-sharp intelligence, innate business acumen and unforgiving ways kept wary rivals at bay.
Nathan, on the other hand, had a more traditional career path through the ranks of organised crime: children’s homes, borstals, 58vicious turf wars and prison. He had as much nous as Sir Ben but was less subtle in how he kept order. His name had been linked to half a dozen contract killings across the south-east of England, yet no one could pin anything on him.
It never ceased to surprise Ged how villains with so much pedigree failed so miserably in the due diligence department when meeting new contacts. The faces bustling around the food table and free bar were more suited to a criminal intelligence briefing than a VIP box at a Premier League stadium.
‘Sir Ben, can I introduce Ged, the buyer I was telling you about?’
Sir Ben locked eyes with Ged then, after an uncomfortable pause, smiled warmly. ‘Nice to finally meet you, Ged.’ His working-class roots rang through his earthy Brighton accent. ‘Nathan’s been telling me all about you.’
Bet he hasn’t, thought Ged.
They shook hands. ‘Thanks for inviting me, Sir Ben. I’m really looking forward to the game.’
‘Please, call me Ben. The game’s just the sideshow. This is all about getting to know one another and enjoying the hospitality.’ He indicated the huge buffet spread out at the back of the room. ‘No pies or pints here. Unless that’s what you fancy, of course.’
‘This’ll do,’ said Ged, suddenly aware he might just be talking to the main man. He knew Nathan deferred to someone high up, but a knight of the realm?
‘Remind me what line you’re in,’ said Sir Ben as he handed Ged a glass of chilled champagne.
‘Thank you. I’m in acquisitions and sales. Imports and exports.’
‘I see,’ said Sir Ben, clearly understanding the code. ‘Similar sector to me I gather.’
‘I believe so but maybe less high profile.’
‘Indeed. It’s a troubling time for both of us though,’ said Sir Ben. ‘There are some that would prefer to see our customer base reduced to 59nothing, and that can’t be good for anyone.’
‘Indeed,’ said Ged. ‘We’re feeling the pinch too.’
‘Well don’t worry, we have plans. It’ll soon blow over.’
Ged knew not to probe, just to open the door. ‘Really?’
‘Absolutely. We can’t have naive personal agendas taking down multimillion-pound businesses. Think of the taxes the government would lose.’ Sir Ben shook his head.
Ged couldn’t have been more relieved when the players’ walk-on music, ‘Sussex by the Sea’, bellowed out through the stadium’s speakers.
‘Time to take our places gentlemen,’ said Sir Ben as he held the door to the premium seats with bird’s-eye views of the pitch.
Ged had struggled to keep a lid on his instincts when Liverpool converted a penalty in the second minute of first-half stoppage time. ‘Never disrupt your environment’ was a mantra the instructors on the Level 1 Undercover Course drummed into every prospective UC. To cheer an away goal at the Amex would not so much disrupt as explode his.
On the referee’s whistle, Sir Ben and his guests filed from their seats for their half-time refreshments. Ged joined them, texting a coded message to Nick to check the comms were still working.
You at the gym tomorrow?
The reply came back straight away. Sorry mate, I’ve pulled my calf.
Shit, thought Ged. That was Nick saying he couldn’t hear a thing. These earring mikes were great when they worked but they were packing up all the time recently. That was why he always carried a spare in the stitching of his belt. He could do with a piss anyway, so he’d have to swap the stud over then and hope no one was looking. With dozens of drink-fuelled, middle-aged men filling the lounges, the toilets at half-time were unlikely to be deserted but needs must. If Sir Ben was planning on becoming looser-lipped, Ged needed Nick to both hear it and have it recorded for evidence later.
He slipped out of the box and glanced round the lobby, spotting 60several men from other boxes disappearing through a blue door. Clocking it as the toilet, he followed, hoping for a cubicle. He was out of luck. Each of the three were firmly closed and the noises coming from behind the doors told him they’d be in use for a while. He couldn’t afford to wait as he didn’t want to be missed by his new contacts, so he took his turn at the urinal. Trusting the unwritten rule that men never looked down or at each other while peeing, he took the chance to unpick the loose stitches in his belt and palmed the spare earring microphone.
Next was the tricky bit. How to remove one ear stud and replace it with an identical one without drawing attention to himself. He worked out that if he did it in stages, the chances of anyone seeing the whole manoeuvre were slim to the point of being negligible.
As he stepped away from the basin, he pretended he was scratching his ear and managed to take the faulty stud out, slipping it into his pocket.
‘Thank you,’ he said to the man who held the door for him. He stepped into the lobby and, as he ambled back to Sir Ben’s box, he repeated the scratching ear technique and the fresh device was in. It was only when he opened the box door to rejoin the others that he noticed a bald man with a birthmark on his head behind him.
Not paying much attention to him, Ged helped himself to a plate of food and walked over to Nathan. ‘Oh cheers,’ he said as the gang leader handed him a glass. In his peripheral vision, he saw the man who’d followed him pull Sir Ben to one side and talk rapidly but inaudibly to him. The host flicked Ged a glance and his genial expression hardened into something quite terrifying.
He tapped a text to Nick.
How about a beer then?
Sounds good, came the confirmation that the cover officer could hear him loud and clear. Ged was about to fire off a text about Sir Ben but, at that moment, someone near the door shouted, ‘Second half.’ He decided it would be safer leaving it for the debrief. 61
The crowd around him downed their drinks and wandered out to retake their seats. As he followed on, he heard Sir Ben call out, ‘Nathan, you got a minute?’
No one quite knew where the referee got the six minutes of stoppage time from, as the equaliser Brighton scored with ten minutes to spare would have made ninety per cent of the crowd happy enough. However, when the Liverpool centre half clipped a Brighton player’s legs following a ninety-fifth-minute corner, the crowd erupted.
With seconds to go, the Brighton striker slotted home the penalty in what was the last kick of the game, and three rare points against the champions-elect were in the bag.
The party mood in the box after the game was more like Mardi Gras than a networking meeting at a football match, and Ged joined in despite being gutted for his late father.
After about half an hour, he was ready to go. Sir Ben had given him a wide berth and he wasn’t making much progress with anyone else. Nathan was downing the free bubbly like it had a ‘use by’ date and the wisdom of sharing a car with him on the way home was evaporating. He made the snap decision to give the gang leader the slip. He couldn’t wait to sign the deployment log, hand in his comms and head up north to become a dad. It was all he could do to stop himself telling his wife he was on his way.
Out of politeness he wandered over to Sir Ben. ‘Sir Ben, I’m off. Thanks so much for this afternoon. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.’
‘I’m sure not,’ came the frosty reply. ‘Take him with you too,’ he said, nodding at Nathan. ‘He tends to become embarrassing the later it goes on.’
‘Sure,’ said Ged, his heart sinking. Maybe he could persuade Nathan to share a cab.
Ten minutes later, Nathan was fumbling with his keys in the car park 62just outside the South Stand. ‘Mate, let’s get a cab. There’s so many Old Bill around here you’re bound to get nicked.’
‘Fuck that. I drive better with a few sherbets inside me.’
‘Well, I’m getting a taxi.’ Ged looked around but, other than a couple of coaches, there was nothing that looked like public transport anywhere near.
‘Get in the fucking car, you wuss. I’ll drop you off in Rottingdean.’
Ged calculated that was ten minutes max. If he pushed the point it would cause a scene, and the last thing he needed was to draw attention to himself.
‘Just drive carefully then.’
To his surprise, Nathan seemed remarkably in control as he eased out of the parking space, navigated the one-way system then filtered onto Village Way. Thankfully, as most supporters had not enjoyed post-match hospitality, the roads were clear. Nathan waited at the red light then completed a flawless right turn onto the Drove as soon as the green light shone.
Ged took in the patchwork of fields either side of the narrow country road, wondering who allowed the stadium to be built in such stunning countryside. The road swept gently to the right, then to the left, and the shimmering English Channel on the horizon finished off the landscape perfectly. Ged vowed to himself that this was the image he’d take home of Brighton, not standing stark naked in a beer cellar with a gun to his head.
As they pressed on, two cyclists appeared in the near distance riding abreast.
‘Fucking bikes,’ muttered Nathan.
‘Chill mate. We’ll get past them soon,’ said Ged, hoping to dissuade the drunk-driver from some ill-judged overtake.
Nathan just muttered and settled in behind them, the oncoming traffic and bends preventing anything more ambitious.
If Ged didn’t know better, he’d have thought they were deliberately 63blocking the way, but he kept quiet. The cyclists seemed oblivious and Ged could sense Nathan getting more and more agitated. It wasn’t unusual for bikes to create tailbacks but Ged’s sixth sense screamed that there was more to them than their lack of road sense. Just as Nathan dropped down a gear, the bikes split like a Red Arrows display team at the precise moment that a glint came from a copse at the roadside ahead.
The last thing Ged ever did was to grab the steering wheel, but it was too late to save either of them.