Chapter 21

 

Saturday soon came around and once again the party was in full swing by early afternoon. This time Jacks had hired an acoustic band that was playing some chilled-out background music by the pool.

Everyone was in celebratory mode. Most people were well and truly tanked up already and Milton saw something that almost made him sick.

Chalky was bent over stark naked and Stardust was pouring a jug of beer down through the crack of his backside. Underneath was young Pups trying to drink as much of the beer as possible. Most of it was being spilled all over his face but he didn’t care. He was the centre of attention and loved it. He was also the only person daft enough to carry out such a hideous act! The crowd chanted “Down, down, down” and Pups stayed there until the jug was empty.

Pups emerged, fists clenched in the air and everyone was cheering. It looked as if the mother of all parties was taking shape.

Milton was spotted and the crowds swarmed around him to find out about his heroics a few days earlier in the Paris mayhem. Word had spread quickly and, despite his initial concerns, Milton took to his new-found iconic status. His years in the Met had never delivered this sort of adoration from his colleagues and he wallowed in it.

He explained how he had wrestled with countless Frenchmen and how one had got a lucky punch in. He easily won over his audience. He was a hero now just like the rest of them and very much part of the furniture.

It was in stark contrast to the rest of the day he had endured.

Twenty-four hours earlier he had read the riot act to Waite, who had been through plenty of drama himself.

Waite had informed Milton that the French authorities had been obstructive all week in the build-up to the match. The French felt they were able to handle the situation better than anyone else and were unwilling to co-operate with their English counterparts, particularly on the day of the game itself. Waite and his team were powerless and completely undermined by their French counterparts.

Luckily for Waite and Milton, the lack of co-operation went all the way to the top and the seniors had become well and truly pissed off with the French too. Subsequently a war of words had broken out in the aftermath with the British blaming the French for everything that went wrong. The under-fire British Government used this as a damage limitation exercise in what was a grim situation. But, simply put, in the eyes of the world the English thugs had won the day.

Sir Michael had actually gone on television to say that the French had ignored the warnings from British intelligence. He dropped short of explaining what that intelligence actually was to protect Milton, which only drew even more ridicule from across the English Channel.

“Our men have risked their lives trying to pre-empt the trouble but our intelligence information fell on deaf ears,” he had said.

Waite said that the French had considered the area where the trouble kicked off as low risk and they had expected more trouble in other parts of the city. Apparently, the French only had 16 officers on duty there at the time. Waite had just as many British officers in the area in plain clothes. At the height of the trouble, the police estimated that over 1,000 men were fighting.

It was shocking news. Milton could not believe how incompetent the French authorities could be. During his time with the squad, he had come across know-it-alls in most countries but had generally found them helpful come match day.

He always got the ‘this is our country and this is how we do things around here’ attitude but he was an excellent negotiator and would always talk them around in the end. Massaging egos and kissing arse were his key tactics. In fact it had become his only method of communication with these people.

The French, in contrast, were more stubborn and they had paid a heavy price. Maybe if he had been in control instead of Waite things might have been different, but it seemed that he was in the clear as the mud continued to fly between Paris and London.

In fact his conference call to HQ that very morning started with Sir Michael apologising to Milton.

“We realise you were badly let down and we can only be thankful that you are still in one piece and your cover has not been compromised,” he said.

Milton had got what he wanted. He was told just to keep his nose clean and await further instructions.

The good news was that Waite had ensured the CCTV footage was intact and he was to spend the weekend with his colleagues analysing it frame by frame.

Milton had experienced a week at work to remember - or forget - and it was time to unwind. Right now he was in exactly the best place to do both. He accepted a bottle of beer handed to him by one of his ‘groupies’ and took a well-deserved swig.

“If someone deserves a beer more than anyone else, it’s our much respected, much loved new recruit, John Milton,” Stardust declared as he filled the funnel of beer once again and motioned with his finger for Milton to come towards him.

Once Milton had the freshly opened bottle taken from him, Stardust helped him into a chair with his spare hand and moved the tip of the funnel towards Milton’s mouth.

The cheers howled out as Milton braced himself for two pints of ale to reach his kidneys in about ten seconds flat.

Stardust removed his palm from the bottom of the pipe that was connected to the funnel and ale gushed into Milton’s mouth with tremendous force. He lost his senses for a split second but opened his eyes to see a hysterical crowd shouting and Stardust jumping up and down.

“Heeeeeero, heeeeeeero, heeeeeeero!” Stardust led the chants and helped Milton to his feet.

“Wow!” said Milton, as he let out a seismic belch that could have registered on the Richter scale.

“We slipped in a couple of vodkas too just to help you get in the swing of things!” declared Stardust.

It had an immediate effect. He was soon dancing, drinking more beers and then dancing and drinking more beers. Song merged into song as drinking game merged into drinking game. Conversations were replaced by indiscriminate shouting as the sun retreated unnoticed behind the Arabian Gulf.

The next thing he knew he awoke on a couch. He couldn’t remember where he was but it was familiar.

He lifted his head from the cushion and saw that it was morning and he was still fully clothed. Someone was passed out on the floor to the side of him and the creaking sound he made as he moved was a sign that he was lying on leather - black leather in fact, and he soon realised that he was crashed out in Jacks’s front room.

His initial loss of bearings was quickly replaced by a thumping headache as a woodpecker behind his left eye tried its best to tap its way out. He felt like shit.

But then a burst of sudden reality ensured that his thumping headache was soon forgotten. He lifted himself off the chair and gingerly stepped over the parallel body on the floor as if walking on eggshells.

Through the window he could see Jacks and Stardust cleaning up around the pool. JT was just sitting on a sun lounger holding his head and Kirk was floating fully clothed on an inflatable armchair in the middle of the pool. He had probably been there all night. The clock on the wall showed it was approaching 10.00 a.m.

Milton had an opportunity to return to the corner of the room that Jacks was quick to usher him away from a few weeks earlier. He checked that his colleagues were still occupied and, with the coast clear, he moved closer.

The desert pictures looked as if they had been taken during the Gulf War. He recognised a younger Stardust in one of them. His hair was closely cropped and his face looked sunlashed.

The other pictures also looked as if they had been taken during his days of service. There was one picture of him posing in front of a giant Irish tricolour flag painted down the side of a house wall. Over it was written: “Death to the British Army”; an obvious photographic memento from time served in Northern Ireland.

Another showed him posing, again in British army colours, with what looked like Asian, probably Malaysian, soldiers. The setting seemed jungle-like.

The range of pictures confirmed to Milton that Jacks had done time in the Special Forces. There was no question in his mind about that now.

Nothing seemed out of place. The pictures proudly reflected a career that many other men had also endured. But it did not explain why his name had not shown up on any of the checks that his team had conducted with the Ministry of Defence. There was no record of Carson Jacks ever serving. It was a mystery.

Then Milton noticed a chain draped over the corner of one of the pictures. Its pendant was hidden by the frame. He reached his hand around the back and felt immediately that they were dog tags. He pulled them into view and got the breakthrough he was looking for.

Looking back at him from the shiny rectangular piece of steel was the name Jackie Carson, Royal Signals, complete with rank and number.

“Jackpot,” Milton had whispered to himself.

Suddenly he heard someone coming through the front door and could hear Stardust and Jacks chatting. A split second before they entered the front room Milton just managed to jump back onto the couch.

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” said Jacks, prodding Milton in the tummy. “It’s mid-morning, John, and time to get yourself home so we can tidy this place up.”

Milton pretended to be stirring and slowly opened his eyes.

“I feel like shit!” he exclaimed.

The front room had beer bottles lying everywhere which meant that the party must have moved indoors at some point. Milton could not remember; he was plastered the night before.

A taxi arrived soon after and he ordered the driver to take him back to the hotel as quickly as possible. Now he could eventually find out who Carson Jacks really was.

 

* * *

 

“That’s Jackie Carson, Waite, Jackie Carson.” Waite seemed strangely subdued on the other end of the line. “He served with the Royal Signals up until 1990. Get the Ministry to run it through the computer.”

Waite still seemed quiet. “Okay sir, will do,” he said.

“Well don’t sound so bloody enthusiastic about it, Waite.” He could sense something was up. “What’s happened?”

Waite took his time to reply, and cleared his throat with a sharp cough.

“Sir, we were going through the footage last night to get clear photos for The Sun to publish and we came across a very interesting, yet vicious, character who looks to be new to the hooligan scene.”

“Just ignore it, Waite. We’ve got everyone we need to nail over here.”

“That’s what I mean, sir.”

“What?” Milton was perplexed.

“You see, sir; that person, sir, is you, sir.”

“What are you talking about, Waite? You’ve been working too hard; you need a holiday.”

“No, sir, it’s as clear as day. The camera picked you up kicking the shit out of some bloke. That bloke, sir, is still in hospital in Paris with a broken jaw.”

Milton took his time to reply. That damned mouthy Scouser had come back to haunt him once again.

“Who knows about this, Waite?”

“Just the gang in the office, sir. Only us. We were pretty shocked when we saw it.”

There was another short silence as both men wondered what to say next. And then Waite shocked his boss with a stunning question that they were all desperate to ask.

“Are you still on our side, sir?”

“For God’s sake, Waite, of course I am. I interrogated that bloke at the Spanish game. He recognised me, Waite. It could have blown the whole operation. I had to shut him up somehow or my life would have been in danger. He was just some pissed-up idiot. He could have closed us all down.”

“It looked brutal, sir. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Waite fished for words of reassurance and Milton sensed the question was aimed at his mental state of mind rather than his physical health.

“I am fine. Tell The Sun that the CCTV hasn’t helped us at all on this occasion, and you have got to shut that Scouser up somehow. He must not report this to the French or I am in the shit. We are all in the shit.”

Milton could tell that Waite was worried. After everything he had been through, it would be the easy option for Milton to switch sides. He could remain in Dubai and not have to worry about his shambolic private life in the UK anymore. He could pick up big bucks working for Jacks and basically enjoy himself.

But he was still confident of cracking this case. All those years in the police force had made him a determined man.

His loyalty was questioned during his undercover drugs days. He felt he never did get the credit he deserved from that. This was going to be different and he had become more determined than ever to crush Jacks.

He did not care about England’s bid for the World Cup any longer. Neither did he care too much about his career anymore. And as for his marriage? That had not crossed his mind in days. He just wanted to get this over and done with and the only way he could do that was by bringing these men to book; the men he had become a brother to over the past few weeks. He really had become a part of their family.