GPS tracking on Jones’ phone had him stopping in at New Scotland Yard multiple times throughout the day, suggesting he was stationed there. Jay’s best guess was that Jones worked in one of the specialist divisions; other than that theory, though, the afternoon he and Sebastian spent on audio surveillance had yielded very little. As Jay’s frustration mounted, his patience with Sebastian’s hovering waned; eventually, he all but shoved Sebastian out the door and told him to come back with food.
Camden Town was less of a circus in January than it was during the nicer times of the year, but it was still a circus. Sebastian was just another face in the crowd as he made his way back from the market, juggling a pair of takeaway containers from one of the food stalls.
It was oddly reassuring to be so roundly ignored, after all the stares and whispers at the party the other night.
As Sebastian turned to follow the canal back to Jay’s building, his phone rang. He fumbled for it and answered with a lightly strained, “Hello?”
An unfamiliar voice said, “Yeah, hi. Is this Sebastian Moran?”
“It is.”
“Great! This is Teddy Banneret. Someone gave me your number—Anita or somebody.”
“Anika.”
“Right, right,” Banneret replied, not paying attention. “Listen, I’d love to take you out for dinner or something. Get your thoughts on my latest project.”
“Of course,” Sebastian replied, putting on his consultant voice. “When were you thinking?”
“How about Monday night? Short notice, I know—but we’re flying out for some location scouting Tuesday morning, and we’ll be gone for a few weeks, so—”
“Monday’s fine.”
“Great! My assistant will be in touch—we’ll get a car sent round.”
The call ended abruptly—Banneret was, apparently, not the sort for prolonged goodbyes. Sebastian tucked his phone back into his pocket and fumbled for the key fob to Jay’s building, making his way back up to the flat.
Jay was sitting at his desk; the voice emanating from his laptop was distinctly not Jones’, although it was familiar.
“You trace those texts?” said the voice, as Jay made silent grabby hands for the containers Sebastian was holding. Sebastian handed Jay’s over.
“I know that voice,” Sebastian said quickly, careful not to talk too loudly over the audio feed. “He was the other one at the meet last night.”
“Looks like the number was spoofed,” came Jones’ reply. “It tracks back to a phone sex line in Hull.”
Jay snickered around a mouthful of pasta.
“That’s the best you can do?”
“Without making the whole thing into a proper case? Yeah, it is.”
Jones’ phone picked up a low grumble from the other man. “What about Bradshaw? He about to grass on us?”
“I think I talked him down.” After a pause, Jones muttered, “We never should’ve taken the money, Vaughan.”
“What, we should’ve left it in a ditch?”
“I meant before.”
“Don’t talk about it like we’re fucking dirty,” Vaughan snapped. “Any day of our lives out here, we could get knifed or shot or blown up—and we get fucking nothing. We get shit pay and no respect, and then we get hung out to dry for every little mistake. We earned that money, and then some.”
“Yeah,” Jones said, quietly—not entirely convinced. “Yeah, all right. You find the thieves yet?”
“I’m asking about,” Vaughan replied. “M.O.’s familiar—some of the old-timers might recognize it. The money’s safe?”
“For now.”
“Keep a close eye on it. Can’t be dumb luck the salon got hit. Someone might’ve leaked the location.”
“You’re sure?” Jones asked nervously. “CPS is still crawling up our arse over the Venetian getting away. Word is, Donnelly’s looking for a mole in the unit.”
“Those investigations never go anywhere. You’ve nothing to worry about.”
There was a quiet rustle, as if Jones had shifted his weight.
“I need to get back to the station,” Vaughan said.
“All right. I should head back, too.”
Jay reached for his phone.
“Right, hold on,” Aaron interrupted, disoriented by the conversation happening around him. “What’s the Venetian?”
Moriarty was back in the armchair, where he’d been sitting ever since he and his partner showed up at the squat a few minutes ago. “Up until recently,” he said, “the Venetian was running one of the biggest trafficking operations in East London.”
“He did business in everything,” Paul added. “Drugs, guns, women—whatever. Until the Met shut the whole thing down.”
“They shat the bed at the last minute, though,” Moriarty said. “The man himself got away, along with most of his senior lieutenants.”
Hunter had been quiet for the past few minutes; he seemed to be mulling over everything they’d been told. “What about ‘Donnelly’?”
“Probably Orla Donnelly,” said Moriarty’s partner, from where he stood by the window. He’d mostly been looking down at the street outside—like he was keeping watch or something. “Senior crown prosecutor. She must be furious—the Venetian was a career case, before the Met fucked it.”
“I think the Venetian must’ve got a tip from their mole inside the Organized Crime Partnership.” Moriarty took out his phone and pulled up a photo, holding it out so Paul, Aaron, and Hunter could see it. “DS Athelney Peter Jones.”
Paul squinted at the screen. “He was at the meet, but he wasn’t the one in charge.”
“No, that’d be this one.” Moriarty pulled up another photo. “PC Travis Vaughan. He and Jones are old mates—same class at Hendon.”
Paul nodded in recognition. “Word was,” he mused aloud, “the Venetian had a copper in his pocket. Handling security, transportation, all that.”
“Could’ve been Vaughan,” Moriarty said. “Brilliant, really—what police officer is going to stop and search a squad car?” After a moment’s thought, he added, “And then he cut Jones in, so he could warn them if CID got too interested.”
“So when the Venetian cleared out of town,” Paul concluded, “Vaughan must’ve been holding a lot of his money.”
“And he stashed it in the tanning place,” Hunter guessed.
Aaron shook his head. “Why there? Why not just split it up and keep it?”
“I’ve been looking through some of the Met’s unofficial group chats,” Moriarty replied. “Rumour has it, the OCP was using marked notes to follow the Venetian’s money trail. Some of those notes could be in Vaughan’s half million, and he knows it.”
“So why not dump it, then?”
“Greed,” Moriarty suggested, with a shrug. “Or desperation. The Venetian was Vaughan’s meal ticket—with him gone, there’s no more money coming in.”
“And these days,” his partner added, “you can’t spend or bank that much cash without drawing suspicion.”
“Vaughan’s best bet is to sit on the money until everyone forgets about the Venetian,” Paul said. “But that plan only works if nobody knows he has it.”
“But we know,” Hunter pointed out.
“Exactly.”
Aaron threw up his hands. “So we’re fucking dead, yeah?”
“Maybe not,” Moriarty said, fingers tapping the back of his hand again. “Jones is a follower. Vaughan’s the real threat. He’s the one we need to take out.”
“So, like … murk him?” Hunter asked warily.
“Can’t kill a copper,” Paul said immediately. “We’d have the whole of the Old Bill coming down on our heads.”
“So we grass him up, right?” Aaron guessed. “Tell his bosses what he’s been up to.”
Moriarty glanced over his shoulder toward his partner, as if asking him something. The man thought for a moment, then blew a breath out through his nose. “The Met can root out one or two petty corruption cases a year and look like they’re doing their jobs, but this …” he shook his head. “This is senior specialist personnel colluding with a major trafficker whilst that trafficker was under police investigation. A scandal like that would blow back on the whole service. They’ll hush it up—a couple slaps on the wrist, maybe one or both of them quietly pensioned off. Nothing that keeps Vaughan from coming after you.” He blinked, as if an idea had just occurred to him. “If Donnelly’s out for blood, you could try her.”
“Without the money as evidence,” Moriarty said, “she’d need witnesses.”
Paul groaned and rubbed his hands over his face. “I’m not exactly in a position to stand up in court.”
Moriarty turned back to Aaron and Hunter. “What about you two?”
Aaron’s stomach flipped; he looked to Hunter, who had crossed his arms, huddling in on himself.
“Would they make us go back into care?” Hunter asked.
“Probably,” Moriarty admitted.
Hunter shook his head, shrinking further.
“They’ll split us up again,” Aaron said. “We can’t.”
“All right,” Moriarty replied, more gently than Aaron would’ve expected. “Plan B.”
“Which is?”
Moriarty sat back in the armchair, chewing his lower lip. “Vaughan is worried you targeted that tanning salon on purpose. He thinks someone told you about the money. We can use that.”
PC Travis Vaughan was stationed in Dagenham, and spent most of his days in a panda car; Sebastian followed on the bike, keeping a careful distance as Vaughan patrolled. So far, he’d responded to a few calls, stopped in briefly at a bookies’, and bought cigarettes from an off-license. Now, he was buying lunch at a chicken shop.
As Sebastian watched from across the street, his phone rang. He answered the call and put it through to his earpiece. “Hi.”
“Any reaction from Vaughan yet?” Jay asked.
“He hasn’t seen me.”
There was a pause. “Moran,” Jay said flatly, “the point is for him to see you.”
“You realise you’re asking me to do my job badly,” Sebastian replied, peevish.
“My apologies to your professional pride.”
Sebastian could see Vaughan through the front windows of the chicken shop; he’d reached the front of the queue and was ordering. “What exactly is my cover, here?”
“You don’t have one,” Jay said. “Vaughan can do background checks, remember? It’d be a nightmare to build a cover that’ll hold up. Let him decide who you are—anything he imagines will be much worse than whatever we can come up with.”
The front door of the chicken shop opened; Vaughan reappeared, bag in hand as he made his way back to the car. He didn’t appear to have noticed Sebastian.
With a defeated sigh, Sebastian gripped the handlebars of the bike and revved the engine.
The sound ripped through the quiet of the neighbourhood, and Vaughan jumped, looking up sharply. His gaze scanned his surroundings and settled on Sebastian.
Sebastian lingered just long enough to make it clear he’d been watching, then took off down the street.
“All right,” he reported, irritably. “He saw me.”
“Good,” Jay replied. “I’m sending you Vaughan’s home address. Let’s give him a little more to think about.”
It had been a shit day. Vaughan spent most of his patrol on pointless dispatches—mostly time-wasters who’d called in over apparently urgent matters, then either refused to answer the door or told him to fuck off when he arrived. And despite this, each of those incidents would be hours of paperwork to deal with.
The day only got worse when Vaughan spotted that man on the motorcycle, watching him.
After that, he’d monitored everyone and everything more closely than usual—scanning faces as he passed, peering through every window, eyeing up every reflection. Even once his shift was over, he couldn’t shake the feeling he was being watched; he kept one eye on his rearview mirror the whole drive home, and gave one last look over his shoulder as he parked on the street outside his building.
Still no sign of the motorcycle.
Vaughan’s flat was a little one-bedroom unit in a newish building on the east side of Dagenham. It was more expensive than he could actually afford on a police salary, but that was the case for just about every flat in London. This one, at least, wasn’t so flashy as to raise suspicions about his real income.
He unlocked the front door and headed up the creaking stairs. Maybe, once it was safe to spend the Venetian’s money, he could put a down-payment on a house of his own. Explain it away as an inheritance. Or maybe he’d quit the service, go into business for himself, and then he wouldn’t have to answer to anybody but—
His flat’s front door was open, resting on the jamb.
Vaughan’s hand darted to his baton, holstered at his belt, and extended it with a flick of his wrist. He nudged the door open, eyes scanning every corner of the flat as he slipped inside.
His sitting room had been thoroughly tossed: sofa knocked over, cushions tossed aside, the contents of his shelves scattered across the floor. His kitchen and bedroom were in similar states of disarray.
Someone had been looking for something.
Pete Jones didn’t care for the food in Scotland Yard’s canteen; it always gave him indigestion. Unfortunately all the restaurants in the area catered to the Whitehall types, which put them firmly out of his price range. That usually left him buying a meal deal at the corner shop near his flat, right before he made the long drive in to work.
Most days—if he wasn’t out in the field and the weather held—he liked to eat on one of the benches along the Embankment, looking out across the river. It was as cloudy as could be expected in winter, but not too cold. Jones was actually having quite a pleasant lunch, right up until a man sat next to him on the bench, far too close.
He said, “Hello, DS Jones.”
Jones regarded the stranger from the corner of his eye. He was on the tall side, wearing a motorcycle jacket; a set of long scars slashed the side of his face. “Do I know you?”
“Not exactly,” the man replied, with a smile that showed his teeth. “We have a mutual friend: Travis Vaughan.”
The stranger didn’t look anything like a copper, or even a spook. That left few other options, all of them very bad news.
“Vaughan had a rather profitable side job for a while, there.” The man leaned over and casually nicked one of Jones’ crisps. “Shame the work dried up. Although I heard the severance package was quite generous.”
“Yeah?” Jones replied sharply, out of instinct more than anything else. “Heard from who?”
The man shrugged and chewed his stolen crisp. “If you happened to know anything,” he said, “you’d be in a position to make a lot of money.”
It took a moment for Jones’ mental litany of panic to reorient itself around this information.
“Of course, you’re not the only one,” the man went on, leaning against the back of the bench. “We’ve had some promising interest from other quarters. And if one of them starts talking before you do … well, that puts you in a rather awkward position, doesn’t it?”
Jones, for lack of any better ideas, kept his mouth shut.
The stranger shrugged and stood. “Just something to think about,” he said, and strolled away along the Embankment.
Sebastian stayed on Jones, tracking his phone’s GPS as he left Scotland Yard at the end of his shift and made the long drive out to Dagenham. Jones didn’t go to the police station; instead he left his car on a residential street a few minutes away, making his way on foot into a nearby park. Sebastian did the same, keeping his distance as Jones followed a footpath along the edge of a pond until he reached a rubbish-strewn stretch at the water’s edge that must’ve been, at one point, a boat launch.
The surrounding trees provided decent cover, and meeting outdoors reduced the risk that a nearby camera or microphone might be observing. It would’ve been a clever counter-surveillance measure, if Sebastian didn’t still have a live audio feed from Jones’ phone.
Sebastian doubled back a little along the path until he found a decent vantage point. Within a few minutes, Vaughan appeared and joined Jones by the water.
“Well?” Vaughan said irritably. “What’s the big crisis?”
“I was just approached,” Jones replied.
Vaughan’s annoyance immediately sharpened into concern. “Who by?”
“Not sure. But he offered me money to inform on you.”
Sebastian allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. Jay had guessed that Jones, follower that he was, would immediately run to Vaughan—and Vaughan was already on edge.
“How much does he know?” Vaughan asked.
“Hard to say. He at least knows about the money, and your deal with the Venetian. And it sounds like I’m not the only one he’s approached.”
“Shit.”
“The Venetian’s lads—the ones who got nicked. Any of them see you before? Could they identify you?”
Vaughan made an uncertain noise and started to pace along the edge of the water.
Jones watched him for a moment. “What do we do?”
Vaughan rubbed a hand over his mouth. “I need you to move the money. Today.”
“What about you?”
“The M.O. from the salon matched an old file. I’m following that up.” After a moment’s consideration, Vaughan said, “Take the money to Ron’s. He’ll look after it for us.”
Jones gave him a wary nod, and the two parted ways.
Sebastian quickly sidled into the trees as Jones made his way back down the path, then followed him out of the park. Jones got back into his car, and Sebastian tailed him on the bike as he drove to a launderette in Barking.
Jones stepped inside and emerged a few minutes later, a familiar holdall slung over his shoulder.
Ten minutes’ driving brought them to a two-story yellow brick building in Ilford. The flat on the upper floor seemed largely unchanged since the Victorian era, whilst the pub on the ground floor had been built out with several extensions to provide more floor space. There were at least three CCTV cameras mounted about the building.
Jones went inside and, shortly afterward, came back out—without the bag.
Sebastian reached for his phone and dialled Jay’s number.
“Yeah?” came Jay’s voice in his earpiece.
“Jones just moved the money,” Sebastian reported. “And Vaughan was talking about the break-in at the salon—saying it matched some old police files.”
There was a long pause, until Jay said, “Fuck.”
Packing up to go on the run didn’t take long; most of Aaron and Hunter’s clothes were already in gym bags by their beds. The moment Paul’s text came in, they gathered up the few other things they’d need: phone chargers, a few bottles of water, and whatever food would survive without the refrigerator. Mostly crisps.
Downstairs, something heavy slammed into the door.
Aaron hurried into the bathroom and levered the window open, then stepped aside to let Hunter climb out first. There was another slam from downstairs, the door creaking as someone on the other side tried to kick it down. Aaron scrambled through the window after Hunter, hopping down onto the roof of the garage.
Hunter was already waiting at the far edge; together, they dropped into the alley below. Slipping out onto the street, they slowed their pace—trying to look like two regular kids, on their way home.
Too late, Aaron spotted the man doubling back along their street: big and broad, dressed in plain clothes but with a vibe that screamed “copper.” And he spotted them right back.
Hunter bolted, Aaron following close behind as they darted down another side path, behind an apartment building. Heavy footsteps echoed from behind them, getting louder and closer. Hunter had fallen behind; he yelped as a hand grabbed his arm.
The copper twisted Hunter’s wrist into a painful lock, using the other arm to shove at his shoulder, pushing him down toward the ground.
“Let him go!” Aaron shouted; it came out weaker than he’d hoped, high and scared.
There was a blur of motion from the direction of the street, and then another man was there—the one who kept following Moriarty around everywhere. His hand fisted in the back of the copper’s jacket, dragging him off Hunter and shoving him away as he put his own body between the two of them.
The copper’s hand darted to his belt, his baton extending with a rattling clack. Moriarty’s partner was still turned away, shoving Hunter in Aaron’s direction.
“Watch it!” Aaron warned.
The man whirled back to face the copper and twisted away as the baton whipped down at his head, taking the blow on his shoulder instead. He let out a sharp grunt of pain, staggering a little under the impact, but his hand snaked out and closed around his opponent’s wrist, holding the baton at bay as he delivered a return strike to the jaw.
The copper staggered, and Moriarty’s man brought a knee up into his gut, doubling him over. As he wheezed, struggling for breath, the man shoved him face-first into the wall of the building.
Then he turned back to the boys. “Move,” he barked.
Aaron bolted, dragging Hunter with him as they scrambled around the back of the building and out onto a neighbouring street.
Moriarty’s partner followed close behind. “We’re on Eversleigh Road,” he said aloud.
“Yeah, fucking obviously,” Aaron shot back.
The man rolled his eyes and tapped his ear; for the first time, Aaron noticed the earpiece he was wearing.
A car turned the corner ahead of them and sped down the street, braking in front of them. Aaron braced to run again, but the window rolled down and Paul leaned out. “Get in.”
Aaron pushed Hunter ahead of him into the car’s back seat, scrambling in after him, as Moriarty’s partner circled around and dropped into the passenger seat. Paul hit the accelerator, and the car sped away down the street.
Chapter 4 of “The Safecrackers’ Take” will be published on October 9! To get it delivered directly to your inbox, subscribe here:
… And if that’s too long to wait, you can also get the completed story as an ebook.
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