Derek Drayton returned to the MIT office in Police Headquarters with a cheese roll from the canteen.
“He’s here, in his office,” one of the staff said.
Derek nodded and went to his desk, placed the cheese roll in his top drawer and removed two sheets of A4 from his in-tray.
The door was open, but he knocked anyway. “Good morning, Sir, Derek Drayton, Detective Sergeant. You probably don’t remember me.”
Thurstan Baddeley, the new DCI, looked up from the paperwork on his desk and smiled. “Derek. Of course, I remember you. Admiral Street, wasn’t it? Always thought you were a very promising young bobby and I see I wasn’t wrong.” He got up and they shook hands.
“That’s right, Sir, Admiral Street. Happy days,” Derek replied. “Do you prefer we call you Sir or Boss?”
“I prefer Boss, Derek, but when the Chief and his mates are around it’ll need to be Sir,” Thurstan replied. “You know what they’re like.”
“No problem, Boss, I’ve got you lists of everyone on the team. This one’s who we actually have now, and then there’s those who would be here if they weren’t working with the other syndicate on the St Helens serial killings.” He handed his Detective Chief Inspector the two sheets of A4.
5
Thurstan perused them as Derek continued: “I’ve included their nicknames, Boss. You’re going to hear them used around the office and I thought it would save any confusion.”
“Very sensible,” Thurstan murmured, still reading.
“It may help if I point them out to you. The only one not here at the moment is Chalkie White, he’s your DI. He’ll be in at twelve, had some family stuff to sort out.”
He walked across to a large window that looked out onto the main office. Thurstan followed him.
“Right. It’ll be easier if I do it in the same order as on the list, if possible.”
Thurstan handed him the list.
Derek looked at it briefly then pointed to an individual whose sleeves were rolled up exposing two very hairy forearms. “That’s Chewy, short for Chewbacca, like the Wookie in Star Wars. Thin guy over there at the back is the Strolling Bone, but we only call him that when he’s out of earshot. Otherwise, it’s just Bob.
“The one eating the sandwich is Gandalph a.k.a The Wizard. He’s very good at finding evidence and intel the rest of us can’t seem to find, hence the name and the girls in the far office are Lizzie and Spud.
Lizzie’s the black girl and she’s your other DS. She’s also called Lizzie the Bizzie, a nickname she picked up from the ‘bucks’ at Admiral Street.”
Bucks was a local name for people who provided the police with most of their work. They in turn referred to the police as - The Bizzies.
6
“Her real name’s Elizabeth, but she doesn’t like it and Betty’s not a name she responds well to either. We only use them when we want to
‘wind’ her up and then only from a safe distance.”
“The other girl’s DC Murphy I take it?” Thurstan offered.
“That’s right and the guy sat on the desk is Mark Sandon, a.k.a.
Sando, or as we’re currently calling him, Glando the Strolling Erection. Let’s just say he’s very fond of the ladies.”
“I see. Why not have done with it and just call him Shagger?”
ventured Thurstan.
“Already taken by someone on the other team, Boss” Derek replied matter of factly.
“Morning, Sir, and you, Sarge!” chirped a happy-looking chap as he passed by carrying a pile of papers.
“That’s Soapy,” Derek said, then added, “Don’t ask, Boss.”
Thurstan frowned in thought then chuckled. “I suspect I know where you’re going with that one. Are the girls aware?”
“Possibly not, but it’s not something I feel the need to clarify,” he grinned back before pointing once more. “That guy, on the far desk to the right, is Sparky, used to be an electrician. If you ever need something doing, he does a great job at very decent rates. On his left is Polo, after the ‘mint with a hole’. Give it a couple of days and you’ll get that one.” Thurstan nodded.
“Then there’s the group over by the water cooler. Left to right: Fast Eddie, very meticulous but if you’re in a rush give it to someone else.
Fred, the bald guy, weightlifter, looks like the singer from the group Right Said Fred. The chap next to him we just call Arthur.”
7
“It’s his name, Boss,” smiled Derek.
Thurstan raised his eyebrows in a gesture of surrender. “Ah, well, fair enough. How old is he? He looks about seventy-five?”
“I know,” Derek laughed, “but he’s a good ten years younger and an ex-DS, retired now. He’s the Office Manager. If we get a job whilst the other enquiry is still at full speed, I’d suggest we use him as the house-to-house enquiries co-ordinator, running the control, especially if the local uniformed sergeants haven’t done it before. We won’t be able to use Matrix Disruption because they’re tasked to the other enquiry. Anyway, Arthur’s very good and a stickler for detail. Next to him is Taff, Welshman, unpronounceable first name. There’s some dispute as to whether even he’s pronouncing it properly.”
He pointed to the two officers who had just walked out. “The black lad is Devon – as you might have noticed, another weightlifter. He and Fred like to take the same lunch breaks so they can train together. The other guy is Ikky. Iqbal Hameed.” He looked around the main office and then said, “Ahh! And over there – the Indian lad is Sandy which is short for Sandeep. The other one is the newest and youngest on the team, the Foetus.” He didn’t add anything further, preferring to wait for the response.
“Good grief!” Thurstan exclaimed. “How long have we been employing twelve-year-olds?”
Derek laughed again. “I know. No point sending him up to the bar to get a round in if we go for drinks, he keeps getting refused. Well, 8
that’s it, Boss. They’re a good bunch. All very keen, and they know their stuff.”
“Well, thank you for that invaluable information,” Thurstan replied with a smile, then added in a more businesslike tone of voice: “Right, Derek. Can you get the team together, including those that’ve just left the office?”
“Yes, Boss. Not a problem. They’ll only have gone to the canteen for an iced bun or a sandwich. No one’s due out anywhere today.
We’re putting the finishing touches this week to the last job. I’ll ring the canteen.” He looked at his watch. “Shall we say... 15 minutes?”
“Fine,” Thurstan replied as he returned to his desk. He hadn’t needed to ask his DS what his nickname was. Coming from Liverpool, he already knew Derek would be called Degsy.
9
3rd March 2014
Sitting outside Costa’s at the corner of Old Hall Street and Tithebarn chewing the last of his almond slice, Nicks sipped the remains of his caramel Latte and tapped his foot in rhythm to the music in his earphones.
The surveillance team interrupted: “Subject approaching Fazakerley Street. Fifty metres.”
With the strap over his left shoulder, messenger bag on his right hip, he crossed the pavement into Old Hall and walked casually away from the city. Outside the sandwich bar, he took out his spare phone pretending to make a call as he took in the surroundings.
Within seconds, he’d identified his target: White male, 40s, muscular build, shaven head, casual sports jacket, merino jumper, jeans and shades. He named him Sunglasses.
“Subject crossing Old Hall ...entering Fazakerley Street ... now.”
A voice: “Yes, yes.”
It was narrow, one car’s width; a thin footpath on either side. A hundred metres long, it connected Rumford Place to Old Hall carrying one-way traffic towards the latter. Stepping into it, he said quietly:
“Elvis has entered the building,” and activated the CCTV disruption device he carried in his pocket. Sunglasses was ahead of him. Nobody else was in sight. It was all down to him now. The voice: “Yes, yes.”
10
He took out the smartphone, clicked music, playlist, then ‘Fly With Vampires’ play all and put it back in his pocket. Immediately, the opening chords of Puppet Master resounded through his head.
With twenty metres between them, he knew Sunglasses was heading for his car in the little side street at the far end, to his right. He knew exactly how it was parked. He’d seen it earlier. The cul-de-sac had once been bounded on three sides by buildings, but the left and far-end boundaries had long been demolished. The BMW sat about fifty feet from the junction.
Sunglasses was in a happy place. His recent meeting had gone well.
The problem of his ex-mistress would soon be resolved, permanently, leaving him to concentrate fully on his current business interests and plans for early retirement. He looked back and saw only a businessman talking on his phone. That reminded him, he needed to speak to Tommy, his main enforcer and close friend. They needed to sort out that weasel Kehoe before he caused them any further problems. Then he needed to sort out Tommy. He was getting too cocky, assuming too many things. Sunglasses felt uneasy. He felt possible change in the air. He took out his mobile and turned the corner.
Quickening his pace as Sunglasses disappeared, he narrowed the gap between them back to fifteen metres. It gave him accuracy yet distanced him from the result and provided an adequate space between him and the target in which to react. He crossed over to the left-hand pavement opening up his view. Sunglasses was walking towards the 11
driver’s side of the car, keys in his right hand, phone to his left ear.
The vehicle’s indicators flashed.
He registered both the scene and his peripheral vision. No immediate threats; three workmen off to his left across the wasteland and adjoining road, one stood in a hole, the other two standing idly by.
A white van drew up alongside them, obscuring him from view.
Briskly now, he crossed back over the narrow roadway, stuffed the phone into his trouser pocket and took the suppressed Sig 226 from the messenger bag. Taking two paces from the junction into the cul-de-sac, hidden from anyone looking up the alley from Old Hall Street, he brought the weapon up in a weaver stance, paused momentarily, then gently squeezed the trigger.
Tommy wasn’t picking up. Sunglasses placed his hand on the car door handle glancing back along the street at the businessman who was pointing at him. No. He wasn’t pointing. It was the last thought he had. His phone bounced off the cobblestoned roadway and into the gutter.
Walking unhurriedly towards the city centre, the weapon replaced in the messenger bag, left hand to his lapel, he whispered: “Elvis is leaving the building.” He didn’t look back. The white van drove past him, heading in the same direction.
On the opposite pavement, he dropped the messenger bag into a street cleaner’s cart and continued without pause or acknowledgement.
Turning right at the junction, he passed the Pig and Whistle pub and walked calmly into a side street, softly announcing: “Elvis has left the building.”
12
Thirty metres later, he stopped and selected another playlist, nonchalantly checking the street behind him before continuing.
The street cleaner closed the lid to his cart and trundled it off.
Occasionally stopping to brush something up, he reached a quiet side street less than half a mile away. Within 30 seconds, both he and the cart had been loaded into the rear of a white van and driven away.
13
3rd March 2014
Chalkie stood in the doorway to the DCI’s office. “Sorry to interrupt, but the Control Room have just been on. There’s been a shooting in the city, Fazackerley Street. Local CID reckon it’s one for us. Looks like a professional hit. They’re asking us to attend.”
Thurstan glanced up from the paperwork he’d been discussing with DS Lizzie Johnson. “Do we know the victim yet?”
“Not confirmed at present,” Chalkie replied, “but a vehicle at the scene is known to be used by Tony MacMahon, and a credit card on the body is in the name of one of his companies.”
Thurstan looked at his DS. “Okay. Lizzie, we’ll have to finish this another time. Grab some of the chaps and follow us down to the scene.
We’ll take it from there. Oh, and tell Derek where he’s taking me.”
Ten minutes later, Degsy delivered him to the scene. They entered via Rumford Place and were instructed by a Traffic Officer engaged in the road closure to park up and walk to the inner cordon. Uniform had taped off the area. The Sergeant directing wore a high visibility yellow jacket, traditional foot officers’ helmet and carried a signalling stick.
An older officer sporting a thick moustache, he recognized Thurstan as he approached the tape.
“Alright, Sir.” He smiled then nodded at Degsy. “Alright, young Mister Drayton. Nice to see you. Just getting some of the troops out to these buildings to round up any witnesses, get lists of occupants and 14
the like.” Turning to a probationer with a clipboard, he added: “Make sure you get their details on the log, young Bartlett.”
The bobby looked at him quizzically. “But you know them, Sarge.”
“I know I know them, Bartlett,” the Sarge said slowly and deliberately, “but I may be dead tomorrow and then where would we be?” He gave the officer a chastising look.
“DS Nolan’s over by the vehicle, Sir,” the Sergeant said waving his signalling stick in the direction of a black BMW.
Thurstan and Degsy made their way over to a second taped area, the primary crime scene. “Hang on there, Boss!” Sammy Nolan called to them. “I’ll come to you. It’ll save you kitting up.”
The white-suited detective ambled over and they shook hands.
“Long time no see, Boss,” he was grinning broadly. “Good to see you.”
“And you Sammy!” Thurstan placed his left hand over Sammy’s as they gave each other a firm extended handshake. “We really must stop meeting like this.” They both laughed. “This is DS Derek Drayton, I don’t know if you’ve met before.”
“Don’t think we have,” Sammy replied. “I would have remembered someone more handsome than me, I’m sure.” Degsy and Sammy shook hands.
“Right, what have we got?” asked Thurstan, taking in the scene.
The body lay on its back now but he assumed it may have been turned over by either the officers first on the scene or the paramedics as they attempted to save life.
15
“Mark Anthony Stephen MacMahon, forty-eight years old,”
Sammy recited, matter of factly. “Subject to formal identification of course, but the car’s one we know he uses, the bank cards in his wallet belong to companies he owns and, anyway, I recognize him. Last locked him up eighteen months ago when I was still on the Matrix. As you might expect, it didn’t go anywhere. Surprising sudden lack of witnesses,” he added sarcastically.
Thurstan wasn’t surprised. Until now MacMahon had been the city’s undisputed crime lord surviving many attempts to bring him to book, usually through witness intimidation.
Sammy detailed all he knew in respect of the current situation. The first officers on the scene thought they’d felt a pulse. The paramedics had turned him over to work on him but provided ‘confirmation of life extinct’ practically immediately. He had a gunshot wound to the front right side of the head and one of the officers had found an empty shell casing roughly fifteen metres away, near the building line which she’d protected with a small cardboard box pending the arrival of the Crime Scene Investigators. The shell casing looked like a 9mm, the weapon most probably a semi-automatic pistol. As nobody heard a gunshot it was probably silenced, all still to be confirmed by forensics. The CSIs were nearly finished, the Coroner’s Office had been informed, the body would be removed shortly and Sammy was ready for a cup of tea and a sandwich. Then as an afterthought, he told them the three workmen who’d called the job in were giving their details to the Matrix patrol in the big yellow van over by the Apartment Hotel.
16
“Thanks, Sammy, I’ll come back to you in a minute if you’d delay that cup of tea for a bit. I just need to speak to my DS over there.”
Thurstan indicated back towards the first taped barrier where Lizzie Johnson and five other members of the MIT were gathered. He patted Sammy on the shoulder then he and Degsy walked off towards the barrier.
Constable Bartlett looked up from his clipboard and wondered if he was going to be on Youtube. He’d noticed the man on the balcony of the Apartment Hotel earlier on, and now he was back and looked like he was filming the scene on his phone. The Officer stared up at him and then he was gone, back into the room. “Come on young Bartlett,”
his Sergeant chided, “Don’t be daydreaming. You’ve got a job to do.”
Thurstan called the Sergeant over and together they discussed the options with Lizzie and Degsy. The Sergeant provided four Uniforms to team up with four of the DCI’s detectives and Thurstan briefed the officers who then split into teams and began visiting the nearby buildings.
Thurstan looked at the three left. “Taff, you co-ordinate the house-to-house activities such as they are. Derek, you and Lizzie go speak to the Matrix, over there. Find out what their witnesses can tell us and get some statements taken. I’m just going back for a quick word with Sammy Nolan.”
“Got you, Boss,” they replied almost in unison. Thurstan walked back towards the primary scene.
Lizzie and Degsy split up, collected leather document holders from their vehicles and met up at the Matrix van.
17
“Alright, Offs. DS Lizzie Johnson from MIT.”
“Alright Sarge,” replied the officer, shaking her hand, then nodded at Derek. “Degsy.” He gave them a brief account of what the witnesses were saying.
“Me colleagues are takin’ statements. One of ‘em’s in the carrier,”
he said, thumbing behind him to the yellow van with riot grills and the Matrix logo. “An’ the other’s in this place’s reception.” He pointed to the Apartment Hotel. “The other fella’s behind the carrier havin’ a smoke. I’d be takin’ his statement, but we didn’t have enough statement forms. If you can give me some, I’ll go and take it now.”
“Thanks for that,” Lizzie smiled at him. “It’s fine. I like to keep my hand in. I’ll box him off.”
“I thought you lot were all fully employed with the St Helens job,”
Degsy said to the Matrix constable.
“We are, but we were warned for an all-dayer at the Mags. The buck eventually decided to throw his hand in, so we finished early an’
thought… city centre patrol. You know how it is, Degs, thought we might get a late arrest and some overtime.” He smiled broadly.
Degsy smiled back. Lizzie was walking the remaining workman towards her vehicle.
“I’ll have to go and see if my colleague needs anything,” he said apologetically, patting the constable on the upper arm: “Nice to see you, Tommo. Give us a ring and we’ll go for a pint.”
“Yeah, yeah. We must do lunch sometime,” Tommo called back.
18
Later that evening, the staff gathered in the MIT office, sitting around on various desks and chairs, some standing. Thurstan stood before them, recapping the day.
“Right. Well, I think that’s all we can say for now.” The DCI looked around the room. “Where’s Lizzie?”
“Here, Boss.” She held her arm up.
“Ah! Sorry, Lizzie, I didn’t see you come back in. Any news on Tommy Cole?”
Tommy Cole was MacMahon’s second in command, now Liverpool’s new crime lord, although they all doubted it would go undisputed. He’d handed himself into his nearest police station having heard about MacMahon’s demise on the local news. Not wanting to be caught unawares, he’d arranged for some housekeeping. With the help of his solicitor, he employed a strategy designed to delay the inevitable search of his home and any other properties he owned. He knew if they’d arrested him at home they had the power to search without the nuisance of obtaining a written authorisation or relevant warrant.
“Degsy’s gone down there with Devon and is still in interview at present, Boss. Cole turned up with his brief and as far as I’m aware, he’s not been arrested, yet.”
“Thank you, Liz. Right! If no one’s got anything else, those of you with completed H to H enquiry forms see Arthur and get them sorted and anyone with a statement that hasn’t been handed to DI White yet, please do so now. Otherwise, you’re in your own time.” As they started to disperse, he raised his voice above the hubbub. “And make sure you’re fully aware of your new shifts.”
19
“Phone call for you, Boss.” one of the team called out. “It’s the Press Office.”
The conversation was short. Despite his protestations, they told him the Chief Constable had instructed it required a DCI. Thurstan put the phone down and looked at the officer. “Have to do a Press interview tomorrow.” The detective noticed the long face. Taking a tube of mints from his pocket, he said: “Polo, Boss?”
20
March 2009
The Crows Nest was known for its fine selection of real ales and socially varied clientele. Nicks started to drink there after his wife died; ovarian cancer. She was 47.
Despite their brave fight, one morning 14 months after he’d retired and 13 months after they’d learnt the awful truth, Mary passed away.
He’d been awake next to her; all that night she lay in a morphine sleep, her breathing heavy and laboured, clinging to life until she felt it safe to leave him.
He’d called the District Nurse who injected her with something to clear her lungs then they turned her on her side and he’d continued his vigil. Eventually, exhausted and unaware, he’d fallen asleep.
At 5.45 am he awoke suddenly in fright. She was breathing normally and was peaceful. He saw a hint of a smile on her face. He’d tried to stay awake but drifted off again. He woke at 6.30. She’d left him, softly like the song.
It was what she wanted. She knew he’d have begged her to stay: one more day, one more hour. Her heart would have broken.
During the day, he’d pretend she was at work and would be home as usual but, as 5 pm approached, the fantasy would crumble. For that reason every day at 4.30 pm he could be found at the Crows Nest. And thus they found him.
It was a chilly dark evening and Nicks sat at a heavy wooden slatted table in the car park. He was alone and that’s how he preferred 21
it. People would come out for a smoke, remark how cold it was and stand chatting to each other. When finished, they’d disappear rapidly back into the warm interior of the snug, lounge or public bar according to their social loyalties. Others would come out alone and there’d be an exchange of small talk before they too fled to warmer climes. Nicks did his best to be pleasant.
With his fourth pint of the night, he sat down on the bench seat, took a mouthful of ale and lit a cigarette when the man approached him. He was wearing black trousers, shiny shoes and an expensive long black overcoat. Around his neck, he wore a patterned scarf which Nicks thought was probably expensive too. His hair was thinning but brushed forward in an effort to disguise the fact. His broad and conspicuous nose sat above thin lips which, when he spoke or smiled, displayed teeth with a hint of prominence. It wasn’t an unpleasant face but could never be described as handsome. Nicks decided he was most probably a solicitor and pondered whether or not the man recognized him from his days of evidence giving in the courts. He was, he concluded, definitely looking for him, or he was the world’s loneliest man.
“Do you mind if I sit here?” he said placing his pint on the table and sitting down, not waiting for a reply. “It’s very chilly, isn’t it?”
“Not if you’re wearing the right clothes.” Nicks was dressed in combat trousers, layers topped with a hoodie and a windproof softshell jacket.
“Yes, quite,” the man nodded in agreement. “I should really have brought a hat.”
22
He’d a refined voice with the plummy overtones of English public school education. Nicks promoted him to a Barrister.
“It’s Nicks, isn’t it.” It was more statement than question.
He was wary. “Sorry, do I know you?”
“No, Nicks, you don’t, but I know you or should I say I know of you.”
The man ignored the fact he’d received neither confirmation nor denial. He didn’t need it. He sipped his beer. Nicks was intrigued but before he could say anything the man continued in measured tones:
“I’ve been receiving very good reports about you for a long, long time now Nicks and I’m here to offer you employment. But,” he held up his left hand, two fingers extended as if giving a blessing, “before you say anything I must tell you it’s a very challenging, exciting opportunity requiring the ability to work as a team whilst using one’s initiative in situations that could be, shall we say, quite fluid. It needs loyalty, courage, determination and a belief in justice and what’s right.
Things I believe you possess in abundance. If you accept, you’ll be working in this country and perhaps occasionally on the continent.”
It was almost as if he’d lifted it directly from a standard job description the police were fond of using. The man sipped his beer again.
Nicks quietly said: “But I’m not looking for a job.”
“No, I know you’re not,” the man replied matter of factly before adding: “And may I just say I’m very sorry about Mary, we all are, but we’re looking for you, Nicks. Or should I say we’re looking for who you were before you decided to try and drink yourself to death.” He 23
paused momentarily. “It takes a lot longer than you’d think,” he said as if, for a split second, he was somewhere else. “You know she wouldn’t approve of what you’re doing, don’t you?”
Nicks stared at his pint then took a mouthful, swallowed slowly and thoughtfully and said: “I know.”
“I don’t want an answer now but if you’re interested just phone this.” He proffered a plain business card divulging only a telephone number. “Just leave your name and mobile details and we’ll text you with information in respect of where you and I can meet again to discuss this further.” He took a sip of his drink and declared:
“Excellent beer.”
Nicks took the card: “Is this a Government job?”
“Hmmm. The best I can tell you now, Nicks, is that it’s not officially a Government job. I’ll explain should you wish to meet again.” Another sip then he rose from the table. “It would be nice if you didn’t mention this to anyone.”
“No problem,” Nicks replied with a shrug.
“By the way, my name is Don.”
Leaving his beer on the table, he turned and walked away. Nicks looked at the business card and emptied his glass. When he looked up, Don had already disappeared. He stared at the unfinished beer on the table. Picking it up, he drank it in several gulps then went inside for yet another.
Four days later, he phoned the number on the card.
24
November 2009
He’d taken the 3.30 pm from Liverpool Lime Street arriving in Inverness shortly past 11 pm. Outside the station, he saw the two men standing next to a dark grey Range Rover. One about 5 foot 7, the other slightly taller. They looked like seasoned professionals. Nicks guessed around sixty to sixty-five years old. Something about them made him think they were probably ex-SAS. He wasn’t going to ask.
The taller of the two made the introductions. “Hi, Nicks. I’m Mick and this is Lofty. Give me your watch and any phones you’ve got.”
He’d a south-eastern accent Nicks automatically associated with London. There were no handshakes. Nicks complied. “Right, stow your stuff in the boot and get in.” He held the rear passenger door open as Lofty went to the back and opened the boot.
“How did you know who to look for?” Nicks asked Lofty, a Scot, as he threw his rucksack into the back.
“You don’t have to be a fuckin’ rocket scientist, son. Besides, we knew what you were wearing.” This was the first hint Nicks had that he’d been watched during his journey. The accent was so thick Nicks assumed he was from Glasgow. He was amused he’d been called son.
Sitting on the rear seat, he saw the windows were blacked out.
Between him and them, a similarly glassed partition through which he could only just make out the back of the headrests in the front.
A tinny voice spoke. It was Mick, the Londoner. “You okay, in there? You’ll find a couple of cans of fruit drink in the centre console.
25
Don’t drink too much because it’s a bit of a drive and we won’t be making any piss stops.”
The intercom went off. He wasn’t interested in replies. Some two hours later, in the middle of nowhere, they arrived at a small hunting lodge.
Nicks collected his gear and followed Lofty into the building where he was shown his accommodation. A small room with a wire-sprung bed, plastic-covered mattress, bedside cabinet, small table lamp, wardrobe and sink with a mirror over it. It was unmistakably Government surplus. On the bed, an old army sleeping bag had been unfurled.
“Have you eaten?” Lofty asked brusquely.
“I had something earlier, on the train,” Nicks replied, although he was feeling quite peckish.
“Good. You’re not gettin’ fuckin’ fed ‘til the morning anyway.
Right! Leave your kit here, I’ll show you the canteen.”
Lofty turned and left the room. Nicks threw his rucksack on the bed and followed him.
In the canteen, they told him to strip naked and searched through his clothing. When they’d finished, Lofty told him to bend over and spread his buttocks. That done, he was told to get dressed.
Mick grinned. “Right, go and get your head down and we’ll see you in the morning.” They hadn’t told him what they were looking for but Nicks knew they were looking for a phone. Returning to his room, he found someone had emptied his rucksack onto the floor and been through every item.
26
The next morning, as the light began to creep over the hills, his door was flung open and he woke to a loud: “Okay, son, time to get up. Get a fuckin’ move on! Come on!”
He rubbed his eyes in the harsh light from the unshaded bulb in the centre of the ceiling.
Lofty threw some clothing and a used pair of training shoes onto the floor.
“You’ll need all of that. It’s a wee bit chilly out there. If the trainers don’t fit, tough shit! Come on! Move yourself! Outside in five!” He was gone.
Nicks extracted himself from the sleeping bag and got dressed: two pairs of tracksuit bottoms, two tops, one pair of socks and a beanie hat.
The trainers, luckily, weren’t a bad fit at all.
An hour later, Mick and Lofty returned a mud-spattered, soaking-wet Nicks to the front of the Lodge, leaving him with the instruction to shower and be in the canteen in fifteen. A rushed fourteen and a half minutes later he sat down, watching Lofty and Mick, clean and refreshed in their DPM combats and green sweatshirts, serve the breakfast they’d just cooked; full English and a steaming mug of hot sweet tea.
Once done, Lofty declared: “Right son. Arse into gear. Time to get a fuckin’ move on.”
It was the same every day – run, breakfast, weapons training, specialist skills, evening meal at what Nicks thought might be 8 pm, followed by testing on what he’d learnt. He’d no firm idea of the time.
27
There were no clocks. He got up in the dark and went to bed in the dark. That’s all he really knew.
Late afternoon on the fifth day, as the light began to fade, he was taken to a small windowless room containing two chairs facing each other across a table. A single light bulb with a metal shade hung from the ceiling. They told him to take a seat and wait. He allowed the silence to envelop him.
The door opened. It was Don.
This time the pleasant manner was absent, his thin smiles at times both condescending and minacious. Nicks would be a Leveller. An executioner. His call sign, made up from the first letter of his title and three letters from the word ‘eviscerate’, was ‘Elvis’. Nicks smiled inwardly.
Next came Alex: a bespectacled young man in his 30s whose physique gave away his liking for pies and cakes.
He spoke quickly and efficiently. Nicks’ pay would be placed in a safety deposit box relevant to the centre of operations. His box number would always be S-179. Details of the appropriate bank would be sent to him by encrypted text.
A smile, then Alex delved into a large buff envelope and placed two swipe cards and a secure key on the table. “In the meantime, you’ll need these for access. Most bank secure keys work on a six-figure random number, this generates eight. Initial set up? Press the green button and key in your chosen PIN, four to eight numbers. To confirm enter the PIN again and press the yellow button and it’s done.” He looked at Nicks for a sign of comprehension.
28
Satisfied, he resumed his instructions, “To get through the outer door of each location you swipe with the white card then key in the random number from the secure key. You’ll then be in an airlock. The next door will not open until the first door has closed securely. When it has, the device on the next door will show a green light. Now it’s thumbprint recognition time. That’s why you’ll need this.” He produced something resembling a very small condom from the envelope. “Despite what it looks like it is very robust,” he said, noticing the look on Nicks’ face. “Slip it over your thumb making sure this bit is at the front and press it against the pad. When the door opens, another airlock, same again. Green light, swipe the black card and key in another random number and hey presto! You’re in. There’s no point me telling you anymore because the staff will talk you through the internal procedures.” He sat back with a smug look on his face. “Any questions?”
“Yes,” said Nicks. “CCTV?”
“There isn’t any,” Alex replied.
“There’s no CCTV?” Nicks squinted back at him.
“Absolutely correct.” He looked even smugger now. “There’s no need. If you knew the levels of security in these places you’d understand. Besides, it’s one of the selling points for the customers.”
He caught Nicks’ frown. “It’s attractive to people with dodgy things to hide. They feel safe with our banking practice and entrust all sorts of interesting things to our care which we feel, on occasions, need to be shared with the right people, anonymously of course.” He flashed a broad smile. “Anything else?”
29
Nicks thought for a moment, “Just out of interest really, what stops someone digging their way in or trashing the entrance doors?”
Alex looked at him questioningly. Nicks didn’t need to know this but on the balance of things, he saw no reason not to tell him.
“If you can dig your way through twenty feet of steel-reinforced high-quality concrete littered with tremor monitors or get through three doors of ballistic glass and steel reinforcement then you deserve at least a cup of tea in reception.” There was that smile again. “Right, now for the comms gear.”
Alex opened the briefcase on the table and produced two devices and a set of in-ear headphones.
“Look just like Smartphones. This,” he waved the black one, “is a phone and radio combined. Similar to the system the police use, but better. Encrypted phone calls, texts and radio transmissions.”
“Will it play music?” Nicks interrupted, smiling condescendingly.
“Yes, it will but we don’t provide it. Load your own just as you would a normal smartphone. Music has the lowest priority so everything else will interrupt it.” Alex, seemingly unfazed by both the question and the smile, continued without pause. “This one,” he held up the blue phone, “is actually a tracking device ….” and so passed the next hour as he took Nicks through a practical on the use and capabilities of the equipment, including battery life and care, after which came the inevitable. “Are there any more questions?”
Nicks shook his head. Alex looked relieved.
“Finally, when we need to speak to you you’ll receive a text saying:
‘Aunty Dot misses you’. If you receive a text saying: ‘Aunty Dot 30
needs a visit’ make immediate contact and get your arse on the next available flight.” He handed Nicks the black smartphone.
“What about the tracker?” Nicks said placing the phone on the table with his other stuff.
Alex shook his head, “Your handler will give you that each time you do a relevant job. This one’s an old version, the battery life isn’t as good but the controls are the same.”
They sat and looked at each other. Alex rose from the table and said, matter of factly: “Well then, I’ve got other things to do, so if there is anything else you want to know you’ll have to ask one of the others.” He smiled, picked up his things, they shook hands and he left the room.
Nicks sat there for five minutes examining the items he’d been given. He’d been told someone would come for him when they were ready. Suddenly, the door opened and Lofty popped his head in.
“Right, stash that lot in your room and I’ll see you in the canteen in ten.”
At 8.30 that evening they dumped him at Inverness with a “Good luck, Nicks” and a “Take care, son” and drove off without waving.
‘ It’s always sad when the Circus leaves town,’ Nicks thought as he trudged into the station.
31
Born and raised on the Wirral Peninsular Thurstan Braxton Baddeley had a happy if unremarkable middle-class childhood in the affluent village of Caldy.
At 19 years of age, fuelled by his enjoyment of the Army Cadets, he’d walked through the gates of the Army Selection Centre in Sutton Coldfield, fresh-faced and eager.
Three days later, sporting confirmation Army barbers knew nothing of the real world, he walked back out carrying a bag of damp sandwiches, packet of stale crisps and a travel warrant for the Royal Military Police Training Centre in Chichester. The year was 1986.
On completion of his training, armed with one stripe, he was posted to West Germany where almost immediately he came into contact with members of the SIB; army detectives, civilian clothes, collar-length hair, long sideburns and, more often than not, a moustache. As soon as he saw them he knew he had to join the Branch.
After two years hard work, Corporal Baddeley and his new moustache were selected for the prized 6 months attachment with an active SIB Section.
He’d shone and promotion to Sergeant soon followed. The work was interesting and varied: thefts, burglaries, serious assaults, robberies, rapes and murders. He’d found a home.
When his father died of a heart attack at the age of sixty-eight, his mother was left rattling around the large five-bedroomed house with 32
its views over the Dee estuary lost in her grief, something which pained him deeply to see. His new posting to Catterick didn’t suit him, it was too sedate and, feeling he should be there for her, he reluctantly left the Army and returned home. Despite everything he tried to do for her, without the only man she’d ever loved, the man she’d adored, his mother struggled with daily life. During the course of a year, she slowly deteriorated until one night she slipped quietly away in her sleep.
Accepted by the local police force, he’d explained his circumstances and they’d been very understanding but were now pressing him for a date he would turn up for training. There was no cause for him to delay any longer, she was gone, and he missed her and his father immensely, but it was time to re-enter the world. Selling the old home, he bought a smaller new build for cash, banked what remained and reported for duty.
During his first two years, he managed not only to distinguish himself amongst his peers but also attract the professional admiration of the local Detective Inspector who recommended him for the Trainee Investigators Programme.
He was a natural and, confirmed as a member of the CID, was back in the land he loved.
There were, however, two major differences between his former job and his current one. Firstly, he no longer had a captive audience. In the Military, apart from the occasional dawn swoop, all he had to do in places like Germany and Cyprus, once he’d identified his prey, was to contact their Unit and request the suspect’s attendance at the SIB
33
offices. Sometimes his suspect would have gone AWOL, in which case he’d wait until the uniformed Military Police personnel picked them up in a routine sweep of known haunts and visits to the homes of the bar girls to whom they seemed drawn like moths to a flame. The more serious offenders who were devious enough to have left town were circulated to the relevant police authorities. In civilian life, he didn’t have that hold over them and was often surprised any of them turned up at all. Mostly they didn’t, so with a colleague or two he would go out and fetch them in; if they hadn’t already been arrested by a uniform for some other offence.
The second difference was the volume of work. It was a lot higher and seemingly ceaseless. It was his version of cocaine and he thought he’d never tire.
34
4th March 2014
Officially designated the A57, the only remarkable thing about Dale Street, besides its history, was the Magistrates Courts. In an earlier life, Nicks had spent many hours giving evidence there against some of Liverpool’s finest toe rags.
That the Magistrates Courts were where the tourist trail ended was a fair comment. Unless you lived in Liverpool you were unlikely to venture beyond the two unprepossessing pubs that lay at its north-eastern end, the second of which, the Ship & Mitre, renowned for its fine selection of British real ales and beers from around the world, had the ambience of a good old-fashioned British pub in the front part, whilst the rear had a slightly more continental feel. In either part, it was beer heaven for the devoted.
Crossing the junction with Hatton Garden and walking past The Excelsior, the more attractive of the two establishments, he entered the drab-looking Ship & Mitre by the door on North Street. Taking the few steps down to the short corridor connecting both bars, he turned left and entered the dimly lit rear lounge, spotting his handler at the far end of the bar.
Simon was in his early forties with a rounded face, glasses and a mop of fair hair. Carrying slightly more weight than he felt comfortable with, he knew what he should do about it, but at the moment, the beer was winning. Nicks liked Simon.
“Been here long?” he enquired.
35
“Nope,” Simon replied. “I’ll get these in. What you having?”
“Cheers. I’ll have a draught Fruli.”
“Pint or half?” Simon enquired.
“Pint, of course. Silly not to really,” Nicks replied casually.
“Yeah, SNTR,” Simon smiled.
They stood in silence as the barman poured their drinks. Nicks surveyed the room. Two stood at the bar and two tables occupied on the raised seating area; a young couple in the corner and three young males who looked like students.
The barman presented Nicks with his pint. Whilst Simon waited, Nicks sipped his strawberry-flavoured Fruli and wondered if it would count towards his five a day.
Simon received his Kriek, gave the barman 30p from his change, turned and lifted his pint. “All hail to the ale,” he grinned.
“We sitting over there?” Nicks pointed to a circular table for two furthest away from the other occupants of the seating area. Walking up the steps, he sat down with his back towards the wall so he could see the rest of the room. It was a habit he’d had for a very long time.
They took satisfying gulps of beer and had a brief discussion about the current Premiership situation. It was brief because Nicks would never win a prize as a conversationalist, and in any event, he’d virtually lost interest in football since pay and performance had seemingly stopped being connected. As they talked, he meticulously straightened the spare beer mats on the table. Satisfied, he took another mouthful of beer and wiped his lips. “So what have you got for me?”
36
Simon leant forward. “Abdul Azeez El-Hashem.” He took out the removable hard drive from the pocket of his jacket draped over the back of his chair, sliding it across the table to Nicks. “It’s all on there.
You could say he’s a very naughty boy. Not a nice man at all.”
“How good’s the Intel?” Nicks asked, picking it up and placing it inside his jacket lying on the seat next to him.
“Excellent.” Simon smiled. “It’s first-hand humint.”
Nicks sipped his beer. “So, go on, what does Hugh Mint tell us?”
“It tells us that Abdul Azeez El-Hashem was a frequent enthusiastic visitor to training camps and facilities in Afghanistan, Iraq and lately Syria. He’s given shit loads of, shall we say, inspirational talks on why infidels and those supporting them should be killed wherever they may be and how to go about it. It’s first-hand stuff.”
Nicks frowned. “So how come this El-Hashem got back into the country?”
Simon looked apologetic. “Look, it’s taken ages to gather this stuff.
It’s not easy to get information out from these areas, you know. Some of it’s from very well-placed resources and some from captive sources.
Suffice it to say, he wasn’t originally seen as a huge danger. However, the Security Service has an extremely reliable source providing, at great risk, up-to-the-minute intel showing beyond doubt El-Hashem is the power behind several cells currently tasked with planning and carrying out attacks within the UK.”
“Why don’t they arrest him?” Nicks interjected.
Simon frowned this time. “Come on, Nicks, you know the justice system here. Don’t get me wrong, mate, I’m glad we have it, but it’s 37
going to be very difficult to make this stick; it’s all intel and this source is just too valuable to risk. How long did it take our local finest to put away some of the biggest villains in Merseyside? 20 years or so, if not more, and then they couldn’t do it without a ton of co-operation with Customs and Excise and an outside Force or two.”
“Okay, I get your point,” Nicks acquiesced, adding: “So what about the cells?”
“Not our problem,” Simon replied. “Our concern is solely El-Hashem. They’ve decided we’re going to take him out. The only issue here is the Security Service has him under surveillance but ....” He paused and looked around before continuing. “Having surveilled the surveillers, we’ve noticed there may be one or two opportunities for a benign intervention. Once the official surveillance has been lost, we’re looking for a window of opportunity.”
Nicks looked kindly at Simon. “So in other words, plan A is a wing and a prayer?”
Simon grimaced. “Sort of.” He took another mouthful of beer.
Nicks sipped his Fruli thoughtfully, “Is there a plan B at all?”
Simon drained his glass slowly and stood up. “Nope. Fancy another? Same again?”
Nicks laughed.
“Yep? Go on! SNTR!” Simon replied with a grin, adding as he walked away: “Don’t worry, I’ll be with you all the way on this one.”
Nicks smiled back at him sarcastically. “Oh, that makes it so much better.”
38
They stayed another half-hour discussing the music scene and forthcoming festivals. As usual, Nicks bemoaned the demise of bands his patronage, for what it was, had apparently doomed. Although he and Simon had a mutual interest, their tastes differed. Nicks preferred something melodic and lyrically interesting. Simon, it seemed, had no such qualms.
Finishing their drinks, they put their jackets on. Nicks checked his to make sure he still had the hard drive. “Oh, and I’m going to need more. The names are inside,” he said, handing Simon an envelope.
Simon folded it casually into his coat pocket. Walking away he called back. “I’ll text you soon, okay?”
Nicks left the way he’d entered, stopping at the gents' toilets. Age was catching up with him.
Walking back along Dale Street, now busy with office workers making their way home or to the nearest bar, he saw a couple of bucks loafing outside a pub. They seemed happy, drinking their pints and smoking a fragrant form of cigarette.
He stopped, checked his watch and feigned looking for someone so he could briefly listen to their conversation. They bore all the hallmarks of a couple of pumpkin-positives, the sort whose brains were so small that if you shone a penlight into their mouths their heads would light up.
“Got off with it mate,” said the ugliest one, in his nasal accent, to his only slightly more handsome colleague. “Sixty quid dey dun me fuh.”
“Sixty, yer divvy!” exclaimed Handsome.
39
“Fuck off,” said Ugly, “I tort dey wuz gonna bang me fuh two undrud buh me woolyback breef torked ‘em aht uv it.”
“Go ‘edd, nice one, mate,” replied Handsome.
“Ting wuz,” continued Ugly, “I ‘ad tuh ang around all th’savvy
‘cos it wuz chocka. Did me fuckin’ ‘edd in.”
Nicks moved off, smiling to himself. The scouse buck's ability to imply victory from a defeat and then somehow spoil it all always amused him.
40
The removable hard drive taken from his inside pocket and placed on the pillow, he folded his jacket over the chair by the dresser.
Opening the wardrobe, he punched in the safe’s 4-digit code then removed the tablet and cable, checking the other contents were as he’d left them. Swapping the hard drives, he connected the tablet to a power source and turned it on. The password field finally appeared: two chances to get it right before the drive wiped itself clean. After a moment’s thought, he punched in 14 alpha-numerical digits.
For Nicks it was simple. There were only two types of human beings – nice people and arseholes. Race, nationality, religion, sex, sexual orientation or position in society didn’t matter to him. If you were an arsehole and on his to-do list he’d kill you without remorse and Abdul Azeez El-Hashem was an arsehole; a racist and religious intolerant, a purveyor of hate.
He erased the hard drive using the inclusive data destruction software and replaced it with his own. Placing everything back in the safe, he locked up and put his jacket on. He’d Skype Anca later. Right now, he needed something to eat.
41
Lying on the bed watching the news, something caught his attention. A DCI with an unusual name was interviewed about the previous day’s shooting of a euphemistically termed local businessman. Nicks thought he came across well and knew he was looking at a decent, dedicated but very determined man. He noted the detective was wearing an SIB tie.
As an ex-military policeman himself, he knew the investigators of the Army’s Special Investigation Branch rarely gave up easily.
The problem for the Army was that when the SIB entered an establishment to investigate some offence or allegation, there was no telling where it all would end. As enquiries unfolded, they would follow whatever they found, wherever it went. It was not unusual for them to enter a unit to investigate an assault and come out having uncovered significant fraud, organised thefts of equipment and clothing, minor fuel scams and potentially serious breaches of security. Many considered them an immense nuisance.
Yep, the fact the DCI was a former member of the Branch was disconcerting.
42
5th March 2014
His mother answered the door. “Frank, get the shotgun there’s a strange man on the step.” She took his carrier bag and pinched his cheek.
“I’ll make you a nice cup of tea, eh? Go and see your dad, he’s upstairs, on the computer. I’ll stick these on a quick wash.”
Nicks went upstairs and popped his head around the door.
Frank looked up from the computer with a big smile.
“Hi, son. I’ve just got to finish off the seating plan for the Lodge’s Ladies Night and I’ll be with you soon. Go and get your mum to show you what we’ve done in the front room.”
Nicks went back downstairs and drank his tea. Mum showed him the bookcases the “wonderful man I married” had made. He had to admit Mr Wonderful had done a very good job.
Sat in the living room, Nicks knew what was coming next. There was no stopping her. Family news. He found these sessions tedious but knew he had to do it. He never remembered who was who. Apart from funerals, he didn’t see them often so he frequently confused names and faces. Both his parents came from large families and were very family orientated. Nicks wasn’t. He was an only child. As a general rule, he preferred his own company.
“Oooh!” said Mum, “I didn’t mention, did I? Cousin Justin?”
“Who’s cousin Justin?” Nicks replied.
“You know him!” Mum insisted.
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“No, I don’t know him, Mum. If I knew him, I wouldn’t have said
‘Who’s cousin Justin?’ would I?” He smiled.
“Yes, you do!” she countered. “You met him at Dora’s birthday party.”
“Who’s Dora?”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake! She’s your cousin Melissa’s mother-in-law.”
“Cousin Melissa? I’ve never heard of her.”
“Yes, you have! You met her at the reunion.”
“I never went to a reunion. I swear to God you make this stuff up, Mum!”
“Don’t be so obtuse,” she scolded. “You were there, so don’t argue!”
“Well, I still don’t know who this Justin is,” he said quietly, trying to bring her back on track.
“Justin?” she said quizzically. “Oh! Yes, cousin Justin. What was I going to tell you about him? Never mind, it’ll come back. Now, your cousin Melissa….”
And so it went. He knew once she’d imparted all the news, the family genealogy would be next. She’d taken up that particular interest several years before, but somehow, it had mutated beyond immediate family into researching people only remotely related. This did nothing to prevent her from holding lengthy phone conversations with their New Zealand descendants while Frank, knowing he was wasting his time but feeling he had to try. grimaced and tapped his watch, rubbing his thumb and fingers together to signify the cost. That was the thing 44
about her. She could make connections with anyone. She’d once had a conversation with a woman on a pedestrian crossing. Ten years later, they were still exchanging Christmas cards. Nicks couldn’t do it.
After the news and genealogy, she rose from the sofa and began the ritual of forcing him to eat something. He offered token resistance, then succumbed to a roast chicken dinner which, by sheer coincidence,
just happened to be already prepared. Afterwards, they played the game “What do you want for dessert?” The rules were simple; he’d tell her he was full and she’d ignore him. Today, she’d decided he was having cake. How could he resist? He couldn’t. Life wasn’t long enough.
The tour of the garden followed and Nicks admired their gardening skills whilst they discussed their new neighbours, a welcome change from the previous occupant; a fan of loud music, drugs and verbal abuse.
Finally, despite attempts to delay him, dry clothes in a carrier bag, he left having decided to drink at the Lady of Mann, on Dale Street, in the city. He could sit out in the courtyard. He didn’t like crowded places preferring somewhere he could distance himself from others and, of course, have a smoke.
It was early evening but surprisingly the courtyard was quite full and it was only as he walked up the entrance steps to the bar to be greeted with “Nicks! Glad you could make it!” from a man ladened with pints, whom he vaguely recognized, that he realized he’d walked into a police function of some sort.
45
9th March 2014
Up at 6 o’clock, he watched the early morning news and had a light breakfast of poached egg on toast topped with mushrooms. Outside, he had a smoke and checked the weather situation while he drank his tea.
It was a crisp, bright March day. The sky was clear with no rain forecast. Nicks decided it was a nice day for it, whatever ‘it’ was. He took his time.
Back in the room, he showered and put on a pair of grey cargo pants, walking boots, T-shirt, microfleece and a dark grey waterproof walking jacket. He shoved his black neck gaiter and beanie hat into his trouser side pockets and put the spray plaster and latex gloves into the front compartment of his National Trust day sack, adding one thin single-use plastic carrier bag and one thicker one, both folded four inches square. He took a clean handkerchief and an unopened packet of chewing gum from his bedside cabinet, threaded the lead to the headphones into his left breast pocket and plugged them in the ‘job’s’
smartphone, attaching the pressel switch and microphone assembly inside, close to the jacket collar. Opening the room safe he took out some money, stuffing it in the concealed pocket of his cargo pants, relocked the safe and put on the £8 Limit watch Mary had bought him in the north Welsh town of Llandudno. It still kept perfect time.
He picked up his sunglasses and rucksack then left the room.
Seconds later he re-entered, touching all the drawers in the bedside cabinets and the dresser, making sure they were closed. Leaving the 46
hotel, he put on his shades, inserted the headphones in his ears and selected a playlist.
The text had simply said: “Albert Dock. Welcome Centre. 0830.
Tomoz.” He looked at his watch. Plenty of time. He’d have his coffee there.
Simon found Nicks sitting on a bench at the northern entrance to the Dock, one of Liverpool’s main tourist attractions. He pulled into the empty taxi rank then reversed back until he was opposite, leaned across the passenger seat and waved. It wasn’t needed, Nicks was already up and walking towards him.
“Morning, and how are you today?” Nicks enquired, as he installed himself in the front passenger seat and closed the door.
“Not bad,” Simon replied. “The El-Hashem job’s on. When I say
‘on’, I mean they’re going to try the ‘benign’ intervention so we’ve time to get sorted. All the stuff’s in the back.”
“Where’re we off to now?” Nicks inquired. “I need to check the weapon.”
Simon smiled. “No probs, got it sorted. Lifeboat Road, in Formby.
There’s a spot where we can stop and quickly disappear into the woods for the test shoot. We can go through any other stuff in the car when we’re there.”
“Ok,” Nicks replied, then looked at the music CD sticking out of the player on the dashboard. “Anything decent on it?”
Simon laughed. “You can try it.”
47
Nicks pushed the CD into the player. After two songs he ejected it and stared at Simon intensely. “Si, how on earth do you listen to this shit?”
“It’s good,” Simon replied defensively. “It’s different. You need to broaden your horizons, Nicks.”
“Yeah, I’m sure I do, but not today, thanks.” He bent down to pick up a litre bottle of mineral water that was three-quarters full and annoying him as it rolled about his feet. “How old is this?”
“Fresh this morning,” Simon threw him a glance. “Help yourself.”
Nicks did, then chose another playlist from his smartphone, settled back listening to real music and watched some familiar sights go by.
Simon pulled over onto a section of hard-standing on the left-hand side of Lifeboat Road. A small opening in the fence separated them from deciduous woods; on the opposite side was a mass of pines with an open aspect. The road was narrow and named because it once led to the long-gone Formby Lifeboat boathouse, established as Britain’s first between 1771 and 1776.
It wasn’t a perfect position, but at this time of the day the road was quiet and they were beyond the last of the houses. It was enough.
Nicks applied the ‘spray-on plaster’ to the ends of his fingers and thumbs then, when dry, he pulled on a pair of latex gloves as Simon
‘popped’ the boot from inside. He moved the ‘junk’ Simon had stored there and found the metal mechanic’s case containing the weapon. It was pale grey and looked just like a large socket set. Inside under the soft cloth, a SIG-Sauer P226 DAK with raised sights threaded for a suppressor, the suppressor itself, a loaded magazine and a box of spare 48
124 grain 9mm JSP ammunition. Simon joined him acting as both lookout and cover for his actions. Nicks quickly checked the weapon was safe by pulling back the slide, locking it in place with the locking lever and checking visually that the chamber was clear of ammunition.
Simon handed him the National Trust bag, already opened. With his left hand, Nicks removed the thicker of the two carrier bags, shook it out and placed the weapon in it. Then he stuffed it in the day sack along with the magazine and suppressor. He took the soft cloth from the ‘gun case’ and wrapped it around one round from the spares box then stuffed it in his pocket. As he did so, Simon took a glance around and said, “Yep, it’s OK.”
“Right. Bring the water,” Nicks replied.
He walked through the gap in the fence and into the wood. After 30
metres he stopped, placed the bag on the ground, opened it and removed the weapon. Attaching the suppressor, he inserted the magazine and released the locking lever so the slide moved forward under the pressure of the spring, picking up a round from the magazine and loading it into the chamber. Unwrapping the spare round, he ejected the magazine and fed the round into it before sliding the mag back on the weapon.
He chose a spot roughly 20 metres away, behind which a fold in the ground rose gently several feet, and pointed. Simon, carrying the four-litre bottle of water he’d taken from the boot, placed it down and returned to the car. Seeing him exit, Nicks raised the Sig, pausing momentarily as he breathed in, then gently squeezed the trigger.
‘Klak’. The bottle reacted to the obvious hit. He recovered the ejected 49
shell casing and walked over to check the result. He’d aimed at the centre of the white oval on the label. Satisfied, he wrapped the weapon in the soft cloth, put it back in the carrier bag and zipped up the daysack. Picking the bottle up by its carrying handle he threw it into the bushes.
Returning to Simon, he enquired, “Well?”
“Sounded like a twig snapping,” Simon replied. He looked at Nicks. “You happy?”
“Very,” Nicks grinned.
They got back in the car and Nicks placed the daysack carefully on the floor between his feet. Simon leant around dragging a small black rucksack off the back seat and placed it on his lap, opening it as he did so.
“Right, you might need this. It’s a tracker,” Simon informed him producing a small slim black object. “Simple device. As you can see, it looks like a smartphone. Press and hold this button firmly for 3
seconds. Let’s call it button ‘A’. It’ll send out an encrypted signal which any colleague within a 5-mile radius will be able to pick up and then track you, right down to the last metre. Hold this button firmly for 3 seconds, let’s call it button ‘B’, and the screen comes on. You can now do exactly the same as your colleagues, provided they’ve also activated their trackers, and it’ll show you your position relative to theirs. The screen, which can be magnified like any normal smartphone, will track up to 5 people at any one time. Any questions?”
“Nope,” answered Nicks laconically. Simon had been doing so well he didn’t like to tell him he’d seen and used one before.
50
Simon threw the rucksack onto the back seat. “Right, let’s go then.
We’ll have to turn around in the car park at the top.” He started the engine and put it into gear, releasing the clutch. The vehicle jerked forward and stalled. “Fuck!” he exclaimed.
“Try taking the hand brake off at some point, Si. It might help.”
“Fuck off!” Simon replied in mock indignation, starting the engine again.
“I suppose it’s the wrong time to ask if we can stop somewhere for another bottle of water,” Nicks tormented him.
“Yes, it fucking is,” Simon retorted, struggling now to get the handbrake off. “For fuck’s sake!”
“In your own time.” Nicks smiled inwardly as he replaced his earphones.
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“Mornin’, Timothy.”
Pete Simmons threw his small rucksack onto the bed in the front bedroom of the little terraced house in Burnley. It was 4 am.
Tim Argent pulled his glasses off his nose, rubbed his eyes and yawned.
“Mornin’, Peter.”
Simmons peeled off his jacket and dropped it on top of his bag.
“Is there a brew on?”
“Yeah, Farooq’s just making it.” Tim replaced his glasses, stood up and stretched. “Nothing to report. The blue minibus is still there, hasn’t moved all night and there’s been no comings or goings,” he said, yawning again.
“Fine,” Pete replied, slipping into Tim’s vacated seat. “You stopping for one or getting straight off?”
Tim lifted his jacket from the coat hook on the back of the bedroom door. “I’m out of here. Just want to get to my bed now.” He gave Simmons a wan smile and then made to leave the room, stepping back momentarily as Farooq Hussein entered carrying two steaming mugs.
“See you later, Farooq,” he said as he left the room.
“Yep. See you, Tim,” Farooq replied, absently, placing Pete’s mug down on the desk in front of him before pulling up a chair and sipping his tea. He watched the three screens on the desk, images from miniature cameras in the eaves of the house, front and rear.
52
“Mover one….Silver clear to exit,” the voice whispered from the encrypted radio Simmons held to his ear. “Silver, yes yes,” Tim’s voice replied.
Farooq sipped his tea again. It would be another hour before Simmons’ colleague Ben, arrived. Only then would he be able to get to his bed. And so it’d been for the last month. Two mobile, one static, one day off. Four teams of two each. Under normal circumstances, it might’ve been adequate, but El-Hashem was a savvy customer when it came to his anti-surveillance drills. They’d soon realised the inadequacies, requesting an increase almost from the start.
Having lost him a couple of times, they’d decided to put a tracking device, known as a ‘lump’, on his hire vehicle. It all seemed to be going quite well until a drive past of the vehicle, parked on double yellow lines in Bolton, found it empty. They’d watched it for an hour and a half when its position attracted the attention of a police foot patrol. The Officer was obviously checking its details on the PNC
when he was approached by a white male in his late forties. As they watched, the male gesticulated towards the inside of the driving compartment then opened the door taking something from behind the driver’s sun visor and showed it to the Officer, along with a sheet of paper he’d taken from the pocket of his jeans.
Through their local Special Branch liaison officer, they ascertained the white male was the hire company rep who’d been contacted by the hirer to recover the vehicle. They needed to recover the ‘lump’ and salvage something from the day. The vehicle was impounded.
53
So physical surveillance all the way it had to be, but that presented further problems. El-Hashem had started to employ a multiple vehicle, multiple driver strategy, using a network of Muslim-owned small hire companies and they found they’d embarked upon a hit-and-miss intelligence-gathering exercise. The fact that all the vehicles they followed used basic anti-surveillance drills such as frequent random turns, u-turns and multiple circulations of roundabouts hadn’t helped at all. On some occasions, they picked what they thought was the right vehicle only to find it contained a body double. Sometimes they were lucky and obtained usable photographic intelligence. Several times, they’d been to the seaside on either side of the country and simply watched El-Hashem and others eat ice cream; on one occasion they’d watched him and Nazim go for a walk in the woods at Delamere.
It was obvious to them they were dealing with a man who’d a lot to hide but their requests for more people received the inexplicable answer that the situation did not warrant such a move. During the last week though, they’d been told more staff had been sanctioned but it couldn’t take place until the following Monday.
Pete Simmons, as the overall Team Leader, understood the logic.
He was the only member of the group who knew of the existence of a
‘mole’ within El-Hashem’s sphere of influence, although he didn’t know their identity. His senior officer told him Abdul Azeez’s arrogance had grown and he was speaking more openly to audiences throughout the North than he had before. Important information was being gathered. All Simmons had to do was keep the morale of the team up. Not the simplest of tasks in the circumstances.
54
Later that morning, Ben and Pete were sitting watching their targets gather. The house was diagonally opposite, five doors down. Nazim and Hakim arrived first and were standing on the pavement talking.
Next to arrive, Amir. All three were well known to the surveillance crew. The last had been Salim, an occasional visitor they considered a minor player. Pete watched the screens while Ben was taking photographs.
“Another day, another dollar,” Ben said quietly.
“So it seems,” Pete murmured. It wasn’t unusual for there to be activity at this hour. Suddenly, they heard footsteps on the stairs.
“I thought you’d be ready for something to eat and a cuppa.” It was Noor. “I’ve done you both some fried egg sandwiches with tomato sauce and a mug of tea for you, Peter, and a coffee for you, Benjamin.” Noor was not a fan of name-shortening. She placed the tray on the desk in front of the screens. “I don’t like those two.
They’ve not got a pleasant reputation around here and that Nazim, I don’t like the way he looks at me. Gives me the shivers.”
Ben had known Sahid and Noor since university. It was Sahid who’d tipped him off when El-Hashem had come to live in the same street.
“If you need anything else, I’ll be downstairs but I’ve just got to pop out later on for some shopping and Sahid’ll be back at four.”
Ben sat on the bed and ate his sandwich, taking occasional sips from his mug. Pete remained watching the monitors at the desk, tomato sauce dripping onto his plate as he munched away. They’d both just finished and were wiping their hands on the paper towels 55
when Pete leant forward peering at the screen and exclaimed: “Game on! They’re off.” He quickly picked up the handheld radio. “Eagle, Mover one.”
“Mover one.”
“Eagle, all five subjects now in the blue minibus. Standby...” he paused, writing down the time on his log sheet, 09.43 hrs, then:
“Mobile now towards Burleigh Street.”
“Mover one, yes yes.”
Amir drove the minibus to the junction with Burleigh Street and turned left. At the junction with Brougham Street, he turned right, carefully easing his way past the large bin lorry that was stationary on double yellow lines outside the hairdresser’s, before continuing towards the B6434 at the end of the street. Mover one pulled away from the kerb reaching the junction within ten seconds.
“I have the eyeball. He’s right, right, right, onto Brougham towards the B6434. Shit!”
The white, two axled, box truck pulled out of the street opposite and stopped with a jerk, at an angle to the waste management vehicle.
The driver started to shout and gesticulate at the occupants who returned the compliments.
“Mover one, I’m blocked Brougham Street. Lost the eyeball.” He knew where Mover two and three were positioned; effectively prevented from taking over. “Mover one, Mover four?”
“Mover four, yes yes, at the Asda. I’ll pick him up at the roundabout.”
56
Amir arrived at the small roundabout next to which stood the Asda parking area and supermarket. He drove around it twice before taking the exit into Rectory Road which served a small industrial estate and two rows of houses running parallel to the main carriageway.
“Mover four, I have the eyeball, twice round the roundabout now taking a left, left, left into Rectory Road.”
Mover 4 left the Asda service road and took the same exit.
Meanwhile, the two truck drivers were face to face in the middle of Brougham Street. Fisticuffs were imminent.
“Mover four, he’s taken the exit from Rectory onto the B6434.
Fuck me!” the operator said, slamming on his brakes, as an articulated truck and trailer emerged from the side road to the industrial units and stopped at the junction blocking his path. “I’m blocked on Rectory Road. A fucking artic. Temporary loss.” He banged on the horn and shouted out of his window. “Move, you fucker, come on!” The truck driver looked back at him and shrugged his shoulders. Mover 4 threw the vehicle into reverse gaining enough space to mount the grass verge to his right.
Selecting first gear, he started to drive over the grass hoping to circumvent the truck but, as he did so, it slowly pulled out onto the main road blocking him, taking up both lanes. He waited for it to straighten up, but it didn’t, by which time he now had three vehicles in the outside lane impeding his access to the grassed central reservation, waiting for the same thing. Several more vehicles joined the queue. He was screwed. He banged the steering wheel several times, shouting 57
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” then over the radio, “Mover four, lost the eyeball. Last seen towards the motorway.”
After what seemed like an eternity but was in reality no more than two minutes, the lorry, after much grinding of gears, started to move, slowly, straightening up jerkily. Nobody seemed to feel the need to let Mover 4 out into the outside lane, so it was only when he’d reached the roundabout that he made any progress.
Amir took the M65 motorway; east to Nelson, the next town.
Somewhere, in the anonymous traffic behind him, a calm quiet voice:
“Whisky three with the eyeball.”
They left the minibus in Forest Street, boarding a waiting people carrier. Rejoining the M65, Amir headed west towards Preston and the M6 motorway. He didn’t know it yet, but they were on their way to Delamere Forest. Mover 4 flashed past them on the opposite carriageway.
Meanwhile, at the other end of Stoneyholme, the driver of an articulated lorry parked in Monk Hall Street, close to its junction with Danehouse Road, heard: “India one and two clearing.” He picked up his radio and said: “India four, yes yes,” then drove the vehicle right onto Danehouse in the direction of Nelson. It was a tight turn that held up the traffic but he managed it.
58
Following Nazim’s instructions, Amir had taken the M6 south, the M56 and the A56 to Frodsham, where they took a left turn at the traffic lights into Church Lane.
The motorcyclist behind them said: “Whisky six, left, left, left at the lights. The B5152 towards Delamere.”
“Whisky one, yes yes. Looks like the forest again. Anyone take the car parks?”
“Whisky seven, taking Whitefield.”
Two other call signs volunteered; a motorcyclist and two saloon cars sped up the long slow incline of Fluin Lane, Frodsham, towards its eventual junction with the B5152.
“Whisky six, I can take the Ashton Road car park if someone takes the eyeball.”
“Whisky five, I have the eyeball.”
Seeing an opportunity for an overtake, the motorcyclist Whisky six pulled out and shot past the people carrier, leaving it in her wake.
“Whisky five. Subjects blocked by traffic entering the car park at the shopping parade.” Thirty seconds later: “Whisky five, mobile now towards Delamere, thirty miles an hour.”
Whisky seven reached Whitefield car park with ease and parked centrally towards the far end. The occupants, a couple in their sixties, stood at the open boot of their car and were donning drab coloured walking jackets when Amir, giving them only a casual glance, drove 59
the people carrier containing El-Hashem and the others passed. A Jack Russell Terrier scuttled back and forth around the couple’s feet.
Amir parked the vehicle in the northeast corner, reversing into position. Other than themselves and the couple with their dog, the car park contained only five other vehicles. They remained seated.
Whisky seven’s occupants now stood on opposite sides of their car as the ‘husband’ poured some tea from a thermos flask and passed it to his ‘wife’. To an onlooker, they were just talking and enjoying a quick drink before taking their dog for a well-earned walk.
Abdul Azeez El-Hashem sat in the front passenger seat of the people carrier. “The English and their dogs,” he laughed, then looked at his watch and said to his driver: “Amir, we seem to be early. You stay here and wait for our friends.”
“How will I know them?” Amir looked quizzically at him.
Abdul Azeez smiled, benignly. “They will find you.”
He turned around in his seat and declared to the others: “It is a nice day. Come with me for a walk. I have something to discuss with you.”
He turned back, opened the door and got out. They stood outside putting their jackets on, then Abdul Azeez said: “I seem to remember this is a pleasant walk,” indicating the footpath fifteen metres away.
He strode off, the others obediently following.
Whisky seven’s crew observed the movements within the vehicle and reacted to the doors opening by calmly packing up the thermos and cups into their car. A quick call brought the dog running to the female, who having leashed him said quietly into her concealed microphone, “Seven one…four subjects on foot to north east pathway 60
into woods. Subject four remains with vehicle...subjects into woods now. Keeping the eyeball.” Her call sign indicated she was now on foot.
“Whisky one, yes yes.”
She and her partner set off at a brisk pace along a trail leading east into the trees. As they walked she reported: “Seven one. Subject one now wearing blue jacket with fur hood.”
Within thirty metres of entering the tree line, they reached a junction with a track running north. Out of view of Amir in the people carrier the male set off at a jog northwards. His partner continued to broadcast the descriptions of the others, slowing her pace to a stroll until she found herself in a position to monitor the people carrier and its occupant through the trees. The dog sniffed around and then urinated briefly on the nearest tree trunk.
Nicks exited the car just before the entrance to the parking lot. At a fast jog, he took the path leading along its northern edge. As he ran he activated the tracking device and replaced it in the right chest pocket of his waterproof jacket.
“Elvis on plot. Talk me in,” he gasped into the microphone.
“Seven two, yes yes” replied the male operative. “Tracking now.
Slow down but stay on that line. Temporary loss.”
Nicks wasn’t complaining. He’d overlooked the fact he hadn’t even run for a bus recently and had set off too quickly. He slowed to a manageable jog, concentrating on getting his breathing regulated. He could now see the people carrier parked at the top end of the car park so knew he’d have to veer further to the left if he was to remain 61
unseen by its occupant. Ahead, he could see the junction of two paths.
He broke into a brisk walk, taking the left one which he saw opened out onto a field after approximately seventy metres. He checked behind him to his right and saw his view of the people carrier was obscured by the trees.
“Seven two … Elvis”
“Elvis, go ‘head.”
“Seven two. Eyeball regained.” He was out of breath and whispering. “Keep on that track. When you get to the end where it enters the field you need to turn right and come along the tree line for two hundred metres then stop. Subjects temporarily halted in a small clearing sixty metres from that location.”
“Elvis, yes yes.”
Following the instructions, he picked his way along the edge of the field, still happy he couldn’t be noticed from the car park. After what he estimated to be two hundred metres, he used the undergrowth for cover.
“Seven two… Elvis”
“Elvis. Go ‘head.”
“Seven two. Interesting development.” He’d got his breath back now but was still whispering. “Subject one directing matters. Subjects two and three have jumped five and now have him tied up kneeling on the ground. Subject one not happy. Repeatedly slapping five about the head and face.”
62
“Elvis, yes yes. Wait... wait,” Nicks replied, taking out the tracker device and holding down button ‘B’ firmly whilst counting to three.
The screen sprang into life. “I’m tracking you now.”
“Seven two, yes yes. You need to go another fifteen metres further, then turn to face me. They’ll be directly in front of you, sixty-five metres away.”
“Elvis, yes yes.”
He moved slowly and carefully along the tree line until he heard
“Seven two. Elvis. Stop. Subjects in a direct line towards my location, sixty-five metres from your position.” Nicks checked his tracker then replaced it in his chest pocket, acknowledging the call. Concealed by the undergrowth, he pulled up his neck gaiter to cover the lower part of his face, took his beanie hat from his leg pocket and pulled it over his head: the combination left only his eyes exposed. Removing his daysack, he took the P226 from its coverings, briefly checked the magazine and suppressor were secure, zipped the bag up and put it back on. A deep breath then he moved stealthily forward, through the trees and sparse undergrowth.
“Seven two, Elvis.”
“Elvis. Go ‘head,” Nicks whispered.
“Seven two. Subject one has left the group. He’s walking up a mound that separates the group from you and... wait…. wait… he’s over it now and out of my view heading in your direction.”
Nicks stopped. “Yes, yes … What about the others?”
63
“Seven two, I think they’re going to top him. One of them’s filming while the other one’s waving a big fuck off knife about and looks like he’s giving some sort of speech.”
A whispered: “Yes yes … Elvis has entered the building.”
He moved swiftly through the trees in a crouch, suddenly seeing his target walking away from the incline over which remained the rest of the group. El-Hashem turned to his left and after a few paces stopped, taking up the unmistakable stance of a man about to relieve himself of body fluids. Nicks slowed but continued forward, carefully placing his feet so as not to break anything underfoot that would attract the target’s attention. El-Hashem, undisturbed, unleashed a stream of urine onto the forest floor.
Nicks, now less than fifteen metres from him, raised the weapon.
Pausing momentarily, he squeezed the trigger – ‘Klak’. El-Hashem collapsed instantly. As he hit the ground, his face slapped against the urine-soaked dirt and debris of the forest floor.
Abdul Azeez El-Hashem’s last thought was fairly mundane. It was simply: “I wonder how far I can piss.”
As quickly as stealth permitted, Nicks moved to the base of the incline and then began to crawl rapidly up it, making sure he didn’t gain his viewpoint at the same place El-Hashem had left the group. On reaching the top of the mound, he slowly, carefully, peered over it and saw them. One was blindfolded and kneeling on the ground facing away from him, his hands clearly fastened behind his back, his head bowed. Alongside him, and nearest to Nicks, stood another, holding the kneeling man by his hair whilst gesticulating with a large knife in 64
his right hand. The third male stood facing them, filming the event on a small handheld camera. The man with the knife began proclaiming:
“Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar.” Nicks raised the P226, sighted and exhaled.
“Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar,” Nazim said to the camera, his voice raised in passion. With a final flourish of the knife, he stepped quickly behind the kneeling Salim, pulled his head up so his neck was exposed and was about to draw the knife across his victim’s throat when he suddenly collapsed as if his strings had been cut. He didn’t even register the ‘Klak’ the 226 made as it sent him on his final journey.
Hakim, who was filming, heard the noise but didn’t understand its importance or meaning. He was still struggling to comprehend what had happened to Nazim when the next two rounds slammed into the top of his chest and throat. He dropped the camera and, clutching his neck, sank to his knees before collapsing onto his right side.
Nicks scrambled up from his firing position making his way down the incline. He didn’t bother checking Nazim. He knew he didn’t have to. He was more interested in Hakim. The headshot hadn’t been on because of the way he’d held the camera so he’d opted for two to the top of the chest. As he approached Salim he said: “Don’t say a fucking word! If you say anything I’ll kill you.” He walked calmly past him, noting his ankles were cable-tied, and went to Hakim. Standing over him, it was obvious he was still alive. He was making gurgling noises and moving his left leg as if to gain traction from which he might be able to stand up or at least make it to a crawl position. He had no fight, but Nicks could see his flight response was still partially intact. He 65
rolled him onto his back. From Hakim’s eyes, he saw he was still taking things in. Nicks leaned into his field of vision, unmasked his face, smiled and softly said: “God is indeed great” then, pulling the neck gaiter back over his nose, he stood up and shot Hakim in the head. Bending down again, he picked up the camera that lay between now lifeless legs, and pressed stop then rewind.
“Stay exactly where you are. I’m watching you,” he said to Salim before pressing the camera’s play button followed by fast forward.
Satisfied he didn’t appear in the footage, he dropped the camera back on the ground between Hakim’s legs and went to Salim. “You understand me, don’t you?”
“Yes,” sobbed Salim, the tension and relief followed by returning tension proving too much for him.
“I’m going to leave you now. I want you to count slowly to six hundred. If I hear you shouting before that time has passed, I will come back and kill you. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I understand you,” whimpered Salim.
Nicks leant close to his ear: “You know that little voice in the depths of your head, the one asking you if you’re doing the right thing? Who do you think that is?” He waved the weapon casually around. “This lot, they’re just a random knobheads venting their own anger. God’s not speaking to them, he doesn’t want to speak to knobheads but he’s talking to you. Listen for fuck’s sake! I was sent to save you. Fucking earn it.”
With that, he was gone. Up and over the mound, past the body of Abdul Azeez El-Hashem, or whoever he really was.
66
At the tree line, he crouched down and placed the daysack on the ground. He made the weapon safe: removed the magazine and ejected the live round from the breach, visually checking the chamber then releasing the working parts. The ejected round placed back in the mag, he reloaded, wrapped the Sig in the soft cloth, turned off the tracker and dropped them both in the plastic bag which he stuffed in the daysack. Zipped up, he put it back on. Neck gaiter off, hands in pockets, he walked along the small track that led to the car park entrance where Simon would meet him. He took out the smartphone radio, selected ‘Music’, brought his left hand up to the pressel switch as if adjusting his collar and said: “Elvis has left the building.” Mr Blue Sky filled his ears.
A couple walked towards him on the track. In their early seventies, they had a black and white springer spaniel, off the leash. The dog roamed back and forth in the field; the woman shouting in a high-pitched voice: “Rebel! Come! Come, Rebel!” Rebel was living up to his name. They looked typical upper-middle-class country types. That wasn’t what concerned Nicks though. It was the dog.
He nodded politely to them as they passed, quickening his pace.
He didn’t want to be in view if Rebel decided to go walkabout in the trees behind him. No expert, he knew this sort of sporting dog was good at finding things that had just been shot.
67
Skirting the car park, he looked to his left as the people carrier came into view through the trees. The driver was standing in front, pacing up and down using his mobile phone. On the home stretch, he saw Simon pull into the funnel-shaped entrance and swing the car around in readiness to leave. Nicks veered off the path and walked through the scrubby undergrowth, stepping over the low wooden barrier onto the dirt track.
Halfway across, he briefly stopped as Whisky 7 coasted past him and turned left onto the main road. Throwing the daysack in the passenger well, he sank into the seat and ripped the headphones from his ears, closing the door behind him.
Simon moved off from the fence line, checking for oncoming traffic before turning right.
“How’d it go?”
“Fine,” Nicks replied casually. “The body count got a bit high though.”
“What do you mean?” Simon had a serious frown. “I lost comms there for a while.”
Nicks bent down, opened his bag and removed the magazine from the P226, laying it carefully next to the still-suppressed weapon. It was now unloaded and completely safe but to return it to an operational state would take mere seconds.
“Well,” he said, eventually, “they were going to saw a bloke’s head off with a fucking big knife so I didn’t really have a choice.”
“Fuck!” Simon exclaimed, “How many are we talking about?”
68
“Just the three,” Nicks replied. He turned to look at Simon and said:
“What?” inviting a response.
Simon quickly looked back at him. “Nothing. If it had to be done, it had to be done. What happened to the victim?”
“I left him there, still blindfolded and cable-tied,” Nicks replied.
“Someone will find him soon, if they haven’t already.”
“Ok, so be it. Everything ready to go?” Simon looked at him again.
Nicks nodded in reply.
“Right, stuff it all in the little black rucksack on the back seat,” he said.
Taking the plastic bag from his daysack, he transferred it to the black bag which already contained the gun case and the box of ammunition. He put his latex gloves into the thinner plastic bag then stuffed it all into the map pocket of his jacket before bending down to recover the new water bottle from the footwell.
Winding down the window, he held his hands outside and poured water over them to remove any powder residue left by the gloves. The window wound back up, he took several gulps and dropped the bottle back by his feet.
They reached Beech Lane, a narrow road where two-way traffic was just about possible with adept use of several gated entrances.
Simon pulled into one, as close to the gate as possible and turned off the engine.
Within minutes, the small blue van pulled up at an angle in front of them. The writing on its side indicated that the blue overalled driver, 69
an equally small man of middle eastern extraction, was a mobile mechanic. He got out of the van carrying a little black rucksack.
Simon tugged the bonnet release, pulled his rucksack from the back seat and got out. They put their bags down and Simon lifted the bonnet. The mechanic stuck his head under for a few seconds then walked around the vehicle before lying on his back and tussling with something near a wheel arch. Eventually declaring satisfaction, he got up, the bonnet went down, they picked up the rucksacks and parted ways.
“What was all that about?” Nicks asked as they continued their journey. “Why didn’t you just give him the bag?”
Simon glanced at him before replying. “We had to get the tracker taken off. The type you’ve got is no good for vehicles. It hasn’t got the range and the body of the car interferes with the signal.”
They returned to Liverpool, stopping briefly in Runcorn where Nicks dumped the carrier bag containing the gloves in a bin.
He was glad to get back to the hotel. Putting the smartphone radio on charge, he stripped off, placed his clothes and National Trust day sack in a bin bag then stuffed them into his large rucksack. He’d take them to his parents tomorrow for a special mum clean. After a shower and fresh clothes, he decided to eat later because right now he was going to the appropriately named Slaughter House next door, for a pint. Most probably more.
70
Salim knelt and counted through the tears, the man’s words tumbling around his head. In the distance, a high-pitched voice called:
“Rebel! Come, Rebel!” Suddenly, a mobile phone rang. It was close; it must have been Nazim’s. Eventually, it stopped. He kept counting.
Amir was worried. They’d been gone for what seemed like an age.
He wondered what they were talking about. He decided to phone Abdul Azeez. Getting out of the vehicle he paced up and down in front of it as he made the call. The phone was off. He phoned Nazim. No answer.
He could hear a dog barking. Instinctively, he made his way along the track and through the trees towards the sound. Coming upon the clearing he froze, momentarily, then dropped down on one knee behind a tree.
Two bodies lay on the ground and Salim, blindfolded, knelt between them, his arms behind his back. A dog stood on a mound barking towards something out of Amir’s sight. Panic started to grip him. The dog, still barking, ran down the mound towards Salim.
Amir doubled back towards the track leading to the car park. By the time he reached the people carrier and saw Abdul Azeez hadn’t returned, he knew it was time to leave. He’d go to the other car park and wait. Maybe Abdul Azeez would call him and he could pick him up somewhere. Yes, that’s it, that’s what he’d do.
71
Driving to Delamere Railway Station, he reversed into a space and turned the engine off. Thinking clearer now he took out his mobile phone, found the number and tapped ‘call’.
“Pizza Napoli, Luigi speaking. What would you like?”
“Luigi, we have a problem,” Amir said to his MI5 Handler.
72
Finding something interesting, Rebel lost all inclination to obey his owner’s calls. The elderly couple walked into the woods to find their wayward dog. The husband told his wife to remain and save her legs whilst he went to fetch the springer; stubbornly barking 30 metres away. Closing on the dog, he saw the body. He gingerly checked for signs of life. There were none. Returning to his wife, he told her to phone the police.
Rebel continued to bark and suddenly ran up the mound, stopping at the top where he looked intently back at them, then at something beyond their view. He barked again and disappeared over the rise. The man swore under his breath and began walking up the slope.
73
11th March 2014
At the bottom of an anonymous set of steps in Sweeting Street, lay the unprepossessing basement office of Granger, Harland and Sackville, Solicitors.
It may have been thought that Rupert Sackville had outlived his partners, but in reality they’d never existed. An invention, solely to give his practice more gravitas.
He represented many people, but in truth had only one actual client. Mark Anthony Stephen MacMahon, whom he referred to as Anthony, pronouncing the ‘th’, as was intended by MacMahon’s parents when they named him. It could be said he was the ‘family’
solicitor, for he represented all the members of MacMahon’s criminal gang except for one. Tommy Cole insisted on having his own. They‘d never been on friendly terms. In fact, he knew Tommy despised him.
For his part, he didn’t despise Tommy Cole. He just feared him.
Now Anthony was dead Rupert Sackville feared Tommy Cole even more. He’d lost his protector, his friend and the man he’d secretly loved. He’d been a Brian Epstein to MacMahon’s John Lennon, having fallen for his presence and good looks the first time he’d represented him as Duty Solicitor at the Mags’ Courts, all those years ago. Anthony had been only twenty years old and he’d been thirty-five. Last week had been the worst week of his life.
He knew Cole would replace him. It wasn’t a matter of loss of income that worried him. He’d been very careful with the money he’d 74
earned. Anthony had been very generous, but then again he had worked hard to earn that generosity and done legally questionable things that hadn’t been in his career plan before their first meeting.
True, he lived well, as did his mother with whom he shared his home on Allerton Road. They’d wanted for nothing, and Anthony had always treated his mother with the utmost respect. She in turn had treated him like another son. No, it wasn’t the money. He just didn’t believe Tommy Cole would let him walk away.
He looked at the clock on the wall. Seven o’clock. He needed to get home. Mother would be worrying. He’d had no idea she knew about his feelings for MacMahon. She’d never said anything. But now, with his passing, she’d told her son she’d known from the first moment he’d brought him home. Then she’d held him as tightly as her frail form could, as he broke down and cried in her arms. She said he should take some time off, but he’d gone to the office hoping it would make things easier. It hadn’t.
Putting on his thick, warm overcoat he set the alarm, turned off the lights and locked the entrance door. Then he climbed the old, worn steps to the narrow open gateway bounded by a building line on one side, black wrought iron railings on the other. It was only as he neared the top and his security light went out that he realised the normally lit street was in darkness. Stumbling on the top step, he steadied himself with a hand on the railings and stepped out onto street level.
He didn’t see where the man came from. He just felt himself being swung by his coat lapels against the metal security shutters of the office next door. He grunted involuntarily as his head hit them hard, 75
then again as a punch to his diaphragm left him breathless. He felt the grip on his throat as his head was banged against the brickwork.
His assailant let go. He collapsed onto his backside, heard the click, saw something glint. A coarse scouse voice said: “Yuz ‘av brung dis on yerself, yer fucking snide, yer fuckin’ mummy’s boy. Tony’s not
‘ere tuh fuckin’ save yuz anymore, or yer fuckin’ Ma.”
By the front of his coat, he was pulled to his feet. “Please! No!
Please! I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve done nothing!” His hands were waving wildly in an attempt to fend off the attack. He held the arm that held the knife but knew he couldn’t hold it long. His assailant was too strong, he was too weak. He felt the punches to his head, the warm urine flooding his groin. He was going to die. “Oh, Mother! Mother!”
he heard himself call. He sobbed as the last of his strength ebbed from his grip.
“Ay! Ay! Pack it in, lad!” A nearby shout. “Leave him alone! I’m callin’ the Bizzies!”
The assailant slid his arm free of Rupert’s exhausted hands. “Yuz won’t be so fuckin’ lucky next time,” he snarled then ran off along the alley towards Dale Street.
Seconds later, a man was standing over him, helping Rupert up, supporting him against the security shutter. “Are you ok, mate?” he said with a softer scouse accent. “Do you want me to call the Bizzies?”
“No, no...” Rupert struggled to get the words out. “I’m... I’m alright... I think I’m alright.” He wiped his eyes.
“Can you walk?” asked his saviour. “We need to get out onto the main road. It’ll be safer. He might come back.”
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Rupert took a few faltering steps. “Yes, I think I can manage it.”
His rescuer steadied him as they walked slowly towards Castle Street and the bright lights. “Av you been robbed, mate?” he asked.
“You need to report it, you know.”
“No. No, it was just a disgruntled client. There’s no need for the police.” He was feeling better, more in control of himself now. “I’m fine. Thank you so very much for helping me. I don’t know what I would have done otherwise. Silly of me to work so late.”
As he spoke he checked himself. His head was throbbing and he had a few lumps on his scalp. His hands had several superficial cuts to his palms and knuckles.
“You should put somethin’ on them when you get home,” the man suggested. “Listen, I think you should get a taxi. Here’s one now.”
They’d emerged onto Castle Street and turned towards the Town Hall.
Without waiting for a reply, the saviour hailed a black Hackney which swung into the marked loading bays nearby.
Rupert clambered into the back of the cab. Sitting down he turned to his hero.
“I cannot thank you enough. I haven’t got any money to give you. I think I’ve just got enough to get home.”
“Not a problem, mate.” Hero smiled back at him. “I never dun it for money. I dun it ‘cos you needed help.”
Rupert handed him a business card. “Look, I know it’s not much, but please take this. If you ever need a Solicitor, I’d be more than happy to provide my services free.”
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Hero took the card. “Thanks, mate. You never know in Liverpool, do yuh? Take care.” The man shut the door and was gone. Rupert couldn’t turn around to see him walk away; his neck was now suddenly very sore and stiff.
He gave the taxi driver his address and sat back in the seat, acutely aware that his trousers were very wet. He examined his hands which were still trembling. He’d been lucky. If his rescuer hadn’t intervened, he would be dead by now.
During the journey, he phoned the police and told them he was calling on behalf of his elderly mother who’d seen an intruder in the back garden. He then spoke to her, telling her the police would be there soon, so she should play along until he got home.
“Is this all about Anthony and his friends, dear?” she’d asked.
“Yes, Mother,” he replied.
“You can trust me,” she’d said simply.
The fear within him began to turn to anger. Never give them a second chance, Tony had taught him. If Tommy Cole expected him just to roll over and take it, he could think again. He knew all about MacMahon’s safety deposit box. It had been him who’d suggested it.
He’d even placed things in there himself when Anthony was too busy to make a deposit. He knew most of its secrets, particularly Anthony’s insurance policy against Tommy Cole.
When he arrived home, a police car was outside and two Officers were sitting in the kitchen with his mother, enjoying a cup of tea.
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Three minutes after Rupert Sackville’s taxi left Castle Street, two workmen strolled into Sweeting Street. Hi-visibility orange jackets and blue hard hats, they carried a toolbox and a short lightweight metal ladder. Opposite Sackville’s office, one took a few steps up then opened the electrical box mounted on the wall. His colleague handed him a small screwdriver. A couple of turns and the lights glowed into life.
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He turned the corner and walked, unhurriedly, out onto Dale Street; hands in pockets, heading towards the Ship & Mitre. Without pausing, he dropped the flick knife into the first litter bin and disposed of the latex gloves at the next, spraying his hands with sanitiser.
He was receiving his half pint of Fruli when Simon entered.
“Pint or half ?”
“Just a half,” Simon replied.
He ordered then looked at Simon over the top of his glass as he savoured the taste. “How’d it go?”
“Fine. He was pretty shaken up and he’d pissed himself. Left a little puddle on the floor. Oh, and he had some cuts on his hands, on the palms and across his knuckles.” Simon thanked the barman and took a satisfying sip of Kriek.
“Wasn’t intentional.” Nicks leant back on the bar. “He was waving his arms about like a crazy fucker. He kept grabbing the blade.
Anyway, it was your fault. What took you so long?”
“Someone asked me directions.” He calmly took another sip then noticed the look on Nicks’ face. “What? I got there, didn’t I?”
“Fucks’ sake!” Nicks exclaimed quietly. “What are you like?”
“It would have been impolite.”
Nicks shook his head in disbelief.
“I take it he didn’t want to phone the police?”
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“No. As expected,” Simon replied, absent-mindedly, as he counted the change he’d taken from his pocket. “Listen, I haven’t got enough money for another round. Can you sub me a tenner?”
Nicks pulled a face that said ‘not again’ and laughed. “Yeah, no probs.” He took the note out and handed it to Simon.
“Ta.” He held it up to the light. “You can’t be too sure, can you?
Same again?”
Nicks nodded.
Simon grinned. “Great, enough left for a kebab.”
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14th March 2014
DCI Baddeley entered the main office, signed in and glanced up at the TV screen above him as it reported the local news; footage of a helicopter landing in a field, civilians in suits and Barbour jackets emerging whilst the newscaster said details of a large counter-terrorism exercise, held in Delamere Forest at the weekend, had just been released. There were shots of police road closures, tantalising glimpses, taken at some distance, of balaclavered, armed, black-clad people loading heavy bags into a military helicopter.
“Sorry I’m late,” Thurstan said as he entered his office where Chalkie, Lizzie and Degsy sat drinking their coffees. “Collision in the Tunnel. Tunnel Police had it down to one lane.” He unbuttoned his coat and stuck his head out the office door, catching the attention of a passing Detective. “Taff, any chance you could get me a coffee, please? Milk and one sugar. My mug’s on the tray by the kettle.”
“Not a problem, Boss. Just give me two minutes to get rid of this stuff,” Taff raised the pile of papers he was carrying.
It’d been ten days of intense activity for everyone in MIT. Another naked body had been found in St Helens, and Thurstan’s team had been working practically around the clock. Assisted by other specialist units and patrol officers, they’d arrested MacMahon’s rivals and friends. Every power of search the Police and Criminal Evidence Act provided them was utilised and when not possible, they used search warrants from the Magistrates Courts; organised crime came to a 82
standstill, temporarily. They’d wanted to send out a message: there would be no repeat of the armed conflicts that’d once invaded the streets of Liverpool.
Thurstan looked enquiringly at the three of them. “Ok, where are we up to at the moment?”
Chalkie looked at Lizzie. “Go on Liz, your stuff first.”
She put her cup down. “Right. Well, we’ve no outstanding warrants left and everyone on the circulated list has been arrested and interviewed. Fred and Devon finished the last one just before midnight down in Thames Valley somewhere. They’ve not long gone off duty.
“I debriefed all the interviews first thing this morning, making sure at least one from every interviewing team was on shift. Nothing. No hard info. The overall feeling was the Bucks are clueless. They just don’t know who’s responsible. Any new DNA and fingerprints are going through the system now.” She smiled and picked up her cup.
“Ok, thanks Liz,” Thurstan smiled back, thinking she has a lovely smile. “What have we got from the walk-ins, Derek?”
These were the few higher-placed criminals like Tommy Cole who’d presented themselves, with legal representation, at various police stations throughout the county. Knowing at some point they’d be receiving the inevitable visit, they felt their business interests were best safeguarded if they co-operated.
“All more than adequately alibied,” Degsy replied, “particularly Tommy Cole, who was at a wedding in Cheshire. I’ve spoken to the venue. They provided the photographer and I’ve seen the photos. He was definitely there all day.”
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Thurstan gingerly sipped from a steaming mug. “Chalkie?”
“Well, as you know, the searches were quite productive – a couple of cannabis factories, a counterfeiting press and a good selection of firearms and ammunition. All dealt with by the Matrix. Nothing for us though. Overall, the word from the street is it’s not local, probably out-of-towners, although no one’s got a clue who.” He paused, picked up his mug and found it empty.
Placing it back on the table, he said, “I think we need to look at MacMahon’s wider business interests, maybe something intel’s not aware of. One interesting thing is the unaccounted fingerprints in his car belong to one Monica Jean Masterson a.k.a Monique Masterson, previous for shoplifting, nothing recent though. I’d guess she was his bit on the side. We’re still trying to find her at the moment.”
“Ok, so that means we’ve no outstanding DNA or fingerprints from the car. What about the white van that stopped next to the workmen?”
Thurstan shot a glance at them all in quick succession, not sure who had the enquiry.
Lizzie chipped in. “Nothing, Boss. Been back to the witnesses, but none of them can remember anything about the registration number.
However, one of them now remembers seeing a bin man. You know, the sort with his own cart?”
“We need to make enquiries with the Council then,” the DCI interjected.
Lizzie smiled sweetly at Thurstan. It was, ostensibly, a victory smile. “They tell us they didn’t have anyone in that part of the city 84
and, before you ask, all their carts were accounted for anyway. Some sort of audit was going on.”
“Thank you, Lizzie, don’t let it go to your head.” He smiled back.
“Where did we get with the CCTV? I know the stuff from around the scene all seems to have a temporary fault, which, though unusual, is not unheard of but what about anything from Chapel Street, Old Hall Street, etcetera?”
This time it was Degsy. “I’ve been looking at that one, Boss. I know it’s taken a while, but with everything else going on, it was difficult to co-ordinate. I had to resort to getting some of the local bobbies to make the enquiries and get us copies, some of which got stuffed in a bobby’s locker while he went on rest day. So, I apologise for the delay.”
The DCI nodded his appreciation. Degsy continued, “I’ve had a composite made up by the technical fellas and I’ve set it up to view in the quiet room, it’s easier to see the screen in there. The thing is every sequence recovered from Old Hall Street, through the primary scene and onto Chapel Street and Tithebarn has sections that are totally unviewable.”
“Was that a localised issue, or was there some sort of ‘city-wide’
problem?” Thurstan ventured.
“It was localised, Boss. I took the opportunity to get some stuff from a selection of premises within a quarter of a mile. The problem only seemed to occur within one hundred and fifty metres of the outer area of Old Hall, Chapel and Tithebarn. It’s best to take a look at the composite.” Degsy sat back with a resigned look on his face.
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Thurstan pursed his lips and thought for a few moments.
“Ok. What about the ballistics? Chalkie?”
The DI searched through the papers on his lap, producing three sheets of A4 which he passed to the others. “Well, as you can see, the forensics on the bullet, or what was left of it, together with the analysis of the shell case recovered, has produced a list of weapons that would produce similar characteristics namely a right-hand one in ten rifling twist with six rifling grooves. What we’re looking for is, to put it simply, a semi-automatic pistol. It’s not a huge list, but it’s not a small one either. We can rule out certain makes of pistol, basically those with polygonal rifling which is completely different from what we’re looking at, that’s why you won’t see old favourites like Glock and Heckler Koch on there. Forensics put Sig-Sauer and Beretta at the top because they reckon they’re the popular models and therefore more likely.”
Thurstan sat, elbows on desk with his hands clasped, fingers interlaced underneath his chin. “Ok, thanks for that.” He let out a short sigh. “Now what about house-to-house, such as it is? You, I believe, Derek?”
“Nothing at present, Boss. Nobody saw anything, it appears, but we’ve still got a couple of guests from the Apartment Hotel to speak to. Most of them were out for the day sightseeing, only two couples hadn’t left the hotel and were in their rooms.” He desperately stifled a yawn. It had been a busy time. To top it all, the twins hadn’t been sleeping well recently, consequently, neither had he and his wife.
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Thurstan noticed. He was well aware of the strain affecting everyone but was particularly concerned about the two DSs who were shouldering a lot of responsibility, organising and managing the teams.
“Right then!” he said, tapping his hands lightly on his desk. “Let’s take a break. Go and get a drink or something to eat from the canteen.
The fresh air will do you good and I’ll see you both in the quiet room, in...,” he looked at the wall clock, remembering he’d forgotten to get someone to find him a fresh battery. He glanced at his watch. “Let’s say twenty-five minutes.”
Chalkie remained seated as Lizzie and Degsy left the room.
“Sackville?”
Thurstan nodded. “Just close the door, Chalkie, please.”
Rupert Sackville had requested contact with a Matrix senior officer who’d visited him at home the evening of his attack. He’d told the Matrix DCI everything he knew about Tony MacMahon’s safety deposit box in return for police protection.
“The Matrix want it kept well under wraps at the moment. As you know, we recovered the contents of MacMahon’s safety deposit box yesterday. It was interesting. Some sort of accounts ledger, an events diary and some photos of Tommy Cole executing someone in Oglet Lane, Speke, two years ago. It’s written on the back. It was taken using an image intensifier and, I should think, quite a powerful lens.
So, what we need now, Chalkie, is for you to liaise with the Matrix in respect of anything in the ledger and events diary that may provide us with any leads, particularly to MacMahon’s wider business interests.
See who he’s upset elsewhere in the country.”
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Chalkie stood up. “Ok. Not a problem. What about Tommy Cole’s photo?”
“I’ll get Arthur to dig us out some info on that. He’ll probably be able to tell us all about it off the top of his head anyway.” Thurstan smiled. “Oh, and the Matrix and the National Crime Agency are putting together an operation based on what was found so we should see some developments in the next week or so.”
He pulled a business card from his inside jacket pocket. “Speak to this fella at the NCA, they might have something that can help us.” He handed it to Chalkie who glanced at the card.
“I know him. Ex-Met. I’ll get it sorted.”
Thurstan stood at his office window overlooking the car park for a few moments, deep in thought. Returning to his desk, he picked up the phone and dialled an extension. “Ah! Arthur. It’s Thurstan. Do you know anything about a murder two years ago, Oglet Lane, Speke?”
There was a pause. “Yes? Wonderful! You do that, and I’ll see you shortly in my office.” Another pause. “Yes, I would actually! Milk and one sugar.”
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DS Drayton was looking forward to eating undisturbed as he walked back into the main office, carrying his ham salad sandwich and latte to go.
“Sarge! Phone call for you. Sergeant Tranter, St. Anne Street.” The Foetus held his arm up. Degsy strolled over to him, took the handset and said:
“Sarge, nice to see you the other day. How’ve you been?”
“I’ve been fine, young Derek,” the Sarge replied, “and it’s Bill.
We’re both the same rank now. About time you got used to it.”
“Well, old habits die hard, Bill. What can I do for you?” Degsy took a mouthful of coffee.
Those who incurred his displeasure knew Sgt Tranter as ‘Billy Tarantula’. A sobriquet he was not unpleased with. Sometimes lessons had to be learned the hard way, and if Bill Tranter thought it necessary, then that’s how you learned them. Once, after parading for morning duty, Degsy had engaged in idle chat with a member of the section going off duty and was late getting to the front desk to collect the radio he needed for patrol. Bill was waiting for him and saw through his feeble excuse in an instant. “Well, if you can’t be arsed to collect your radio, then I can’t be arsed to give you one. Now go on, fuck off onto your beat. You’ve got a whistle.”
As Degsy trudged miserably out of the station, Bill called after him.
“And be at Broadway shops at nine. I’ll peg you there.” Degsy was, 89
and Bill had signed his notebook then handed him a radio with a brief:
“Lesson learned, I hope.”
If you did your job, he was no problem. If you were a shirker, heaven help you.
“I’ve sent a young bobby across to see you,” Bill said. “He should be there any minute. Young Mike Bartlett, he’s a good lad. He’s got some information to tell you about the MacMahon job. You might know already, but then again you might not. It’s been bothering him for a while, so I’ll let him explain when he gets there, but go easy on him. As I said, he’s a good lad, keen as mustard. Reminds me of you, when you were a probationer.”
Degsy laughed. “He must be amazing then! Ok, I’ll be nice to him.
Mike Bartlett, you say?”
“Yes, and don’t be telling him what I said. I need to keep him on his toes. Can’t be having him getting over confident at this stage of his career. Look what happened to you.” It was Bill’s turn to laugh now.
“No, if he turns out half as good as you, Derek, he’ll still be a good un.”
“I won’t let him know there’s a soft heart in there somewhere, Bill.
Your secret’s safe with me,” Degsy replied, smiling broadly.
“You’d better not, Derek. I know where you live.” They both laughed and then said their farewells.
Derek finished his coffee as he ate his sandwich in the quiet room.
He’d just polished off the last mouthful of ham and salad and was brushing the crumbs off his trousers when The Foetus leaned through 90
the doorway and said: “Apparently, I’ve been mistaken for the receptionist. There’s a bobby here to see you, Sarge.”
He looked up as Constable Bartlett entered the room. A smart-looking young officer but the apprehension and awe for the big boys of MIT marked him out as a probationer. Sitting him down, Degsy listened as Bartlett recounted his seeing the guest at the Apartment Hotel filming with his mobile phone.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t think much of it at the time but it just kept bothering me and Sergeant Tranter must have noticed and, well, here I am. I just thought, what if he’d been on the balcony filming at the time of the murder, but hadn’t realised what went on? The Sarge said it was better late than never.”
Degsy smiled at him, “No, that’s great. We haven’t been able to make contact with a couple of the guests yet. The fourth-floor balcony you say?” The Officer nodded.
Thurstan walked in. “Right, are we all here?” he said as he entered.
“Sorry, Derek, am I interrupting anything?”
“No, Boss, we’re finished.” Degsy stood up taking a pace sideways.
“This is Constable Mike Bartlett from St. Anne Street. He’s just given me some really good info about seeing a guest at the Apartment Hotel doing some filming of the scene when we turned up there. He thinks it’s possible he might have recorded something earlier on.”
Mike Bartlett stood up. Being unsure whether, in the presence of a Senior Officer, he should put his helmet on or not he decided he would just fumble with it instead.
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Thurstan advanced upon him, hand outstretched. “DCI Baddeley,”
he said. Bartlett shook his hand. Thurstan continued, “Well, that’s good. Nice to see someone using their initiative. You’re one of Sergeant Tranter’s section, aren’t you? Make sure you listen carefully to what he has to tell you. Knows his stuff, your Sergeant, excellent man.” He glanced around the room. “Are we ready to view the videos, Derek?”
“Yes, Boss,” Degsy replied.
“Right. Well, let’s not detain the Officer any longer. I’m sure he’s itching to get back out on the street.” He smiled. “Thanks again for letting us know. I think it could be very significant.”
Degsy escorted Bartlett to the main office exit, chatting as they walked. As the officer wandered along the corridor, Lizzie came in.
“Sorry, Degs, I had to go to the loo and then the cleaner got chatting. I thought I was never going to get away.”
When they’d run through the composite of the CCTV from the area of the scene, Thurstan said: “Just play that again, Derek. The bit two or three clips back. But this time can we slow it right down?”
Lizzie sat forward on her chair. “Yeah, I thought I saw something right at the end of it, just before the camera position changed.”
Degsy replayed the section but now in slow, slow time.
“What’s that? Re-run it.” Thurstan screwed up his eyes and pointed to the screen. “That’s it! Stop!”
They all peered at the screen which now showed a colour still picture.
It was slightly blurry, but it was unmistakably the image of a street cleaner pushing a cart.
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13th March 2014
Nicks entered the India Building from the Water Street entrance and strolled along the ornate shopping arcade admiring its coffered barrel-vaulted ceiling, pendant lights and shops with their decorative bronze fronts. It was one of Liverpool’s hidden gems.
He stopped now and then to look into one or two of the shop windows: he had time to spare before heading for his appointment at the safety deposit bank.
He’d just turned from the sweet shop when he saw them. Four suits entering the Brunswick Street entrance. Two looked like bosses, one in particular, he felt he’d seen before. The third, with slightly dishevelled elegance, was Rupert Sackville. But it was the fourth who’d caught his attention most. He’d worked with him briefly on a couple of firearms jobs. The last Nicks heard he’d done a bodyguard course.
They’d stopped at the entrance to the alcove where the lifts were situated, discussing something. The bodyguard wasn’t interested. He was too busy eyeballing his immediate surroundings, standing passively with his hands crossed over each other at trouser belt level.
The position of his hands told Nicks he was right-handed.
Too far away to register as a threat, a couple of paces took him further as he feigned interest in something in the window. Another glance, this time through the glass entrance doors behind them; a people carrier, another suit, younger, sunglasses, left-hander.
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They moved into the alcove; he knew where they were going. Walking back towards the Water Street entrance, he took his phone out, pressed the speed dial and after a few seconds said: “Hi, I’ve got an appointment for ten-thirty this morning. I’m afraid I’m going to have to cancel. Certainly, my name’s Ian Hughes. Yes, would the day after tomorrow be ok? Eleven o’clock? That’ll be great. Have a nice day.”
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After an early life of car theft, during which he’d been fortunate enough to meet Rupert Sackville, Tony MacMahon graduated to armed robbery. He drove for the big boys and made decent money which he didn’t splash around. Sackville had taught him that, as well as suggesting some very useful investments.
He’d known Rupert was gay from the start; it hadn’t been a concern for him. The man was damned good at his job. With his wisely chosen barristers for Tony’s sporadic Crown Court appearances, he’d kept him free from convictions. He knew Rupert was ‘fond’ of him, he’d been careful to nurture that ‘fondness’ whilst making it plain where his own preferences lay.
With Rupert’s counselling, he’d seen the writing on the wall. The police had bought themselves a shiny new helicopter and he knew it would catch him sooner rather than later, so he’d bought himself a small local vehicle recovery concern and, by way of not-so-subtle aggressive marketing, built it up to be the flagship of its kind within the county. A lucrative contract with several insurance companies followed. A small clothing shop was purchased for his wife Lisa.
They both had a natural ability for the wheeling and dealing required for success and had gone from strength to strength. He’d acquired several more legitimate companies. They actually turned over excellent profits and had been doing so for years. Meanwhile, Lisa’s clothing store expanded into all the Northwest’s major towns and 95
cities and Tony even made sure the Taxman was happy and was getting a share, although not as large as it should have been.
He was a good businessman, but he found being legal just too easy.
Missing the ‘buzz’ of criminal activity and life on the edge, he went into the import/export business. Importing drugs and exporting violence.
Tony MacMahon had, in reality, always fancied himself as a sort of Godfather figure and that’s exactly what he’d become to some.
Ruthless and benevolent in equal measure, he would beat someone with a baseball bat, or have them beaten, then pay for them to be privately treated in the best hospitals available.
Silence ensured a return to the fold, at a lower position of responsibility. Those who failed to see sense would find themselves and their families physically and mentally intimidated until they did.
Then, he’d be generous. Occasionally though, he’d had Tommy Cole despatch them to a better place. Not necessarily better for them, just better for him and Tommy.
He’d cash financed other things; two transport companies, two property developers, a travel agency and, of course, there was the funeral company. His involvement was untraceable. He didn’t appear on the list of directors or anything else that could connect him to any of them but he took a cut of the legal profits and the lion’s share of the illegal ones.
The Funeral Directors didn’t generate any illegal earnings but it’d been very useful on several occasions allowing him and Tommy to dispose of a problem body in the same coffin as a legal customer.
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He’d money and property all over the place. True, based on the wealth the Sunday Times thought he had, he hadn’t made their Rich List, but what did they know? With regard to where his money actually was, Lisa knew only half the story. Only he and Rupert Sackville knew the full picture.
But now it was time, he’d thought, to sit back and think about enjoying it. No point in pushing his luck. He’d take the entire family, parents and all, somewhere nice and warm to live. Spain seemed favourite. They all enjoyed Spain.
Unfortunately, Tony hadn’t been able to concentrate on setting a date yet. He’d a little problem. She was 5′4″ and called Monique.
Whilst he loved his wife, more than anything else he loved his kids.
But, he also loved the thrill and danger of playing away from home and he’d had a string of mistresses over the years.
His wife, Lisa, was a formidable woman, still attractive at forty-five and hard as nails. She’d told him a long time ago; if she ever found out he was cheating on her she would take his kids and make sure the only time he ever saw them would be in a burger bar, one Sunday a month; if he was lucky. He knew she’d do it.
Monique had been fun, twenty-eight years old, vibrant and carefree but sadly naïve enough to believe he loved her. When he’d tried to end what was for him just another affair she’d threatened to tell Lisa everything. He couldn’t understand what her problem was. He’d set her up in her own apartment on the docks, bought her a nice car, jewellery and lined her bank account with enough cash to keep her comfortable for quite a while, all untraceable to him, but she just 97
wouldn’t let it lie. Insisting he loved her, she kept saying Lisa should know her marriage to him was history. He couldn’t, under any circumstances, let that happen. She was a ticking time bomb. She had to go.
His meeting with the intermediary had gone well. The guy seemed to know his stuff and he’d come highly recommended by out-of-town contacts. Tony paid 50% up front with the rest to follow within days of completion. He was surprised but pleased the plan was ready to be actioned that very evening, the intermediary having two experienced Birmingham associates in Liverpool ready and waiting for the word, which Tony readily gave.
But there’d also been “that weasel Kehoe” to deal with. His police source earned his money with that one. He’d known they had a snitch somewhere in the business but hadn’t thought it would be Alfie. The lad had reminded him of his early self and he’d actually liked the little fuck. It was unforgivable.
He knew Tommy Cole got a big kick from dealing out some protracted slow torture with the offer of forgiveness for an admission being swiftly followed by savage realisation. Yeah, Tommy would make Alfie Kehoe his plaything for as long as he kept him breathing.
They had a long history together, all the way back to the old days of the vehicle recovery firm, but Tony was aware Tommy had become increasingly ambitious. He’d started conducting his own business on the back of “the firm” and the realisation he shouldn’t have taken him into his confidence so early about his retirement thoughts had now 98
sunk in. It had given Tommy too much time to think and thinking wasn’t Tommy’s greatest strength. Tony knew he would screw it up.
Ostensibly, nothing in their relationship had changed but it was there. He could feel it. He’d always relied on him, but he’d never trusted him completely. That’s why he’d got his little insurance policy, the photos from Oglet Lane, where Tommy had done his bidding. It had cost him a pretty penny, but the ex-Special Forces guys, whose motto was ‘who pays wins’, had done a great job.
Tommy was planning an early change of management, he felt sure.
He knew he wouldn’t have the patience to wait. No point in stalling any longer. He had to sort Tommy before Tommy sorted him. Well, that had been the plan.
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15th March 2014
Simon watched Nicks arrange the bank notes in his wallet in denomination order, Queen’s head facing forward. They were in the cafe of the Merseyside Maritime Museum.
“So how many do you need?” he eventually asked him.
“Two,” Nicks replied, replacing his wallet in the side pocket of his combat pants, satisfied with his work. “I’ve written the names down on the back and here’s the old IDs. I still need one set for the next hotel.”
He slid a small white envelope containing three debit cards and driving licences across the table to Simon, who glanced at the names Nicks had written before placing it in his pocket with a smile. “Ok, I’ll get them onto it straight away.”
It was normal practice. Nicks would supply them beforehand with identities he felt comfortable with, and they’d produce standard packages of a debit or credit card and driving licence in each name.
Out of boredom, he started to throw in the occasional name that made up a phrase or could be amusing if written in the right form. No one appeared to notice, which served only to entertain him even more.
Recent efforts included: Richard Spring, Jack Goff and Michael Hunt.
“Oh, and I’ll remind them to put the cancellation in for just after ten o’clock tomorrow morning if that’s ok?” Simon looked at him for confirmation.
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“Fine,” Nicks replied. “I’ll have a coffee and an almond slice while I’m waiting for the text.”
It was simple. A booking would be made and later cancelled, taking advantage of hotel cancellation policies. Nicks would receive confirmation and then walk in off the street asking if they had a room free. Seemingly by chance, they always did and he’d produce a debit card as security and the driving licence as his ID, should it be required.
If the hotel photocopied his ID for their records, it mattered not because the photo driving licences were produced with an inbuilt transparent layer acting in a similar way to number plates designed to thwart traffic cameras. It was the same with any photo ID he used.
Hotel staff very rarely took much notice of photocopies showing a photo too dark to be of any significant use as long as the personal details were visible. If they did comment on it Nicks would apologise and state it was all he had. Faced with losing business over such a triviality the toner always got blamed.
All the bank cards would withstand scrutiny and related to accounts inserted into the relevant banks’ computer systems, complete with a record of payments in and out. Normally, he paid in cash but if he had to bug out before settling the bill the charged card would always pay out. No names were used twice and all accounts would subsequently be deleted.
“You having another one?” Nicks asked, sipping his latte whilst considering whether to finish it or make it last.
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“No, I need to get back to work, they’ll be wondering where I am,”
Simon replied as his phone buzzed in his jacket pocket. Reading it he frowned.
“You’re going to need to hang around a bit longer than expected,”
he said apologetically.
“Why?”
Simon shrugged. “Not sure at the moment. It just said to put you on hold and they’d get back to me within a couple of days.”
Nicks sighed. “You’d better give me two more IDs.”
He scribbled another two names on the back of the envelope.
Standing up and putting on his coat, Simon replaced the envelope in his pocket. “I’ll get these sorted. Text you when they’re ready.”
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18th March 2014
DCI Baddeley and DI White stood in front of the team gathered in the main office. Chalkie called everyone to order then Thurstan stepped forward and began the briefing.
“Good morning everybody. Sorry for the early start, but we need all the time we can get. The body found in Potter’s Wood, close to the junction of Crank Road with Abbey Road, St Helen’s, has been confirmed to be that of Monica Jean Masterson, also known as Monique Masterson. She’d been strangled, stripped, rolled up in an old carpet and dumped just inside the fence line.”
Thurstan selected his words with care. He’d emphasised the word dumped, using it as much to convey his contempt for the person or persons who’d taken Monica’s life as to describe the reality of the situation in which her body had been left. Believing she deserved respect he would avoid referring to her as “the deceased”, “the body”
or “the victim”’ wherever possible. She had been and still was, Monica Jean.
He continued in a measured manner. “It’s evident whoever was responsible hoped to make it look like the work of our St Helens killer.
However, she’d not been sexually assaulted, her breasts and genitalia were intact and, therefore, due to this, and one or two other matters, our colleagues on the St Helens investigation team are satisfied this is not the work of their killer. This one is down to us now.” He paused for effect. “It appears whoever murdered Monica Jean lifted her over 103
the low fence and dropped her into the undergrowth. There’s no indication the perpetrator climbed in to straighten things up so we believe at least two people were involved in the placing of her body.
“From the roadway, she couldn’t be readily seen and initially anyone who did approach the fence close enough to notice would’ve simply seen an old rolled-up carpet and, I believe, think it to be the work of fly-tippers. From the condition of the body, it’s estimated she’d been there for around ten days before she was found, which puts her death roughly around the same day as Tony MacMahon’s.
“Her car was found in the car park at Calderstones Park, parked and secure. It’s a Fiat 500 Gucci model, light blue, which she’s owned for three months and paid £17,000 cash for. Not something she could easily afford, so, that and the fact her fingerprints were found in MacMahon’s car give rise to a strong suspicion that she was a mistress of his, but this has still to be confirmed. A local night patrol checked the car two days before her body was found and as there were no reports on it and, not surprisingly, Monica couldn’t be contacted, they placed an information marker on the Command and Control system.
“Forensically, we’ve gained nothing from it except her mobile phone on which there’s a text message from an unattributed phone saying, “Meet me at the usual place 1 am. Good news”. The car park itself, as you know, is well used during the day so any external evidence that may have been there is now, unfortunately, well gone.
The St Helens enquiry team are releasing some of the Matrix Disruption who’ll be conducting house-to-house enquiries from Allerton Police Station.” He turned to Arthur. “Their Supervision will 104
be controlling that aspect, Arthur, and of course any searches we need doing, so it’s business as usual for you.” He paused, surveying the room. “We don’t believe Monica Jean’s death is mere coincidence but the contrast in the modus operandi in respect of MacMahon’s killing would tend to suggest our killers are not the same, although we need to keep an open mind on this.
“DI White will be running the enquiry, assisted by DS Johnson, and they’ll now let you know who’s working on which enquiry and brief you accordingly so unless there are any questions you feel can’t wait until they brief you further, that’s all there is from me.” He paused again. The room was silent. "Oh, and local CID are providing extra personnel. I asked for five so we'll probably get three." He turned to his DI and added with a weak smile: “It’s all yours, Chalkie. We’ll speak later when you’re ready.”
Catching Degsy’s eye, Thurstan pointed to his watch flashing the five digits of his right hand and pointed to his office with his thumb.
Degsy nodded.
“Right, Derek, what have you got for me?” he said waving him towards a seat, five minutes later.
The DS shook his head, declining the offer. “We need to view this, Boss,” he said, placing a CD on Thurstan’s desk. “As you know, Sparky and Sandeep went down to Hertfordshire and picked up the witness footage from the guy on the balcony. Sandy downloaded the original file and we’ve had it copied.”
“So we’re off to the quiet room to view it?” Thurstan asked.
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“No, Boss. I had the IT Department put a player on your PC last night so we can view it here.” Degsy moved around Thurstan’s desk so he could access the computer. “Is it ok if I sit here?” he asked, indicating Thurstan’s chair. “It’ll just be easier to sort stuff out.”
“Help yourself,” Thurstan pulled up a small chair and sat next to him.
“Right, here we go,” Degsy said clicking ‘play’. “I looked at it last night. It’s not great and, as you’ll hear, he’s being distracted by his wife, which accounts for it being all over the place, but there are two bits of interest.”
They sat in silence watching a disjointed account of room, balcony, street, brick walls, pavement, road and sky with the odd fleeting glimpse of a human being.
When it finished, before Thurstan could make any comments, Degsy said: “The bits where we actually saw someone I’ve had isolated and…” He made several quick clicks through the disc menu.
“This first one shows the front of MacMahon’s BMW, then sweeps across the roadway and we see the figure… now, then it’s gone. OK, the second sequence; slightly longer, figure again, see the hand movement? I’ll play it again. I thought he was maybe talking into a microphone or something, so I got it blown up, but it’s hard to tell. It’s too blurred.”
Thurstan watched the replay with interest. “Just stop it there Derek.”
Degsy paused the footage.
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“It’s not good, but it looks to me like he’s got a beard, what do you think? Looks a bit middle eastern?” Thurstan ventured.
“Yeah, what I thought, Boss,” Degsy replied.
“And you’re right; he could be talking into a handheld mike. Just play it again.”
The Boss stared intently at the screen.
“Hmmm, it’s hard to tell, Derek. He could just be rubbing his nose and that bit looks like the thing people with beards tend to do. Have you ever noticed? They sort of run their hand around their mouth and chin. Or it could be he’s just doing that to cover his use of a microphone, who knows? Can’t we get a better enhancement?”
“I’ve asked, Boss. They tell me it’s the original resolution that’s the problem. His phone was only a cheapie. Can’t put pixels where pixels don’t exist,” Degsy replied, apologetically.
“Not your fault, Derek. Tell you what, let’s look at the first clip again.”
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18th March 2014
“What would you like?” asked the barmaid at Ma Boyle’s in the grandly named Tower Gardens, in reality not much more than a large alley.
“Two pints of Guinness, please, if you’ve got any left?” Simon replied, smiling, leaning on the bar. He nodded to the bar’s other patrons. The two men nodded back. He looked around the room. It was empty. He checked his watch. Maybe Don had been held up.
“Busy yesterday?” he asked the barmaid. It had been St. Patrick’s Day, or Paddy’s Day as Scousers preferred to call it. The barmaid rolled her eyes and the men chuckled.
“Did you get me a Guinness?” Nicks manoeuvred the bar stool and nodded to the two men as they tacitly helped Simon prevent any possibility of the bar counter collapsing. They nodded back.
“Yeah. You sort them out?” Simon answered. He was referring to the three Japanese tourists who’d asked them for directions as they’d been about to enter the bar.
“Yep. No guarantee they won’t still be wandering around at midnight though.” Nicks surveyed the room. “You checked downstairs?”
Simon looked up from inspecting the wooden bar top. “I thought it was only the toilets down there?”
“No, there’s another room,” Nicks replied, picking up the pint the barmaid had just placed on the counter and taking a mouthful.
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“Have you come to meet the posh fellah, love?” the barmaid enquired. Before either of them could answer she continued. “He’s downstairs waiting for you. He said he’ll pay for these.” She looked at the other pint of Guinness she was pulling. “It takes a while to settle.
I’ll bring it down to you.”
Thanking her, they descended the stairs into a dimly lit room where they found Don the only occupant, sitting at a table at the far end beside the ornate but closed bar, sipping what looked like a sherry.
“Thanks for coming, chaps,” Don smiled his usual pleasant façade.
He didn’t get up but just waved his hand indicating where they should sit.
“Right, Nicks. Sorry to have delayed your departure, but we have something that you may feel you could action whilst you’re here,”
Don continued in measured tones. “Unfortunately the window of opportunity has closed temporarily, but I thought I’d brief you anyway, knowing what your position is regarding matters you might view as political. Now, whilst there is a political aspect to this, I think you need to consider the finer detail.” He lifted his head as he saw the barmaid approaching with Simon’s Guinness and paused, holding his palm up to alert the others to the need for silence. Simon turned, received his drink and thanked her.
“If you need anything else just let me know,” she said, pleasantly.
“I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed.” She reserved a special smile for Don. She liked cultured men.
They sat in silence until she’d started to climb the stairs when Nicks said, “Ok, I’m listening.”
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Don took a deep breath and his normal cordial manner slipped away into the darkness of the room. He lowered his voice, leaning forward on the table. “The person subject of the proposed next action is a local ex-councillor who’s enjoyed high-level protection over the last thirty years. Not a prominent figure, I’d certainly never heard of him, but a man who ingratiated himself with many highly placed people with shared predilections for young boys, especially those aged eight to twelve years of age. He’s been able to secure his protection for so long because he had intimate knowledge and photographic evidence not just of sexual abuse, if that’s not bad enough, but also of sexually motivated murder and because he was, and still is, their procurement manager. He’s the provider of their dreams,” he said, matter-of-factly, taking a sip of sherry. “All this has been covered up using the excuse of “National Security”.
“These things would have brought Governments down, whatever party they were and probably still could. That’s the political aspect, but it’s not our major concern. Our concern is he’s still active, as are several of his protectors. For this, and every other Government, it’s been, very much, the elephant in the room, but we can’t allow it to continue. If we do, then we are as guilty as the perpetrators.”
Nicks sipped his beer, unconvinced as to “their” prime concern.
“Now, our chap had arranged for the procurement of a young boy specifically of the age of ten, preferably from a care home or other turbulent background without proper family ties. He wants this child for sexual pleasure which, we know, is to end in his death at the hands of a man who has, over the years, become increasingly sadistic. We 110
know this because we’ve an extremely well-placed informant.
Admittedly, the informant has their own agenda and unfortunately, we are having to pander to this person for the time being simply for the greater good. We also know our chap has the evidence I mentioned earlier because he’d squirrelled it away for many years to prevent the Security Service, or those purporting to be acting for them, from obtaining it. However, over the last few years, several people close to him have died, people to whom he’d entrusted relevant material, to be released in the event of his death, including his lawyer; traffic accidents, the odd suicide, that sort of thing. It spooked him into lodging them bit by bit with several high-security safety deposit banks.
Unfortunately for him, they’re all controlled by ourselves. Now we have it all.” He sipped his drink thoughtfully. “It was a very complex operation.”
“I assume you didn’t arrange a similar accident for the Councillor because you couldn’t control the release of information? So what’s stopping you now?” Nicks looked Don squarely in the eyes.
Don flashed a wan smile and seemed to squirm, momentarily.
“Look,” he said eventually, “we had to be able to control those files because there are people that have made silly mistakes in their lives.
Nothing on the scale of the main players, I hasten to add, but still things that could bring them down. We need these people, Nicks, at least in the short term. A sad fact of political life but it is essential, I assure you.”
“But why the need for what amounts to a public execution? Why not just another accident?” Simon asked.
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Nicks butted in but was looking at Don. “Because, Si, “just another accident” is not headline news but a public execution would be.
Mystery and intrigue. Maximum exposure?”
Don was looking a little flustered and delivered his answer with exasperation. “Well, it sends out a very clear message to those in the know, Nicks. Hopefully, the pack of cards will start to topple even before we have to exert pressure or release further details concerning those hard-faced enough to try to cling to their power or position.
Once our man is dead, we’ll begin feeding the evidence out into the public domain through selected journalists and publications.”
“What about the D notices the Government slap on the papers to prevent them from disclosing information against the national interest?
Isn’t that going to just close this whole idea down?” Nicks flashed him a quizzical look.
Don smiled condescendingly. “The Government can have as many of what are now called DA-Notices issued as they want. It’s not going to matter this time. There are certain members of parliament very keen to get their hands on this information and anyway,” Don concluded tetchily, “the notices themselves can’t be enforced. It’s a voluntary thing between the newspapers and the Government. We have journalists and publications who’ll simply just not comply anymore.”
It was obvious Don was not comfortable with the direction their questions were taking him. They all knew this was slightly more political than moral so Nicks changed the course of the conversation.
“You said earlier he’d arranged for a ten-year-old boy. What happened? Is that the reason for the delay?”
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Don nodded. “Yes. The boy to be procured got himself run over, nothing too serious, I’m glad to say, but he’s currently in Alder Hey Hospital and will be for some time so our councillor is having to get a replacement. You’ll have an updated intel package shortly.” He sat back from the table brushing some imaginary fluff from his trousers feeling he’d regained control of the conversation. “As soon as we have it we’ll get it to Simon and, of course, he’ll supply you with any further documentation you need.” He flashed Nicks a slick smile, stood up, and edged his way from behind the table whilst buttoning up his overcoat. “I can see you need time to consider the proposal, Nicks.
Just read the intel and briefing carefully. In the meantime, have yourself a little holiday in the city, visit a few museums, but make sure you’re available in any event. We are paying you after all. Don’t forget, we do have a young child’s life in our hands.” There was that smile again.
He started to walk away but suddenly stopped and called back:
“Try the Walker Art Gallery. There’s an exhibition of Walter Sickert’s paintings there. I know you like Sickert. Jack the Ripper and all that.”
Without another word, he turned and left.
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