The letter had been tucked between the pages of the Teach Yourself Italian book she’d kept in the drawer of her bedside table and which she’d bought in preparation for the holiday they’d planned but which she didn’t survive to take. It was addressed to My beautiful and wonderful husband.
It was some time before he was able to open it. When he did, his weeping made it impossible for him to see all that was written. Finally, sat on the kitchen floor, his face drawn and tear-stained, he’d managed the task.
She told him how much she loved him; how she’d adored him from their first meeting, how he’d been the answer to her prayer. She’d cherished their life together and whilst he might think the last year had been the worst, it had somehow also been the best. He was too young to be on his own for the rest of his life. She wanted him to find someone who could give him the love she knew he needed and to whom he could give all his love, as he’d given her. Finally, she told him he would always be able to feel her love and if there was something after this life, then she would be there for him.
Tears flowing down his cheeks, he remembered how he’d taken her to the bathroom and helped her wash; how she’d sat naked, looking up at him as he held her hand and stroked her hair.
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“I’m scared,” she’d suddenly said. He knew instinctively what she meant. She wasn’t afraid of death; it was the manner and what came next.
He’d told her she’d just go to sleep one evening and not wake up again, that there was either nothing or something and if there was nothing she’d nothing to worry about but if there was something, it would be nice.
It had taken all his strength to keep the tears at bay at that moment: it was not what she needed to see. Taking his hand, she’d kissed it gently, smiling up at him. All was well. She was happy.
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24th March 2014
“Boss, can I have a word?” Degsy stood in the doorway to the DCI’s office looking perturbed.
“Certainly, Derek, grab a seat,” Thurstan replied, looking up from the file on his desk. “What’s the problem? Family issues?”
“No, Boss, just something’s been bothering me since we viewed the
“Balcony Man” footage and I didn’t come to you earlier because, quite frankly, I thought you’d think it ridiculous. I thought it ridiculous, but I did some digging and whilst it may still be ridiculous, it’s not as ridiculous as it first seemed.”
“Derek,” Thurstan interrupted him. “Is this some sort of variation on the house-to-house game of trying to see how many times a certain word can be introduced into a conversation? Because if it is, I’ll tell you now, you’re the winner.” He smiled, but Degsy could detect a hint of impatience.
“No, Boss. I know I’m not explaining myself very well. The
“Balcony Man” video. You remember the movement the blurred figure made in the close-up?” He didn’t wait for a response. “Thumbs his nose and strokes his top lip and chin with his right hand. Well, I couldn’t shake the feeling I’d seen it before. Exact same thing. It’s been nagging at me. Then, I suddenly remembered. I went to a function at the Lady of Mann, Dickie Trimble’s retirement bash. Do you know him?”
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Thurstan shook his head, “No. I think I would remember a name like that. Go on,” he said dryly.
“Well, I saw a guy there who did the same thing, several times during the evening. Exactly like the clip. He had a beard, close-cut like our guy appears to have and it made him look a little bit Middle Eastern, again like our man.
“I didn’t know him, but I know a couple of the blokes who spoke to him so I engineered a meeting with one of them and casually enquired as to who he was. I said I thought I recognised him but couldn’t remember his name. Turns out he’s ex Job, always worked from the City and retired ten years ago. I should have left it there but I just had this… this thing… bugging me. So, I did some background checks on him and that’s where it got interesting.”
Thurstan reclined in the tall backed swivel chair he’d inherited from his predecessor, hands clasped under his chin with his two index fingers pressed to his lips like a miniature church spire. “Go on, Derek, I’m listening.”
Degsy took a deep breath. “He’s ex Firearms so I went to the Training Unit and managed to speak to one of the instructors who, as it happened, knew him. He let me see the old records.” He paused for effect. “This guy, Boss, was apparently shit hot. Top scores every time. The Instructor said he was a natural shot. The handguns they were using then were the Sig 226. It’s on our list of possibles from forensic, Boss.” Degsy looked for a reaction but received only:
“Go on.”
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“Well, I checked our pension provider, to get his current whereabouts. They gave me his next of kin details and the account they pay his police pension into.” Thurstan looked at him quizzically.
“You were at a meeting, Boss, so I got DI White to sign the authorisation,” Degsy offered as explanation for his DCIs lack of knowledge of the enquiry. “Anyway, his account is in Crosby which is the same as his last known address and it’s where his parents live as well. I did a voters check which came up negative for him but confirmed his parents are still there. So I did some online research and found he bought his house in 2002 but sold it again five years ago. I found the Estate Agent who dealt with it and confirmed.”
“So where is he now? Do we know?” Thurstan inquired, thoughtfully.
“Not exactly, Boss. The colleague who gave me the initial info said he’d been told he was living in Berlin.”
He was silent for a few seconds. Thurstan could see there was something else he wanted to say so said nothing, silently inviting him to fill the conversational gap. Degsy cleared his throat.
“And I had a little look at his bank account.”
Getting up from his desk, Thurstan slowly wandered over to the window overlooking headquarters car park. He stood gazing out of it.
Degsy adjusted his tie and brushed some fluff from his trousers.
“Did we get a court order to access his account?” Thurstan eventually said.
“Well...Umm...”
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Thurstan turned and looked at him, his eyebrows raised in a question Degsy knew said: “Please tell me you did.”
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. This was the bit he hadn’t been looking forward to. Thurstan’s expression changed to one that conveyed the message “You twat.”
“I’m sorry, Boss. I really am,” Degsy mumbled.
“Then why did you do it? What on earth possessed you?” Thurstan asked calmly.
Degsy shrugged his shoulders. “I know. I just thought there wasn’t enough to … and anyway I know someone who works at the bank.
They owed me a favour.”
“I hope we’re not adding blackmail to the list now, Derek?”
He shook his head. “No, Boss, it’s not that sort of favour. They’re a good friend. They just took a little look for me and it seems the guy’s never withdrawn any cash outside the UK using their cards, but he does make a sizeable monthly payment to another card provider.
Sometimes as much as £3000.”
Thurstan shrugged. “So he’s using another card to make cash withdrawals. So what?”
“But my contact has a mate who works for the other provider and...
well... it appears there’s something odd about the way he’s withdrawing it. He said they couldn’t tell me anything else without the right paperwork; more than their jobs are worth.” The errant DS gave him a sheepish grin.
“Oh, I’m so glad I’m not the only one who thinks it’s important.”
Thurstan scolded him. He looked out of the window again and sighed.
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“Ok, I want it done properly though. No shortcuts. No circumventing procedures. Let’s get court orders and see what the banks can tell us about him. We’ve no other leads at present so it would be foolish not to.” He returned to his desk, picked up his mug, swilled its contents around and took a mouthful of cold coffee.
“So what’s his name, Derek?”
“It’s Chris Nickson, Boss. Christopher Peter Francis Nickson.”
120
After 5 years on the beat, he became one of his Division’s responses to incidents involving guns. There weren’t many in those days and he’d carried a revolver on just two occasions. The only time he took the weapon out of the holster was to put it back in the station gun safe.
Later, he was posted to a specialist unit. It provided house-to-house enquiry teams for major crimes: murders, rapes, serious assaults and teams to search through dustbins and rubbish tips; grubby excrement littered alleyways, woodland and open spaces. He’d escorted dangerous prisoners and nuclear loads, been part of armed containment teams and, ahead of VIP visits, he’d searched for bombs.
The unit was the Force’s first responder to any incident involving large-scale public disorder, a term much preferred by the police hierarchy in place of the word riot which, once declared, made the Force liable under the Riot Damages Act to pay compensation for any harm caused to businesses by failure to efficiently quell the disturbance. The unit’s riot tactics were consequently innovative and very robust.
Performing both uniform and plain clothes crime patrols and unencumbered by routine calls for police involvement, it concentrated on locating and outwitting car thieves, burglars, muggers, robbers, drug dealers, pickpockets and ram raiders. Such people were cunning and resourceful, but not cunning enough to evade the attention of the 121
circling shark that was an OSD patrol. That needed a criminal genius and they were few and far between. Unloved by the local criminal fraternity they were relentless and successful; without fear or favour.
Promoted to Sergeant, he was sent to the suburbs, responsible for supervising street patrols. It was there one evening, the seemingly chance encounter that led to his becoming an SFO.
The training was intensive. Becoming proficient in numerous weapons, raiding techniques, methods of entry and rescuing hostages, he joined another specialist unit. This one had two distinct groups. The Snipers, seldom seen by the public due to their predilection for dressing as the occasional tree, bush or lump of grass and the Entry Teams, who were the glamour boys; black-clad, balaclavered, bristling with weapons. Nicks bought a pair of shades.
On a call-out system for live operations, whether performing normal duties, training or resting, permanently attached to a pager and forbidden alcohol, the effects of the call-out system were any time, any day, no matter what they were doing. If the pager said “job on”, they went. Jobs could last from several hours to twenty-four.
No aspect of personal life was safe from interruption and the job wasn’t quite as attractive as his recruiter or the posters made out; a stakeout in the back of a van with eight other guys who’d all been on a curry fest the night before was nowhere near as pleasant as it sounded.
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28th March 2014
Thurstan sat himself down in Chalkie’s Office.
“Mervyn! How’s things going?”
“Who told you?”
“Well, it’s a long story but I met your sister in Sainsbury’s.”
Thurstan smiled.
Chalkie sighed. “That woman just can’t stop gabbing.”
“Does your wife call you Mervyn?” Thurstan was feeling playful.
“No, we met in the Army so she’s always called me Chalkie.” He caught the enquiring look. “It’s my mum’s fault. She was very fond of her great uncle back in Jamaica so I got stuck with it.”
“Never thought of a name change?”
“I did once but the wife thought Dash Riprock was a bit over the top.” He smiled. “What about you... Stan?”
Thurstan grimaced. “Oooh, below the belt but point taken. Back to business. Where are we up to?”
“Well, we’ve had a bit of a breakthrough,” Chalkie, magnanimous in victory, pointed at his cup with an enquiring look. The DCI shook his head. “House-to-house came up with a report of a black BMW
seen in the early hours of the morning. It was stationary on Crank Road opposite the no-entry signs to Abbey Road. The witness is a local man cycling home from work. Didn’t get a registration number.
Just thought it odd. He can say there were only two on board, but he 123
didn’t get a great look at them. Just said he thought they were both men and the driver looked foreign.”
“Looked foreign? In what way?” Thurstan looked quizzical.
“Can’t say.” Chalkie paused and looked apologetic before continuing. “It was just an impression. Anyway, we trawled the systems for anything involving a black BMW and Camera Enforcement came up with the image of one bursting the lights on the East Lancs junction with Rainford bypass. We checked the number plate and it now shows up as stolen.”
Chalkie lifted his hand to halt Thurstan who was about to interrupt.
“There’s more. The PNC has a marker on it showing the vehicle was recovered by West Mids from a scrap yard they raided as part of a Forcewide operation later that day. Seems it was about to be crushed.
No reports on it at the time and it took them two weeks to locate the owner because he was out of the country on business.
“Meanwhile, the DI in charge wasn’t happy, so he had forensic give it the once over straight away. They retrieved a few samples and we’ve now run them against those we took from Monica.” He paused for effect. “There’s no doubt, Thurstan. She was in the boot of that car.”
The DCI put his “I’m impressed” face on. “Good news, Chalkie. I take it they have someone in custody?”
“Yep.” He leant back in his chair twiddling a pen. “Several, but the main interest to us is the owner of the scrap yard and a Lithuanian worker. Their fingerprints are the only ones from the workers there found in and on the vehicle. Not quite damning evidence, given the 124
nature of the place, but it gives us something to target. I’ve sent Lizzie and Fred down to do a first interview.”
“Good cop, bad cop?” Thurstan chuckled.
Chalkie smiled back. “You could say that. Not sure which is which.
They’re both good at this sort of thing. Fred just adds a little touch of physical street cred, I always think.”
“I’m sure he does. What other enquiries are you making? Routes back? Probably motorway would be the first port of call.”
“We’re all over it.” The DI drained his now cold coffee and grimaced. “Ikky and the Strolling Bone are doing Lymm Services to Crewe inclusive and the Foetus and Spud are doing Keele to Hilton Park. From the location of the scrap yard, our suspects would have come off the motorway just after that last services. That’s it really, except to say Lizzie and Fred are going to liaise with West Mids and access their intel system.”
“Great!” Thurstan rose from the chair. “At least I’ll have some good news to tell the Chief this afternoon. I’d best get something to eat, he’s brought the meeting forward to one o’clock. You ready for anything?”
Chalkie nodded, stood up and dragged his jacket off the back of the chair.
Thurstan stared out of the window. “Shame nothing actionable came back from the NCA regarding MacMahon.”
Chalkie shrugged. “Yeah, but my mate’s pretty certain it’s not an outside crew. Says their contacts are impeccable. Suggests we either look again in-house or we look out of the box.”
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Signing out, they walked along the main corridor towards the lifts.
Behind them, Arthur pressed the remote and the office telly sprang to life; the national news main story was the multiple raids carried out in various parts of the country by the “Anti-Terror Police”. Arms and explosives had been recovered and fifteen suspects were in custody.
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With time on his hands, Nicks embarked on a series of visits to Museums and Art Galleries, his favourite being the Walker in William Brown Street, opposite the magnificent St.George’s Hall.
He and Anca had met each other for the first time there. Staring at a Walter Sickert painting in fascination, he’d become aware of someone standing behind him. He’d turned, briefly, and she’d smiled at him saying: “It’s interesting, isn’t it? Do you know the story of the artist?”
and so began a conversation that led to Nicks buying her a coffee in the café downstairs and eventually to their life together in Romania.
He broke up the intensity of his cultural activity with a couple of trips out. The Lake District, staying at the Sun in Coniston from where he trekked up the Old Man and Helvellyn and then on to North Wales where from Penmaenpool he hiked Cadair Idris, on the pony trail from Tŷ Nant farm and spent a pleasant fifteen minutes at the top, chatting with another loner whilst drinking sweet tea from the man’s flask.
Now, with only the Museum of Liverpool left on his bucket list he’d run out of ideas. There should have been a badge for this sort of thing.
127
p.m. 28th March 2014
Thurstan took off his jacket and was hanging it on the stand when Degsy tapped on the open door. “Got a moment, Boss? Just want to update you on some stuff.”
The DCI turned beckoning him in. “Yes, please do. Just been doing the same for the Chief at the weekly conference.”
Degsy sat down, sorting through the papers he’d brought with him.
“How did it go?” he said absently.
“Hmmm, could have been better. Despite the breakthrough in the Masterson job, he wasn’t impressed when I told him we still had no suspects for MacMahon,” Thurstan threw his mobile in the top drawer, closed it and sat down at his desk.
“So you didn’t mention Nickson then, Boss?”
“No, Derek, I didn’t. Best kept to ourselves, for now. I looked a big enough twat as it was.” Thurstan stacked the files on his desk into a neater pile, lifted the thinnest one off the top and dropped it on his blotter placing the rest on the floor to the side.
“Before you start,” he said opening the file, “I made some quick enquiries myself. Just for anything unusual in and around his parent’s and former address. The only thing of note is his parent’s neighbour died, in February 2012. Nothing so unusual about that we might think.
People die all the time except this neighbour was a right pain in the arse, drug dealer and all-round little shit. I’ve had a good look through the file. Local CID investigated, and it seems he fell down the stairs 128
and broke his neck during an alcohol and drug binge one-man party. I can’t find anything to contradict the findings but it just makes me wonder though. Idle speculation at the moment. Anyway, it’s there.”
He dropped the file on the front of his desk. “Take a look at it later and tell me what you think.” He leant forward expectantly, his elbows on the desk, hands clasped together supporting his chin. “Right! What have you got? Please tell me you’ve got something.”
Degsy handed him a sheaf of papers. “These are the printouts of his bank account and credit card transactions since he retired. I’ve seen the previous stuff, nothing interesting there. The thing is, in the year after retirement, he’s paid off his mortgage and taken quite a few holidays, generally spending what’s left of his pension payout. This was the time his wife was being treated for ovarian cancer. Note, he’s only using the credit card for holidays and internet payments. She dies in 2007 and everything becomes more mundane, just everyday stuff.
He appears to have hit the booze though, judging by his credit card use in off licences all over Crosby. Understandable, in the circumstances.”
“Yeah, and I’d say he was trying to hide the fact, publicly, by spreading his purchases around,” Thurstan murmured thoughtfully.
Degsy continued. “In 2009 he gets another credit card, from another provider. This one’s best used abroad and gives the best exchange rates and charges. Early 2010 we start seeing withdrawals from the Berlin cashpoints. Seems normal but suddenly he starts taking out maximum amounts in blocks. Four, five day period usually but not always every month.” He paused.“This one’s interesting, though.” He stood up and leaned over Thurstan’s desk, sorting through 129
the papers, pointing to an entry three-quarters of the way down the page. “April 2013. Three withdrawals in Berlin followed by one in Budapest. It’s the only break in his usual routine.” He sat down again.
Thurstan rescanned the pages. “Hmmm ... interesting. A little slip up perhaps? He’s like a squirrel hoarding nuts to get him through winter until he can get to the tree again. Thing is, there’s no shortage of these particular trees in Germany and particularly not in Berlin.
Smells like he’s trying to cover something up.”
He paused thoughtfully. “I think he wants people to believe he lives in Berlin, certainly that he lives in Germany. Odd though. I might have believed elsewhere in Germany but Budapest? That’s intriguing. Find out what’s near the man in the wall he used there, travel links, that sort of thing.” He shuffled through the papers again as Degsy sat silently making some notes. “I see he’s still using the credit cards online. He’s going to leave a trace there, Derek. Have you done anything about tracing his IP address?”
Degsy felt a little smug and hoped it didn’t show. “Yeah, Boss.
Gandalph took a look at that for me. Nickson’s using IP addresses all over the place. It seems he’s using Tor.”
“What’s that?” Thurstan’s face screwed up.
“It’s a software program you load onto your computer, like a browser, and it hides your IP address every time you send or request data on the Internet. It’s heavy-duty encrypted and bounces everything through a shit load of servers all around the world. It’s never the same route because it uses up to 6,000 different relays to send the stuff.”
Degsy sat back and looked apologetic.
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Thurstan chuckled inwardly when he saw Degsy’s slightly dejected look. “Not your fault, Derek. I’d like to think the Security Service would be able to do something about that, but it’d probably need some pretty high-level clearance and we’re a long way off at the moment.
No, let’s see what some good old-fashioned police work can do before we head down that thorny path,” he said, smiling benignly.
“Incidentally, if he’s buying stuff on the Internet, where’s he having it delivered?”
“Parents’ address, ever since he sold his house. If you look at the sheets with the results of the Border Agency enquiry, you’ll see it shows every time he’s been in and out of the country. Generally, tallys with his online purchases. If you turn the page over you’ll see I’ve highlighted that he’s not left yet, he’s still here and...” He paused.
“There’s a ten-month period 2011 into 2012 with February right in the middle when he wasn’t in the country.”
Thurstan was pensive. He rubbed his chin with his hand and made a little sucking sound from the side of his mouth then exhaled deeply.
Never one to give up easily, he finally said, “Well, not as far as we can tell, Derek. He may’ve entered and left at some stage using false identification. If he is our shooter I certainly wouldn’t discount it.” He slouched back in his chair, elbows on the armrests, hands clasped in front of him with his forefingers pressed against his lips, eyes closed.
Degsy sat silently watching him.
After several minutes Thurstan got up and closed the office door.
Sitting down again he said:
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“This isn’t just about this Nickson chap and the little oddities that seem to surround him. I’ll be honest with you, Derek. Throwing coincidence out the window for the time being, this MacMahon job has a level of organisation and, dare I say, sophistication that disturbs me. The CCTV interference, the mystery street cleaner, the convenient white van.” He paused and let out a slow, thoughtful sigh. “I think it’s too much for organised crime. It smells of something much bigger.”
He paused again. “I went for a drink the other night, with an old Army friend who’s now in Cheshire SB. He told me something interesting.
Did you see the news the other day? The item about the anti-terrorist exercise in Delamere Forest?”
Degsy nodded. “Yeah, I did, Boss, and I see there’s just been a load of arrests. Connected?”
“I think so,” Thurstan replied then leaned forward and spoke quietly. “I’m telling you this, Derek, in the strictest confidence and it’s not to be taken beyond these four walls.”
Degsy looked back at him seriously. “I understand, Boss. You can rely on me.”
Thurstan looked him intently in the eyes. “I know I can, Derek. I wouldn’t be telling you otherwise. Well,” he continued in a subdued tone, “we were discussing jobs and cases, as you do, and got to speaking about the MacMahon job when my friend remarked about the
“old silenced headshot” making a popular return. I asked him what he meant and he looked a bit sheepish as if he’d given something away he shouldn’t have. Naturally, I pressed him on the matter, but he wasn’t having it so I plied him with several more drinks until he’d relaxed 132
somewhat, well, quite a lot actually.” He smiled before continuing,
“Well, it seems it wasn’t an exercise at Delamere. They had an incident there that left three Islamic fundamentalists dead, apparently surprised whilst recording an attempt to cut another Muslim’s head off. To keep it to the point, Derek, headshots, semi-automatic pistol, witnesses nearby who should have heard something but didn’t.” He paused shaking his head. “To me, that means it was probably a suppressed weapon. Furthermore, it seems MI5 had them under surveillance but when they went mobile several traffic situations, as my friend put it, occurred which resulted in a loss. Coincidence? I think not. That’s organisation and sophistication, Derek. Anyway, MI5
locked it down and it’s for theirs and SB's eyes only now.”
He took a deep breath. “And, I didn’t tell you before, but I think you should know now, Matrix and the NCA wouldn’t be making so much progress cracking open MacMahon’s little empire without the information and documents Sackville provided to them. I’m quite sure Rupert would never have given this stuff up voluntarily unless someone had put him in fear of his life and I think that fear was instilled in him, not by Tommy Cole as he thinks, but by someone masquerading as a messenger from Tommy Cole.”
The DCI slowly shook his head. “No, Cole wouldn’t have sent a messenger round. It’s not his style. It may have been MacMahon’s, but it’s not Tommy’s. He’d have gone himself and turned the screws all night until Rupert had to tell him. He may have sent some thugs round to his mum’s place as leverage, but that’s as sophisticated as Tommy gets. Meanwhile, it appears he’s happy to believe Sackville’s legged it 133
to Spain. No doubt he thinks it keeps Rupert out of our clutches. No, it was never Cole threatening him and I think it’ll be quite some time before Tommy figures out the Matrix have Rupert and his mother in a safe house in darkest Cheshire.”
Degsy allowed himself a little smile. “Nice one”, he said tilting his head in appreciation before adding, “I know Tommy Cole isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed but didn’t he bother to check the airport at least?”
“Oh, he did, and the neighbours. Matrix had someone insert the holiday flights into the airport systems and they even had Sackville prime next door,” Thurstan replied.
“So where does this take us, Boss?” Degsy was intrigued and a little confused.
Thurstan leant back, rubbed his eyes and then ran a hand through his hair. “What we have here, I believe, are two well-organised and co-ordinated assassinations followed by intense police activity leading to some very positive results after probably months or years of the case being in the too-hard-to-solve box. No, I don’t think that’s just a coincidence.”
Degsy contemplated the information and then said: “So you think the killer is the same person or people?”
“In a nutshell, Derek, yes,” Thurstan said bluntly.
“And they’re doing it so…?”
“They’re doing it, I think, so the police and MI5 have to do something. It’s like standing at the edge of a swimming pool when you can’t swim, or at least you’re not a confident swimmer, and the 134
instructor or someone just nudges you off balance into the water. You have to do something. Most people swim.” The DCI looked pleased with his explanation.
“What if they drown?” Degsy replied with an apologetic half-smile.
Thurstan frowned. “They won’t drown, Derek, because there’s always someone there to save them. Just like now.”
“But... Nickson? He’s… he’s ex-job, Boss.” Degsy shook his head.
“It’s not easy to believe.”
They looked at each other in silence which Thurstan broke first. “I definitely think these jobs are connected. As for Nickson... well, he appears to have the skills and he appears to be up to something.” He leant back in his chair and discarded the pencil he’d been twiddling.
“Anyway, you were the one who flagged him up in the first place.”
Degsy managed to return a look combining doubt, determination and apology all at the same time. “I know, Boss, but I only did it because it was nagging at me and I just wanted to get it off my chest, just in case. You know how it is. I mean, a one-off for revenge I could understand, but this is a whole different thing.”
Again silence then Degsy continued, “I admit, he has got an odd life map at present so I feel a little better about it, but I think the possibilities have just hit me. I mean ... we’re talking ...” He paused, struggling for words, shaking his head again. “It’s like …I don’t know....the dark side.”
A flicker of a smile wandered across Thurstan’s mouth. “I know what you mean,” he said. “I knew people when I was in Northern 135
Ireland who you’d never have thought it of but they ended up working for shadowy organisations, often never officially recognised.
“Now, I’ve no idea who these people are, Derek. I don’t know if we could be dealing with MI5, MI6 or some other Agency we know nothing whatsoever about. I don’t know if it’s rogues in the system or something entirely different. I’m fairly certain though, the connection between our job and this job out in Delamere is who organised it. If Tony MacMahon had any Security Service or terrorist connections of any sort, I’m sure they’d have shut us down by now.”
He stared at his DS for several moments before saying quietly, “I think we should tread very carefully, Derek, and I thought you needed to know.” He flashed him a look combining apology, encouragement and invitation. “Well, are you still game?”
Degsy looked back at him and shrugged. “Yeah. I’m in.”
Thurstan stretched his arms and stood up. “Fine. I think we could both do with some fresh air. After a quick comfort break and a drink, I think it’s time we gave Nickson’s parents a little visit. See what happens if we shake the tree. We’ll work out our story on the way.”
He grinned. “Time to go fishing.”
136
At the Pier Head, from the stone seating outside the Museum of Liverpool, Nicks watched as a couple tried to eat ice cream whilst they were being dive-bombed by two seagulls. After days on the tourist trail, he was just about full. His phone rang.
“Hi, Mum. How’s things?”
“Oh, it’s you, Christopher!” she exclaimed. “We thought you’d been kidnapped by pirates.”
“And why on earth would pirates want to do that, Mum?”
He knew what was coming next.
“Well, it’s been so long since we’ve seen you, or heard from you for that matter, anything could have happened. Why don’t you pop up for tea tonight? I’ve got some lovely lamb shanks in the oven on slow.” she ended hopefully.
“Firstly, Mum, I was there last week.” He looked at the date on his watch. “In fact, only five days ago. Secondly, I might have to work tonight. I’m expecting a call later so don’t put anything in for me. I’ll give you a call before nine, if I can make it, but I probably won’t be there.” He tilted the phone from his mouth as he sighed and rolled his eyes.
“Alright, love, and if you can’t make it, I know someone who will have the spare for his supper. Oh! I almost forgot. Your father needs to talk to you about the two very nice policemen who called for you this afternoon.” She made it sound as if they were two school friends 137
calling to see if he could come out to play. Before he could ask her for more information, she was gone and he could hear her calling: “Frank, I’ve got our Chris on the phone!”
He waited, listening to the sound of his father approaching. He’d probably been in the garden.
“Hi, son. Everything OK?”
“Yeah, Dad. Couldn’t be better,” he lied. He could have been in Romania, with Anca. “What’s Mum on about two policemen?”
“Oh, we had a visit from two detectives. They said you may have witnessed some incident in the city centre the other day and they needed to speak to you about it. Are you sure everything’s alright?”
He couldn’t hide the genuine concern in his voice.
It didn’t go unnoticed on Nicks. “Yeah. It’s fine, Dad. Nothing for you to worry over. I know what it’s about. Did they leave a contact number at all?” He pulled the small notebook with its little pencil out of the leg pocket of his combat pants.
“I’ll just get the business card the older one gave me, hang on.”
Frank put the phone down and Nicks could hear the semi-comedic conversation between his parents as they did their “where did we put it” routine. Suddenly, the phone was picked up and Nicks began noting down the details he was being given. DCI Thurstan Baddeley.
Why was he not surprised?
“Are you sure there isn’t anything wrong, son? It’s just that the younger one asked if he could use the toilet, so we let them in and your mother took him upstairs to show him where it is while I had the other one wait in the living room. I had to go and sort out your mum’s 138
cup of tea in the kitchen, you know she doesn’t like it stewed, and I saw the older one through the hatch, using his phone to take a picture of that photo of you when you were in the Firearms Team. You know the one? It’s on the nest of tables in the corner. Then they asked about the neighbour, the one that died.”
Nicks forced a laugh. “Stop worrying, Dad. Even I can’t recognise myself from that photo.” He wanted to dispel any fears they had but had to ask, “What did they say about the neighbour?”
“They just said they knew about him, what he must have been like and it couldn’t have been nice living next door to him. Of course, I said it wasn’t. Then the older one, that’s the Baddeley chap, said it must have been very difficult for you, knowing we were having to put up with all his behaviour.”
“And what did you tell him, Dad?” Nicks took slow a sip of his vanilla latte.
“I said we’d never told you because it would have upset you. Was that the right thing to say?”
Nicks smiled. “Yeah, Dad. That was the right thing to say.
Anything else?”
“Well, they tried to make it sound like inconsequential chat, but they asked about our cruise and if we’d enjoyed it, whether you had stayed whilst we were away and if you had been staying recently.”
“And you said… what?” Nicks lit a cigarette and blew out the smoke.
“I told them what you told us, you were working away, and in any case, you always stayed in hotels because you like your own space.”
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Frank paused as he accepted the cup of tea Anne had made him. Nicks heard him whisper “Thanks, love” then he continued: “They asked if we’d seen you recently or were likely to and where you lived, then, when they were leaving, the older chap asked what you did for a living. I said you lived somewhere in Berlin but we don’t know where because we do all the Christmas and birthday stuff by email and occasionally Skype and then I told him what you told us to say, that you were a freelance personal security consultant.” Frank sipped his tea. “Look, I know you can’t say what it is you’re up to, Official Secrets Act and everything, but are you in any trouble?”
“No, Dad,” Nicks laughed. “It’s much ado about nothing. I told you everything is fine. I’ll give them a ring and get it sorted. In the meantime, I might not be able to pop round again.”
There was silence, then: “You didn’t have anything to do with what happened to the bloke next door, did you, Chris? I mean, you paying for the cruise and then him dying while we were away. I know it was probably a coincidence, but I have to ask, son.”
Nicks laughed again. “You need to stop watching all those murder mysteries, Dad. He was responsible for what happened. He managed to do that all by himself. Just put it down to a happy coincidence, that’s all.”
“Ok, Son. I’m glad.” Nicks could hear the relief in his Dad’s voice.
“Try and give us a call before you have to go back though, for your mum.”
“I will. And Dad, make sure you’re careful what you say on the landline. I just don’t want to compromise anything. The powers that be 140
wouldn’t be happy. Keep the mobile handy and I’ll call you. Enjoy your lamb shanks.”
“I’m sure I will, son. Speak to you soon.” Frank put the phone down. Anne was shouting for him from the garden, something about
“that damned cat”.
Nicks finished his coffee leaving a mouthful of liquid in the bottom, thoughtfully toying with the container. He took another drag of his cigarette, dropped it in the cup and discarded it in the nearby waste bin.
He’d been right to have a bad feeling about Mr Baddeley.
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Degsy pulled away from the kerb as Thurstan clicked his seat belt into place.
“Back to the Office Derek, I think.”
Looking idly out of his window as the world slipped past, he eventually said: “Well? Anything?”
The DS stole a glance at him. “No. Nothing in the bathroom to indicate he’s staying there and when she went back downstairs I took a quick look through the rooms.” He paused as he negotiated his way around the vehicles in front. “He may well have stayed there at some time, but I couldn’t see anything to make me feel he’s there now.” He accelerated hard and slid the gears from second to fourth. “No photos out either.”
“There was an old photo of him in the living room from when he was in the firearms team. I managed to get it on my phone. Must’ve been taken almost twenty years ago.” Thurstan hesitated. “I think we need to get his passport and driving licence pics. Probably the most recent photos we’re going to get at the moment. When was his passport issued?”
Degsy was silent as he checked his mirror, signalled and overtook several cars. “Six years ago now, and he used it on his DL when he renewed it last year.”
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“Parent’s address as usual I take it?” Thurstan looked at his colleague for confirmation. Degsy just nodded then said: “What do you think of the parents, Boss?”
Thurstan took out a battered half packet of chewing gum from the inside pocket of his jacket, picked off a piece of fluff and briefly offered the packet to Degsy who felt it safer to decline. He popped a piece into his mouth and started chewing.
“I don’t know. They seem decent enough people. I think broadly speaking they’re telling us the truth, or what they believe to be the truth, but Nickson seems to be very cautious for someone who’s a simple personal security consultant. I can’t help feeling there’s something they’re not telling us though.”
They sat in silence for the rest of the journey; Thurstan deep in thought. He’d been through the file on the Nicksons’ neighbour in great detail. His criminal record, the case file on his death, neighbours’
witness statements, Coroner’s, the lot. There were no unaccounted fingerprints, DNA or unusual fibres. Nothing. The pathologist’s report concluded the cause of death was wholly consistent with the police evidence that, whilst heavily under the influence of cannabis and alcohol, he’d fallen down the stairs after tripping on his undone shoelace.
He’d obtained Nicks’ service record with minimum paperwork by exploiting an SIB friend who now worked at the Service Police Crime Bureau. There was nothing in it to indicate Nicks had any military training which would have provided him with the skills to break a man’s neck. It was a fairly unremarkable record. Three years of 143
regular service in West Germany, 11 with a TA Provost Company in Manchester followed by 5 years with the TA SIB unit. That single piece of information was of interest. He knew it gave Nicks an insight into his head. No, he’d gained nothing from the visit to take him further forward, but it had filled in one or two blanks in his knowledge. Maybe the neighbour’s death was a coincidence, these things happen. From what the police files had told him, it was on the cards sooner or later, given his unreliable track record with his associates in the local criminal ‘fraternity’.
What troubled him was if his parents had been in a similar situation, he’d have wanted to do something. Of course, he wouldn’t murder someone – well, he didn’t think he would – but he’d have done something. He didn’t buy it that Nickson didn’t know but all he had was a gut feeling. No evidence. Not a glimmer. Time to put this one to bed, he thought.
Degsy had a good idea of what his DCI would say, when he was ready to say it. It wasn’t something he looked forward to, and he knew the other team members on the MacMahon enquiry would be similarly thrilled when he delegated the matter downwards.
Driving along New Quay then The Strand, they turned into Liver Street and Police Headquarters. “Drop me off at reception please, Derek,” Thurstan said on passing through the security post. Degsy drove up the ramp, headed for the far left-hand corner of HQ’s open-air car park and came to a smooth halt near the entrance.
Thurstan got out but held the door open as he bent down into the vehicle and said, “I know you’re not looking forward to this, Derek, 144
but we need to go through every hotel and bed and breakfast in Liverpool. I want guest lists. I want one week before MacMahon’s death right up to date. And I want them as soon as possible. When I say as soon as possible, Derek, I mean, of course, Monday afternoon would be good.” He let a sad smile escape, closed the door and walked casually into reception. Degsy had the brief thought that should he look in the rear view mirror he would see the elephant, on the back seat, shrug its shoulders apologetically.
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February 2012
The torchlight had softly bathed the loft space - partially boarded floor, insulation, double socket, large oblong of chipboard. A naked light bulb dangled from its cord.
After several minutes crouched down, listening intently, Nicks edged through the breach in the brickwork and began patiently and silently brushing the floor space.
Later, he removed all evidence of his visit. The large oblong of chipboard was pulled over the gap in the dividing wall and the brickwork repaired.
Standing on his parents' landing, he closed the hatch and pulled his boots back on.
If anyone even bothered to look in next door’s loft space, he was satisfied they would investigate no further.
He’d smiled.
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28th March 2014
Gambier Terrace sits overlooking Liverpool’s Anglican Cathedral.
Numbers 1 to 10, at the northernmost end of the terrace, are Grade II Listed Buildings, designated to be of special architectural interest. The plans for the entire row to be built in the same Regency style were halted in the slump of 1837. Number 10 became the last of the original build; the remainder were constructed later to a different, cheaper design and specification. Its best-known occupants were probably John Lennon and his friend, the artist Stuart Sutcliffe, who’d lived in a flat at number 3 during 1960.
The house Nicks entered hadn’t been turned into flats. It’d been modernised but retained many of its original regency features, giving it an air of quirky modernity and style. The front door was answered by a woman in her early forties. Pretty in an unconventional way, she wore a light grey, below-the-knee pencil skirt with a crisp white blouse. Her short hair was almost white and, when he introduced himself, she flashed him a disarmingly pleasant smile.
“I’ve been expecting you, Mister Lees,” she said, closing the door behind him.
The fairly wide hallway was narrowed considerably by the inclusion of a wildly overused set of coat hooks and a pile of assorted wellington boots and children’s shoes against which Nicks attempted to balance himself. Opposite him stood a large, ancient radiator.
Smiling again, she squeezed herself between him and the radiator 147
saying: “Follow me, please,” and walked off along the corridor and up the nearby stairs.
On the first floor, she crossed the landing and knocked on a door.
Without waiting for an invite, she entered and announced to the two occupants: “Mister Lees.” Nicks thanked her and she dazzled him again.
Two figures stood at the far end of the large wood-floored room, highlighted by an angle poise lamp on a grand piano. The rest of the room was unfurnished. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in the last of the day’s cold light. The Anglican Cathedral stood majestically beyond.
“Ahh, Phillip, I’m glad you could make it,” Don strode out from behind the piano, smiling, and shook his hand.
“Let me introduce you to Mister Kovács.” He turned to the other man in the room and said: “István, this is our Mister Lees.” Stepping forward Kovács shook Nicks’s hand.
In his late sixties, a profusion of dark grey hair almost touched his shoulders. Nicks thought he should’ve been carrying a violin.
“So glad to meet you, Mister Lees. You have come highly recommended,” he said warmly. “I’m hoping you can resolve an issue for us. Let’s not waste any time. Come.” He indicated towards the piano upon which Nicks could now see a thin folder. “I will explain everything.” He spoke English easily, with just a hint of an accent.
Don, still smiling said: “I’ll go and arrange some coffee. I won’t be long.”
Outside, the light had quickly slithered away and through the windows, Nicks could see the city being slowly devoured by a thick 148
mist. Three-quarters of an hour later, after a comprehensive briefing, Kovács said:
“And now I must apologise, but it is necessary for me to show you something so you know the man you will be dealing with.”
He opened the folder on the piano and removed seven A4-sized photographs. Nicks re-adjusted the angle poise lamp so he could see them clearly. They were pictures of the naked body of a young woman.
The first four were taken from various angles and showed the girl’s torso which had been subjected to a sustained, violent attack. Her left breast had been cut away and there were multiple stab wounds: chest, arms, thighs, neck and sides. Her intestines spilled out of her stomach.
The fifth showed the location in which she had been discarded, her body in the distance; a derelict courtyard, piles of rubbish everywhere.
She was just another. The sixth; the left side of her face, black and blue from a vicious beating.
The last was what she’d looked like on a happier day, a dead likeness to a picture of Anca at 17; the shape of her face and lips, her eyes, the colour of her hair, the same joy and exuberance.
Kovács noticed a change in his manner. “Are you alright, Mister Lees?” he asked, clearly concerned. Nicks gave him a weak smile.
“Yeah... yeah, I’m ok.”
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He stepped out into the cold night air, heavy mist shrouding the city. Pausing on the entrance steps, he zipped up his jacket and pulled his woollen hat over his ears. The Anglican Cathedral had been stolen.
He walked through the wrought iron access gate onto Hope Street and its junction with Canning and Upper Duke. The streets were silent.
Had it not been for the 20mph speed limit sign on the Victorian lamp post, he might’ve thought he’d travelled back in time.
In nearby Rice Street at The Crack, a onetime popular haunt of Lennon and Sutcliffe in their Liverpool College of Art and Gambier Terrace days, he found himself a seat in a secluded corner and sat quietly drinking three pints of real ale before returning to his hotel, through the fog.
The following night, in a quiet backstreet in the Liverpool district of Wavertree, Nicks dispassionately shot dead a former Liverpool Councillor whilst the man searched for the keys to a house in which he lived alone.
150
29th March 2014
The more Tommy Cole thought about it the less it made sense and he’d thought about it a lot. He just couldn’t see Tony MacMahon walking away from his empire despite what he’d said. No, it was bollocks. If Tony thought he was going to swan off to Spain and then pull his strings from afar, he was fucking off his head. Tommy wanted it all. He’d worked for it. It hadn’t been Tony dirtying his hands with the killings, it had been him. Ok, he’d enjoyed it, but that wasn’t the point. Enough was enough.
He’d been genuinely shocked at the news of Tony’s death. Yes, he’d seen it coming, but only because he’d been planning it. Mainly, it was because he’d thought it was the start of a takeover by one of the other Liverpool crime gangs. Until then he hadn’t thought any of them had the balls to do it. In the days following, he’d discovered none of them had. They’d been quick to let him know it was nothing to do with them and they were keen to keep it business as usual. He’d no problems with that. Whoever it’d been, they’d done him a favour.
As usual in these cases, for two weeks the police had been all over them. Nothing was getting done, but he could feel their enthusiasm fading away. It was time to start afresh. In a perfect world, he’d have given it a bit longer, but the arrangements had been made well before Tony got himself shot. The drugs were coming in tomorrow night and he had to be there to oversee things, to make sure he wasn’t being ripped off; he hadn’t dealt with these particular people before. They’d 151
been vouched for by others with whom he had done business but it was best to be certain. He was a hands-on sort of guy, always had been, unlike Tony who’d liked to keep his distance.
Then there was Rupert Sackville. He had to have a pleasurable little conversation with him - not that Rupert would find any of it pleasant.
He wanted the rest of Tony’s assets and Sackville was the key. The problem was the little shit had disappeared. At first, he thought he may have thrown his hand in with the police, but then he dismissed it, partly because he’d deliberately left him alone to send him the false message all was well and there was nothing to fear.
He’d had someone visit Sackville’s house just over a week after the shooting. The neighbour told his man Sackville and his mother had gone to Spain for three weeks following the death of a close friend.
Apparently, it’d been the mother’s idea. She’d thought it would help them get over it. Well, it might take Rupert and the old crone three weeks to get over it, but he was well over it already. Some people were so weak.
Just to be sure, he had someone check the JLA passenger lists.
Rupert and Necia Sackville were listed for a two way flight. He could have done without the delay, but he’d get a grip of Rupert la-di-dah fucking Sackville soon enough.
But now he was off to Alnwick Tomorrow night, he would be there to supervise the crew receiving drugs which would make him a very rich man. It’d been Tony’s plan and he saw no reason to change it.
Alfie Kehoe could wait.
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Despite the blustery overcast weather, the Ironmen of Anthony Gormley’s Another Place stood silently and stoically watching container ships leave Liverpool behind.
In the public car park, next to the Coastguard Station, the occupants of the unmarked police vehicle had no idea if the tide was coming in or going out. Neither did they care.
“Here y’are, Alfie.”
The hoodie-wearing officer from the Matrix Covert unit handed Alfie Kehoe a bundle of money wrapped in a plastic carrier bag.
“Ow cum ahm gettin’ it now? Yuz sed yer’d giz it wen everythin’
wuz sorted?”
“Well, there’s grateful,” the Officer said, offering Alfie a notebook and pen. “Sign there.”
“Ahm not sayin’ like, yuh know, buh… yuh know wha’ a mean like, Carlo?” Alfie signed the notebook with a flourish.
“Let’s just say Crimbo’s cum early an’ things ‘ave moved on,”
Carlo replied, shaking his head as he saw Alfie’s scribble now obscuring his earlier entries.
“Giz a bit more time, an meybe ah can find out wear exactly it’s gonna ‘appen, like,” Alfie offered.
“Yer dedication is commendable, lad, buh, as I said, things ‘ave moved on.” Carlo glanced out of his side window as a seagull landed on the wing mirror. “Look, I busted me gut to get yuh this, so listen 153
very carefully. Don’t ask me how I know, buh yuh definitely need to take a little holiday right now, an’ I mean now. If yuh stay in Liverpool yer gonna encounter some life changin’ health issues, know wha’ I mean? If yuh look in the bag yer’ll find directions to a place in Skegness. It’s run by me cousin. Be there tonight.”
Alfie shifted uneasily in his seat. “Buh wha’ bout me dog?”
Carlo exhaled sharply. “Yuh can’t take the fuckin’ dog ‘e doesn’t do animals. Get yer Ma to look after it, she’s dunnit before. Yuh never took it to Teneriffe did yuh.”
“Ah know, buh – ”
“Look, don’t tell anyone where yer goin’. That includes yer Ma, yer bird, the fuckin’ dog. Anyone. An’ don’t go back to yours. If yuh need any gear, an’ I’m talkin’ toothpaste and soap, get ‘em at a petrol station. If yuh need any clothes, me cousin will tell yuh where’s best in Skegness.”
“That’s gonna cost a bit tho’. Yuz payin’ me expenses?” Alfie thought it was worth a try.
“Alfie, are yuh taking the piss, lad? I’m doin’ you a favour. If yuh don’t go buyin’ designer crap yer’ll ‘ave more than enough.” He glanced at the seagull shit on the wing mirror and sighed. “Now yuh’d best do one an’ give me a bell when yuh get there. Alright?”
“Yeah, ok.” Alfie put the package inside his jacket and started to get out of the car.
Carlo turned in his seat and took hold of Alfie’s arm. “Trust me, don’t fuckin’ tell anyone where yer goin’. Don’t come back to Liverpool until we’ve spoken an’ I’ve told yuh it’s ok.” He added, as 154
an afterthought: “An’ get rid of that skunk cannabis factory in the loft at your place in Tuebrook before the local bizzies clock it.”
Alfie tried to look unknowledgeable. “Wha’? Dunno wha’ yuz on about.”
Carlo looked back at him disdainfully. Alfie surrendered and said,
“How d’yer know?”
“I know a lot of things, Alfie. Yer sudden interest in fuckin’
hydroponics for one thing. There’s only so much I can pretend I haven’t seen, so get shut of it when I’ve said yuh can come back.
OK?”
Alfie nodded. Carlo looked at him. “Take care, lad.”
“Yeah, an’ youse.” He closed the door, pulled his hoodie up and walked back to his Ford Fiesta, two cars away.
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30th March 2014
Thurstan stood looking over a plump, damp body that lay on its back, both arms splayed out to the sides, the right leg bent at the knee.
Had it not been for the neat bullet hole in the centre of the forehead and the pool of congealed blood cradling the head, he may have been forgiven for thinking the deceased had been attempting some sort of twirly pirouette before succumbing to gravity and a heart attack.
It was 6.10 a.m. There was a slight but persistent drizzle and somewhere out there, beyond the clouds, the sun had risen.
“Time of death?” Thurstan asked the Forensic Medical Examiner, who’d just stood up from inspecting the body.
“As far as I’m concerned, the indications are that death occurred sometime around midnight, give or take. We’ll know more after the post-mortem.” He hesitated. “Unless you need anything else, I’m off to my bed.”
“As good a plan as any,” Thurstan told him with a smile. They shook hands and the FME nodded to Degsy.
When he’d gone Thurstan said, “Interesting graffiti,” pointing towards the word “Pedo” sprayed in large red letters over the white-painted front of the Georgian terraced house on whose pathway the body lay. He took in the scene as he slowly walked up and down.
“Judging from where the spent case was found, I’d say the shooter stood about there.” He pointed to an area about ten feet into the garden from the front gate. “What did you say he did for a living?”
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“Dead man? He was an ex-City councillor, retired several years ago.” Degsy thumbed through his notes. “Drank in the pub down the road on a regular basis. Lived here all his life; initially with his parents and when they died thirty years ago, on his own.”
“Well, I’ve never heard of him,” Thurstan replied absently. He was eyeing the graffiti again. “Who found him, Derek?”
“The milkman, Boss. Around quarter to five this morning.” He briefly studied Thurstan’s expression. “Are you wondering how long that’s been there?” He nodded towards the graffiti. “According to his neighbour, it wasn’t there when she came round to push a birthday card through his door at 10.30 last night. There’s a security light, over there, that clear globe, see it? Comes on automatically and lights up the entrance steps and the door, so she says she’d have seen it, had it been there. Thing is, the light’s not working now. The bulb was unscrewed. Looks ok, but it’s not connected. One of the bobbies discovered it. No prints on the cover or bulb, just smears. Probably wearing gloves.”
Thurstan beckoned over the CSI who had just bagged the spent shell case.
“I just need to look at that a moment,” he said, pleasantly. Taking the small plastic bag he quickly examined the contents from several angles and handed it back. “Thanks, you can carry on.”
They walked back up the path in silence and into the street.
Thurstan had a good look around taking in the various styles of houses, their locations, possible views and probable occupants.
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“We need to get a house-to-house up and running as soon as possible, Derek,” he said, eventually.
“It’s being sorted, Boss. Arthur will have a team out here within an hour so we can capture some of these people before they disappear for work but, at the moment, the closest neighbours didn’t see or hear a thing.”
Thurstan was silent for a while, deep in thought, then announced, quietly: “So Derek, we have a seriously accurate shooter using a nine-milly semi-automatic pistol, unheard and unseen. Sound familiar?”
Thurstan shot Degsy an inquisitive look.
“I get the point, Boss. Can you be certain though, without forensics, that it’s a nine millimetre? You’re going to tell me it’s your military training, aren’t you?”
The DCI, nodding an acknowledgement to a passing officer, replied in a low voice: “No, Derek. I’m going to tell you it was written on the base of the empty case.”
Turning, he patted Degsy gently on the arm. “Come on, we need to speak to the Crime Scene Manager just to firm things up. Go and grab him, will you – he’s over there. I’ve just got to do something.” And with that, he walked back to the body which was now covered and awaiting removal under the direction of the attending Coroner’s Officer. He stood before it, thoughtfully, then murmured: “Happy fucking birthday, Councillor.”
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30th March 2014
Two Range Rover Discoverys and a Freelander headed towards the beach down the unlit dirt track that led from the A1068. The small town of Alnmouth lay one kilometre away.
In total darkness, with the flick of a switch disconnecting the brake lights, the drivers relied on their night vision goggles. There was no moon or stars. From the main road, there was absolutely nothing to see. The countryside behind them was pancake flat. In front of them, the dunes rose from the seashore.
They were met by a woman in her forties who showed them the path they needed to follow to the sea. Her partner was already on the shore telling her, via a mobile, it was safe to proceed. They all knew they had to move fast to beat the incoming spring tide.
The vehicles were positioned for a quick getaway. The crews, dressed in dark clothing and balaclavas, stood in the shadows of the dunes sheltering from the south-westerly wind, peering out to sea.
Tommy Cole held a military right-angled torch aloft, sending out five brief flashes of red light then waited, scanning and re-scanning the sea with his thermal imaging binoculars.
Two inflatable zodiac boats suddenly hit the sandy beach and everyone, apart from Tommy, began rapidly unloading their cargo into the rear compartments of the vehicles. Satisfied, he handed the crew of the zodiacs two large briefcases each. They were gone as quickly and quietly as they arrived.
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Mounting up, engines purred into life. In single file, they trundled between the dunes to join the beach watchers in their Fiesta and headed carefully back to the main road. In the gloom of the shore, a camouflaged figure rose from his hiding place. Concealed on the land side, another CROPS man watched the convoy’s progress and whispered into the ether.
At the main road, the lights came on. The Freelander and one Discovery turned left, the others right. Within a hundred metres the Freelander turned onto a narrow tarmac road towards the village of Shilbottle and the A1 which would lead them, via the A69, to the motorway and Liverpool. The Discovery carried straight on to Newcastle. The others headed for Alnwick where they would part ways.
When the vehicles had disappeared, the CROPS men, who knelt silently in the marram grass, shouldered their packs and walked back along the coastal path to their vehicle parked in the caravan park at Birling Carrs Rocks. Meanwhile, at three separate locations approximately two and a half kilometres from the beach road armed police and NCA Agents had moved into position. High in the sky, a police helicopter monitored everything from a stand-off position downwind, several more kilometres away.
Inside the Freelander, Tommy Cole was feeling very pleased with himself. So far all had gone to plan and he saw no reason why it shouldn’t continue. He checked with the others on his mobile. Apart from having difficulty hearing them clearly against the loud music they were playing, everything was just fine. He took a cigar from the 160
top pocket of his Barbour jacket, sniffing it before shoving it in his mouth and then patted himself down in search of his lighter.
As they rounded the bend on the approach to the junction with the Shilbottle and Low Buston Road, he saw a large box truck parked on the track in the field to his right; exhaust fumes spewed into the cold night air. He didn’t have time to fully digest its significance.
“What the fuck!” His driver braked hard. In front of them, an HGV
was slewed across the junction. At that same moment, behind them, the box truck raced from the field blocking their rear. Unseen, a figure dressed from head to foot in black stood up in the ditch to their right, the large pack on his back weighing him down as he discharged a stubby black weapon at the engine compartment of the Freelander which shuddered to a halt.
“What the fuck are you doin’?” Tommy shouted at his driver, danger flooding his head.
“It won’t start, it won’t fuckin start!” the driver yelled back as he desperately tried to restart the engine.
“We’re fuckin’ blocked behind!” they wailed from the back seat.
He had no time to think about assessing that particular problem: multiple flash bangs exploded beneath the vehicle, windows disintegrated, glass everywhere, jarring muzzle strikes to his arms and head, pain amid the strident cries of “Armed police! Armed police!
Show your hands! Show your fucking hands!”
Almost simultaneously to the south, just before Warkworth, and north, just beyond Lesbury on the road to Alnwick, similar actions took place. Pre-planned, well-timed road closures by local uniformed 161
Officers at selected locations prevented members of the public from wandering into the strike zones.
The Discovery heading for Newcastle passed through Birling towards the crossing on the River Coquet. Behind it, another large box truck and two marked armoured Land Rover Defenders surged out from the works access, no lights, and sprinted after it. Round the bend, at Station Road, an articulated lorry pulled out across the carriageway.
Bounded by the high stone walls and embankments either side, there was nowhere to go but back. The Discovery braked hard to a standstill, the lead police Defender struck its front offside tyre and the second rammed it squarely from behind; the box van sealed them in. Armed police swarmed the vehicle; flash bangs, shattered glass, raucous shouts and cries of pain.
At the railway bridge just beyond Lesbury another HGV and the screech of brakes. Vehicles appeared from nowhere blocking the rear.
An NCA agent; heavy backpack, stubby black weapon. The concentrated electromagnetic pulse brought immediate engine failure.
More flashes, more bangs, more glass, more shouts, more cries of pain.
Seventy metres back down the road the Ford Fiesta casually executed a three-point turn and drove back towards Lesbury. No one pursued it. There was no need. The armed officers at the road closure north of the roundabout would deal with it.
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When planning the operation, Tony MacMahon’s internet research of the area had told him RAF Boulmer was the home of some sort of air monitoring system, an Aerospace Battle Management school and an RAF Search and Rescue helicopter. The official RAF site was just gobbledygook to him so he sent some people up to the area to make discreet enquiries. This they did, several times with several locals at several pubs over several pints. They were able to confirm there was nothing else at the base he needed to be concerned about. As he wasn’t flying anything into the area and had no intentions of needing to be rescued from the sea, he reasoned it could affect nothing. It was written into the plan as a point of interest, nothing more.
The skipper of the 324 gross tonnage stern trawler Melissa had noted the point and was tuned to the SAR frequencies, so he was not alarmed when he monitored the dispatch of SAR’s ‘A’ Flight to the aid of a seriously ill seaman on a container ship behind him in the North Sea shipping lanes. Cross-checking his radar against the information he was receiving, he quickly identified the vessel in question.
Had he known it was simply a ruse to cover the launch of the Merlin HC3a Special Forces helicopter and that HMS Tyne, lying in the shadow of the container ship, was co-ordinating his and his crew’s arrest, he would have been far more concerned.
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Watching the SAR aircraft’s progress from Boulmer out across the sea, he tracked its navigation lights until he could barely see them, not knowing that just beyond it, in total darkness, the Merlin had peeled off and taken up its standby position downwind of his ship. The SAR
transmissions dispelled any lingering doubts he may have held.
Things were going well. The two Zodiacs had been loaded and deployed from the stern, and now the last Zodiac was being hauled up the ramp, the cash already safely stowed. It was time to get under way and the Skipper felt a small celebration would be in order. He sent the second mate to break open a few beers.
At that moment, the Merlin tore across the waves in a final dash, banked sharply and hovered above the Melissa’s rear deck, bathing the bridge and superstructure in light. Clear of the rear gantry, ropes were thrown down followed quickly by black-clad members of the SBS
fast-roping onto the deck.
Simultaneously, the ship was dappled in light from the powerful handheld searchlights being used by one of the two Halmatic Pacific 22 rigid inflatable boats, with their complement of Royal Marine Commandos. They bounced across the waves and began circling the stricken trawler. Deployed from beyond the headland, they’d used the outline of Coquet Island to mask their approach from the Melissa’s radar and lookouts. Having broken its cover, HMS Tyne moved swiftly towards the scene.
Resistance was futile and most of the crew of the Melissa knew it; those that didn’t quickly found out why.
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As the bulk of the crew were being secured, one of the SBS
members tapped a forlorn figure on the shoulder and said: “Stevie?
Stevie Middleton?”
The man looked back at him with sad eyes, a resigned look on his face. “What? Oh, hi Davy,” he said quietly.
The SBS man kept his hand on his shoulder and said: “What the fuck are you doin’ here, man?”
Stevie raised a pale wisp of a smile, shook his head slowly and sadly before replying: “Hard times, Davy. Hard times.”
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31st March 2014
The woman stepped out of the lift. When the doors closed, leaving Thurstan alone, he took the opportunity to check his tongue in the mirror then brushed his hair with his hand and inspected his eyeballs.
He stepped back for the big picture and thought he detected some thinning of his hair at the front. Overall, he decided he looked pretty good for his age. His hair was greying a little though. Wondering how he would describe it, he settled for distinguished. Nope, all in all, he was doing ok even if he needed to lose a few pounds from what he imagined was a paunch. Maybe he’d cut back a bit on the whiskies.
He felt the lift slowing and turned swiftly, straightening his jacket and adjusting his tie. The doors hissed open and Thurstan stepped out to find a worried DS waiting for him.
“I’m glad I caught you, Boss.” Degsy’s relief was tangible. “We can’t access yesterday’s job on the system. All of us are locked out.”
He would have said more, but he was interrupted. “The system will have just crashed or something, Derek. It’s not a problem.” Thurstan tried to reassure him and encouraged him to walk and talk with a hand on his shoulder.
Degsy wasn’t having it. “No, it’s not that simple, Boss,” he insisted. “We’re definitely locked out and there’s a Superintendent from SB in your office with a couple of suits. Judging from the testosterone levels in there, I’d say they were the secret squirrel squad.”
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Thurstan stood silent for a moment then said: “Ok. Can we still get into the MacMahon job?”
“I don’t know, Boss. I never asked anyone.” He was apologetic but also annoyed with himself for not having checked.
“Right, go and get someone to do that now and don’t make it obvious. I’ll waste a couple of minutes then I’ll make an appearance.”
Thurstan turned back to the lift and pressed the call button. The doors opened almost immediately and the sole occupant, a uniformed policewoman, said: “Going up?” He nodded. “Why not.”
Several minutes later, he made his entrance. As he signed in, Arthur sidled up to him and murmured: “I think there’s an ambush waiting for you in your office.” The DCI looked across the room and saw the SB
Superintendent sat in his swivel chair whilst the two suits amused themselves, one idly inspecting the memorabilia Thurstan kept on his filing cabinet, the other picking imaginary fluff from his lapels. He smiled and said: “So I see. What great joy.” He walked away but then turned and called back, “Oh, and if you see Derek tell him to come and see me when he’s free, please, Arthur.”
As he entered his office, the SB Superintendent nonchalantly got up from Thurstan’s chair and, smiling in a sickly manner, said: “Ah, Detective Chief Inspector! So nice to see you’ve been able to get here.”
“Superintendent,” Thurstan replied, reservedly.
“It’s Acting Chief Superintendent, actually,” the SB man said as he inspected the fingernails on his left hand. Satisfied, he looked up. “But 167
let’s not dwell on that. I have some good news for you, but first, let me introduce my two colleagues. They’re from the Security Service.”
They didn’t like each other and never had. Thurstan thought the Superintendent was a climber of the promotion greasy pole who had been elevated beyond his own mediocrity, over the heads of some far more capable and worthy people. For his part, the Superintendent thought Thurstan was a sanctimonious little shit.
Thurstan extended his hand to the nearest suit and said, “And you are?” The suit ignored the gesture and replied quietly. “Our names are of no consequence, Detective Chief Inspector. We’re here to collect all your documentation and evidence, forensic or otherwise, concerning yesterday’s unfortunate murder.”
Thurstan withdrew his hand and looked back at the SB man. “And the good news is?”
“That is the good news,” the SB man replied. “The matter is now being investigated by Special Branch.” He waved a gracious hand towards the suits. “Under, of course, the direction of the Security Service. Matters of National Security are involved and that’s all you need to know. You should be pleased. Reduces your workload at this very busy time.” The sickly smile again before he continued. “Have your people box it all up. There’s a couple of my people coming to help take it downstairs. Oh, and I think you’re probably already aware that access on the system has been restricted to SB only.” Another smile. It was a smile of triumph. “We’ll wait here.” He sat down in Thurstan’s chair and added with false pleasantry: “If you don’t mind.”
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Thurstan was about to mind very much when Degsy fortuitously appeared in the doorway far earlier than expected. “Did you want to see me, Boss?”
He held his tongue, smiled pleasantly and, with a hint of sarcasm, said: “Yes, Derek. We’ll speak more later, but for now, have some of our people box up everything we have on the Councillor’s murder and take it down to the SB offices. SB will be sending some of their people up to assist.”
“OK, Boss, I’ll get it sorted.” He half-turned to walk away but stopped and said: “Oh, and that other matter we spoke about? It’s fine now.”
Thurstan waited for Degsy to disappear back into the main office and was about to tell the SB Superintendent what he thought of his idea of where they should wait when his work mobile rang.
“Excuse me, I need to answer this,” he said with as gracious a smile as his inner fuming would permit. “DCI Baddeley.”
“Hello, Boss, it’s Taffy. We’ve found an interesting CCTV. Well, two to be exact. One from a house on South Drive, just around the corner, as it were, from the scene, and the other in a little pizza kebab place at the end of Grove Street and Wavertree High Street. Just wanted to let you know we’ll be bringing them in shortly.”
Thurstan’s brain was now racing, all thoughts of verbal revenge gone. If he left the office to continue the conversation, it might look suspicious. But if he stayed he needed to manage it cleverly and, he hoped, with style.
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“I’ll have an egg mayonnaise, Taff,” he found himself blurting out,
“and if they haven’t got that, I’ll have tuna.” He took the phone from his ear and shook his head dolefully at his audience. “I knew I shouldn’t have sent a Welshman,” he told them before speaking into the phone again. “Ok, listen carefully, Taffy. You stay where you are and I’ll come down and sort it out myself.” With that, he cancelled the call, turned to the uninterested suits and his SB temporary nemesis and said: “Well, you seem to have this all under control. Make yourselves comfortable, won’t you? I may see you later but I really have to go and sort out my lunch. If you need anything else speak to DS
Drayton.” And with that, he turned on his heels and left.
As he made his way out through the main office he caught Degsy’s arm and hissed, “Give them anything they need. Try and keep them occupied and away from the windows and get them out of here as soon as you can. I have to go. You can get me on my mobile.” Then he was gone.
Once out of the lift on the ground floor, he called Taffy’s mobile, striding out into the parking area. By the time the call was answered, he’d already started his car.
“DC Blevins,” Taffy said as he swallowed the last mouthful of his chicken kebab.
“Taffy, it’s the Boss. Sorry about that before. I’ll explain later.
Where are you now?”
“We’re on the High Street just near Grove Street, Boss,” Taffy replied.
“Are you eating?” Thurstan queried. “Are you in Sperry’s?”
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“Well, as it happens … yes,” Taffy reluctantly admitted, “but this is where we’ve got one of the CCTVs from, Boss, so I just thought, you know, seeing as we’re here…”
“I’m not interested in that, Taff. Just stay there,” Thurstan interrupted him, then as an afterthought, he added, “Are you parked on the double yellows?”
“Well –”
“You bloody are, aren’t you!” Thurstan interrupted again. “For goodness sake, don’t get a ticket. I’ll be with you in 10 to 15 minutes and don’t speak to anyone at the Office.” He hung up as he drove down the ramp and left Police HQ.
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He pulled up in front of the unmarked police car parked outside Sperry’s on the High Street. Sandy was standing on the pavement waiting for him.
“Where’s Taff, Sandeep?” Thurstan asked as he drew his jacket around himself. “That wind’s bloody nippy, isn’t it?”
Sandy smiled from within his faux fur-lined hood. “It is a bit, Boss.
You should get yourself one of these,” he replied as he patted the front of his padded jacket. “Taffy’s inside. I’ll mind the motors.” With that, he walked to the entrance door and called to the man behind the counter. “This is the Boss. Ok for him to go through?” The man beckoned him in. “First door on the right.”
He found Taffy in the small office, sitting at a battered table filling in his police pocket notebook. “Hello Boss,” Taffy said folding up the PNB and returning it to his jacket. “I’ve downloaded what we need, but grab a seat and I’ll show you what it is.” Thurstan pulled up the only other chair as Taffy prepared the playback.
“Right, we were doing some house visits and it wasn’t looking good until we found this place in South Drive, just around the corner from the scene, only a minute’s walk away. No one around there had any CCTV but this guy’s had some anti-social behaviour issues with local bucks. He’s from Manchester, you know what they’re like, calling him the Mancs and throwing eggs at his windows, so he had it 172
installed. Watch this. According to the clock, it was twenty-three forty yesterday.”
The screen showed a darkened street lit only by sparse sodium light. After several seconds, headlights lit up the road as a car turned right and drove directly towards the camera. “It’s come out of North Drive, and from the junction, it’s only about a hundred metres to Sandown Lane. From there the scene’s within fifty metres, I’d say. All this is happening in the road just behind us.” He indicated over his back with his thumb.
The vehicle followed the road around, passing in front of the camera at a 90-degree angle. The house security lighting suddenly came on, illuminating it briefly before it disappeared from view.
“Now I know you can’t see the occupants clearly, but the driver is wearing a light-coloured top or jacket and I’d say that’s a Ford Focus.
I think it’s silver. On top of that, if we play it back … to here, you can see the front offside headlamp is misaligned slightly.” He let the footage run until the security light came on, then said: “And in case you were wondering, it was the cat. Just there.” He pointed to a small object caught entering the driveway. “The whole point of this, Boss, is what’s on the next one taken here.”
The screen kicked into life again to show a view of the inside of the shop. Visible through the front window was the pavement and part of the roadway. After several seconds, the bonnet and headlights of a car came into view as it halted next to the kerb outside. The headlight on the driver’s side was noticeably misaligned. A figure walked past the bonnet and into the shop. The man was wearing dark clothing and his 173
woolly hat and beard had the effect of making him look eastern European or of Middle East origin. Once at the counter, he glanced upwards adjusting his position so that for the rest of his transaction he stood side-on with his back mostly towards the camera.
On exiting the shop he turned left, towards the car and out of view.
Seconds later the headlights came on again and the car drove off, heading into the city. The driver, seen briefly, was wearing a light-coloured top or jacket.
“Well, what do you think, Boss? Taffy asked. “The clock says twenty-three forty-five, which fits in with the previous footage. We have the headlight, it’s a Ford Focus and I’m pretty sure it’s silver and there’s the driver’s clothing. It’s the same car. It’s got to be!”
Thurstan stood up, placed his chair back where he’d found it and patted Taffy on the shoulder. “Good work, Taff,” he grinned.
“Incidentally, what on earth led you here?”
Taffy looked a bit sheepish.“Well, to be honest, Boss, I was a bit peckish and this is one of my regular eating places. I know the owner fairly well now. He asked me if I was working on the murder. One thing led to another and he mentioned his new CCTV and did I want to have a look. Well, I thought it would be foolish not to and here we are.”
“Good stuff,” Thurstan patted his arm again. “What did you have?”
“What?” Taff was momentarily perplexed. “Oh! I had a chicken kebab.”
“Any good?” Thurstan asked.
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“It was lush, Boss. Always is, that’s why I come here,” Taffy responded with a grin.
Leaving the office, they thanked the owner and wandered out onto the pavement where they joined Sandy.
“Well done, Sandeep. Good day’s work,” Thurstan said. “Listen, both of you, you’re probably not aware but the SB descended upon us this morning and have taken this job over. I don’t know exactly why, but I think we can all guess. They don’t know about this stuff and that’s the way I want it to stay, at least for the time being. Don’t mention it to anyone, apart from DS Drayton. The less anyone in the office knows, the better it is for them. Ok?”
Sandy and Taff looked at each other, nodded, then as one replied,
“OK, Boss.”
They stood in silence as the DCI looked up and down the street.
“What about these other premises?” he said, eventually.
Sandy shook his head. “No CCTV, Boss. Inside only, and they weren’t open, of course. That one over there only had it fitted this morning whilst we were here and that one,” he pointed to a shop further along the street, “is a dummy.”
Thurstan opened his car door. “Ok, I’ll take the downloads and you two do whatever it is you need to do and I’ll see you back at the office when you’re finished.”
Heater on full blast, he turned on the radio and manoeuvred into the city-bound traffic. Local news was a man and woman arrested for an attempted abduction of a 10-year-old boy from a street in nearby Bootle and tomorrow would be a slightly warmer day.
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He spent the afternoon at a Senior Officers meeting listening to a management consultant talk drivel then tried to look interested as they later discussed the burning issues. He hadn’t wanted to go but he had no choice. He left no wiser than when he went in.
It was almost early evening as he sat back in his chair pushing the last of the blackberry jam Danish pastry into his mouth. He chewed it furiously for several seconds, tried to wash it down with a swig of his macchiato to go, and mumbled between swallowing: “Well? What do you think? Is it him?”
Degsy leant forward in his chair, looking intently at the image of the bearded man with the hat. Several seconds passed. “As far as I’m concerned, Boss,” he said eventually. “That’s him. I’m pretty certain that’s the guy I saw at Dickie Trimble’s do. That’s Nickson.” He looked at Thurstan. He’d expected him to be happier.
Thurstan looked back at him. “I know. You’d think I could at least crack a smile, but I’ve had time to think about it. Alright, it confirms our suspicions which, let’s face it, are based on some blurry images, odd money transactions and the fact he’s failed to contact us following our visit to his parents. But it doesn’t take us significantly further forward in terms of actual hard evidence.” Degsy looked as if he was about to say something but Thurstan ignored him. “Yes, we can now put him close to the scene of a murder, within minutes of the crime taking place, but we’ve got no DNA, no fingerprints, no weapon, no 176
eyewitnesses. In fact, we’ve got nothing whatsoever. Not even the bloody registration number of that car! Although to be honest, I suspect it wouldn’t help us either; probably false plates. In addition, we’re not being allowed to investigate that particular crime and in relation to the murder we are being allowed to investigate, well …we haven’t even got that much.” He couldn’t help letting a half-laugh escape. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
“It’s a bugger, I know, Boss,” Degsy offered lamely.
“A slight understatement I think Derek. Anyway, onwards and upwards ... hopefully.” He pointed at the large buff folder Degsy had placed earlier on the chair beside him. “Is that my hotel list?”
“Yes, Boss, everything you asked for, and it’s bang up to date as of today, including anything flagging up an anomaly with voters checks, liaison with Royal Mail or credit and Intel checks. Also, all addresses that have been verified as rentals. As you said with those, people move in and out of them all the time so it wouldn’t be unusual for names not to match up but they still need checking.” Pausing, he ran his hand over his eyes and then apologetically said: “And this is just the list from the last two weeks.” Standing up, he placed the stack of A4
sheets onto Thurstan’s desk.
The DCI dragged the folder across the table. “Where’s the rest?”
“Well, I thought it would be best to start from now and work backwards through the month, Boss. Gandalph has the remaining anomaly files, as well as the full guest lists. I think he’s made an armchair out of them.” Degsy sat down again. “He’s not on the list, 177
Boss, not under his own name anyway.” He looked weary. “Do you want to go through it now?”
Thurstan shot his DS a glance and decided to take pity on him; he’d had enough himself. “No, I think we’ll call it a day. Go home to the wife and kids, Derek. We’ll look at this tomorrow.”
Degsy gave him a tired smile of thanks. “Have a nice night, Boss,”
he said and left to sign out.
The late shift had come on duty and were quietly busying themselves with various tasks having been briefed by their supervisor.
The day crew had already gone home, or wherever it was they went when not working, and Thurstan wandered through the office to hit the book.
“Off home, Boss?” Lizzie said as she walked past carrying a stack of bulky folders.
Thurstan looked up, temporarily startled. “What? Oh... yeah... I’m...
er... I’m done, Liz. Enough is enough.”
“Well, drive carefully and I hope you have a nice night,” she replied, flashing him the smile he’d come to admire. Then she turned thoughtfully and walked off across the office.
“I’ll try,” he called after her. She’d sounded as if she’d meant it, he thought. He stood for a moment, watching her traverse the floor, then turned and ambled off towards the lifts and home.
Within a minute, he strode briskly back towards his desk.
“I thought you were going, Boss?” Iqbal enquired as Thurstan shot past him.
“So did I,” he called back over his shoulder.
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Five minutes later, carrying a large buff folder under his arm, he stepped out into a fine drizzle and advanced across the HQ car park towards his car.
****
On his driveway, he took out his mobile and used an app to turn on the house's interior lights and his Bose SoundTouch music system.Grabbing the folder and a carrier bag of shopping from the rear seat, he engaged in a short trivial conversation with a neighbour while he found his front door key. The car’s indicators flashed. Entering the hallway, the sounds of classical music washed over him. He wasn’t an ardent fan, but he knew what he liked. The CD Classics from Adverts fulfilled all his needs in this area.
He dumped the folder and shopping on the table and headed for the fridge, took out a bottle from his selection of Belgian beers and poured its golden brown contents into the large, bulbous, stemmed glass he’d bought on a trip to Bruges. Two long mouthfuls later, he took his coat and jacket off, hung them on the hooks in the hall, opened another beer and topped up his glass. Stripping off his tie and shirt he headed for the shower.
Sat in a T-shirt and shorts, he downed his knife and fork on the empty plate and wiped his mouth with a paper towel. He was pleased to admit his skills were improving. Whilst ready meals were not quite a thing of the past, he found cooking from fresh interesting, entertaining and therapeutic, particularly with a couple of beers. The benefits of watching TV cookery programmes were starting to become evident.
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He placed the plate in the sink, opened the cupboard next to the fridge, took out the bottle of Bushmills Black Bush and the Braemar crystal tumbler, added two ice cubes from the ice dispenser and poured himself a large tot. Sitting down at the table, he dragged the buff folder towards him and took a swig of the whiskey. Prefab Sprout sang quietly in the background as he began to sift through the information before him. No rush. As always, he had all night.
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1st April 2014
“Morning, Boss, you wanted to see me?” Degsy was looking refreshed, more than could be said for his DCI.
“Yes, Derek.” He rubbed his eyes and yawned. “This folder. I need to bring you up to speed. Close the door, will you?”
Degsy pushed the door to. “I take it you didn’t get much sleep last night?”
Thurstan looked back at him. “Is it that obvious?”
Degsy shook his head, “No. Well, just a bit.” He flashed a faint smile.
“Right. Well, it can’t be helped. I was up most of the night wading through this lot.” He stabbed the folder with his forefinger then opened it and pulled out a sheet of A4 containing a list of names. He passed it across the desk to his Sergeant. “Take a look at this.”
Degsy sat down in silence, read the sheet then looked up and said:
“I don’t want to look stupid, Boss, but…” He shrugged his shoulders.
“Exactly!” Thurstan was coming to life. “But!” He shoved another sheet across the desk. “Don’t look at that yet.” He sat back in his chair.
“Last night, I idly remembered a game I used to play with the SK at Speke when it was one of those really, really quiet nights. I’d be in my office doing some paperwork and he’d be on the front desk, minding the station. We used to phone each other up with odd names that had a double meaning or made a sentence. It would start with simple stuff 181
like ‘if your surname was Green, would you call your daughter Theresa?’ Or ‘if your surname was Off-Shotgun, would you call your son Shaun?’ progressing to vaguer things such as ‘if your surname was Noone, would you call your son Ian Martin?” One look at Degsy told him that one hadn’t registered. “I. M. Noone. I AM NO ONE. With me now? Anyway, it was that sort of nonsense. We kept a score. It was puerile but it kept us awake.” He leaned forward, shaking his right forefinger with meaning at Degsy. “And that’s what triggered it. I. M.
Noone. It’s on the top of the first list. You got it?” Degsy nodded.
“Well, I remembered I’d seen one or two other odd little names so I went through the whole bloody thing again.” He stabbed the sheet of paper on his desk with his finger. “Take a look at that, Derek.”
Degsy picked it up. On one side of the sheet were the names in full; overleaf the shortened versions. He slowly scanned the reverse.
I M Noone
Will Tredwell
I N Hughes
Sam E Goole
J S Tyce
Don T Forlow
P Lees
M L Eveler
Beneath was written, ‘I em no one. Will tread well. I n yous (have) same goal. Justice. Don’t follow, please. Em Level(l)er.’
Degsy looked up at Thurstan. “Is he taking the piss, Boss?”
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Thurstan looked back at him deliberately and shook his head.
“Despite the significance of today’s date, Derek, I don’t believe this is an April’s Fool. No, I don’t think he’s taking the piss. I think he’s being very serious.”
Degsy shot Thurstan a look of curiosity. “Well, what does he mean
‘I am no one’? He’s told us who or what he is? And what on earth is a Leveller anyway?”
The DCI released a tired smile. “Well, I think he’s telling us he’s one of many, in the bigger picture, he’s no one, and I have to admit I had to look up Leveller on the internet.”
He paused and picked up a sheet of paper from his blotting-pad.
“Dictionary definition, Derek?” then read it aloud. “It’s ‘One that levels or one of a group of radicals arising during the English Civil War and advocating equality before the law and religious toleration or one favouring the removal of political, social, or economic inequalities
or something that tends to reduce or eliminate differences among individuals’.” He put the sheet of paper back down. “Look at the fifth name on the list – Justin Tyce. I discovered last night, Derek, that another form of Justin, is the name Justice and that Tyce, according to the internet, can mean fiery. It seemed a bit dramatic so, I looked up synonyms and found torrid is one of them and the dictionary tells me one of its meanings is hurried or rapid. A message within a message, Derek – Rapid Justice. Now, don’t tell me all that doesn’t fit with what’s happening here.” Degsy couldn’t.
Thurstan leant back in his chair. “And, take a look at the last hotel he used, in particular the date.”
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Degsy picked up the first list he’d been given. After several seconds he exclaimed: “He left it yesterday morning!” He rose and started towards the door. “I’ll get Gandalph and a couple of the others to start phoning around, see if we can find out where he is now, Boss.”
“I wouldn’t bother, Derek,” Thurstan reigned him back in, then stood up and calmly walked over to the coat stand, removed his jacket and started putting it on as he spoke. “I contacted the Border Agency earlier. He left Liverpool yesterday afternoon for Berlin.”
“Shit!” The DS looked disheartened.
Thurstan looked at him benevolently. “I know. It would destroy lesser men, Derek. But, we are not lesser men. We are the Plod! And we shall keep plodding on, like those Mummies in the horror films.
You know, the ones where the victims are running through the woods hell for leather yet the Mummy, dragging its foot, is always right behind them, gaining ground.” He smiled. “Until.”
He grabbed his phone from the desk and patted Degsy on the arm.
“In the meantime, we have a hotel to visit. I’m pretty sure they will still have some CCTV we can look at. And who knows, it might even be worthwhile.”
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Degsy paid for the teas, handed Thurstan his, and bade the vendor farewell. “And tell your kid I’ll see him at the match on Saturday, Brian.”
“Right yer ar, Degs,” Brian replied with a smile.
Thurstan pointed to the seating area encircling the nearest tree.
They wandered slowly over to it, leaving the red-coloured hot dog and burger stand behind them.
Sipping their tea in silence, it was a while before Thurstan spoke.
“Ok, not what we might have hoped for, but interesting nonetheless.
Helps build up the picture.” He threw Degsy a weak smile, intended as encouragement.
Degsy missed it and sat staring into the flimsy plastic cup.
Eventually, he declared: “It’s an absolute waste of time, Boss, having cameras in your reception area if you’re going to have them set at such a crazy angle. I mean, it is useful if we only arrested people after inspecting the tops of their heads, know what I mean?”
Thurstan chuckled and took another sip of tea. “I know. But look on the bright side, Derek. It’s not as if we have less than we had before. To be honest, we are a little bit richer for it. Did you catch the cleaner’s comment about how clean the room was when he left and how the bed sheets were untouched?” He glanced at Degsy. “Like he hadn’t slept in it, she said. At least we know there’s not much point in 185
getting overexcited about finding a room he’s just vacated. DNA and fingerprints? I think we’ve more chance of winning the lottery.”
Degsy looked up from his tea. “Yeah, I caught that. You think he slept somewhere else or just slept on the top cover?”
Thurstan sipped his tea again. “I think he’s using a sleeping bag,”
he said quietly. “It makes sense to me. Don’t get me wrong, Derek.
I’m not saying we don’t forensically examine a room he’s left. If we can get to it before the cleaners have moved in then it would be silly not to really. But I’m just saying, let’s not wet ourselves with excitement. We’ve got no DNA from the scenes. What we need it for, why it would be nice to have it, is because, at some stage in the future, he’s going to fuck up. They always do. It’s just a case of how long.
Hopefully, we won’t be retired by then.” He laughed.
Degsy smiled back at him. “I might not, but …” he said with a shrug then, as he felt his phone buzzing in his pocket. “Scuse me, Boss.”
He stood up and threw his cup in the nearby bin as he spoke. “DS
Drayton... Yeah?... We’ll be back shortly then. Ask Chalkie to hang on. Nah, we don’t need a lift. We’re just at Holy Corner.” He hung up.
“Chalkie’s waiting for us to get back, Boss, so he can give you an update on the Masterson job before he goes home. Says it’s important.”
Thurstan poured the remainder of his tea over the base of the tree.
Degsy took the cup from him and threw it in the bin. Less than 10
minutes later they walked into MIT and went their separate ways.
186
Thurstan walked over to Chalkie’s office where he found him standing with his coat on, holding a sumptuous bouquet.
“Chalkie! You shouldn’t have. They’re wonderful!” Thurstan said waving his splayed fingers in front of his eyes.
“Fuck off, Thurstan!” Chalkie replied, grinning. “They’re for the wife. It’s our anniversary.”
“So which one is this then? Stone, plastic, granite or polystyrene?”
Thurstan retorted.
Chalkie looked back at him in mock disgust. “You haven’t got a clue, have you?”
“No,” Thurstan replied, “And, taking into account your attempt at deflection, neither have you.” He smiled a winner’s smile. “So, Masterson?”
Chalkie sat on the edge of his desk. “We’ve charged them both and they’ll be appearing in custody tomorrow morning. They’ve maintained the “no comment” stance but what with the fibres, DNA, fingerprints and the motorway CCTV, I think we’re sound and so do the CPS.”
“Good news, Chalkie, and thanks for hanging on to tell me yourself. I appreciate it. And at least we have some evidence now to connect Tony MacMahon to the job.”
Chalkie smiled ruefully. “Yeah, his prints found on some of the recovered money have done that alright.” He stood up. “I suspect it was probably half now and the rest later. What price love, hey?”
“Forty thousand, apparently,” Thurstan replied frankly. “Now, you’d better get a move on. Going anywhere nice tonight?”
187
“Well, I’m meeting her at the Radisson,” Chalkie said as he readjusted his flowers. “She thinks we’re just having a drink, but my sister, who’s going to keep the kids occupied, helped me pack some stuff for her which I stuck in the room earlier. So, it’s a river view suite then a special meal at the panoramic restaurant next door and tomorrow, well, I thought the old ferry across the Mersey and some retail therapy for her.” He grinned a big happy grin which clearly said he was very pleased with himself.
Thurstan patted him on the arm. “Chalkie, you are, indeed, a very clever and cunning man.”
They walked into the main office where Thurstan added, with a look of gravity: “Seriously though. Don’t forget to buy some condoms on the way out. A DI’s pay will only support four kids,” he grinned.
Chalkie turned, smiled condescendingly, and tapped his top pocket.
Thurstan laughed and patted him on the back. “Enjoy your anniversary,” he said then peeled off and strode over towards the Sergeants' side of the office.
Lizzie glanced up from her desk and smiled as he approached.
Thurstan couldn’t help but smile back. He wasn’t sure what the hell was happening, but it felt as if something was. The little man in his head told him to forget it.
“Derek, I need a quick update on anything the hotels team have come up with and I’ve just remembered we were going to make some enquiries in Hungary, do you remember?” he said.
Degsy looked up from his desk and held up his forefinger as he spoke into the phone: “Ok, love, I’ll sort it out when I get home. Got 188
to go now, the Boss wants me. Yeah, and I love you too.” He started to laugh. “No, I’m not doing that! All I can say is ditto.” He put the phone down. “Sorry, Boss. Yeah, can you give me five minutes and I’ll see you in your office?”
“Not a problem. I need to go somewhere first. Five minutes then.”
The DCI turned and wandered off towards the corridor. Lizzie, who was now on the phone, looked up and watched him leave.
Ten minutes later, he and Degsy were ensconced in his office.
“Sorry about that, Boss, I needed to speak to Soapy and he’d gone walkabout.” The DS sat down, paused for a few seconds, then said:
“Right, as we know, he came in on the seventeenth of February so I had Soapy start from that date working towards your list and Gandalph kept working back the other way. They found some highly probable names simply because they fit the profile of being odd. There’s a Christian Phillip Bacon, Chris P Bacon.” He caught the grimace on Thurstan’s face. “I know, they’re all like that,” he offered apologetically before continuing: “There’s a Richard Stroker, Jack Goff and Robin Graves. But there’s gaps where he must have been using conventional names. Now, Gandalph pointed out that none of these names, so far, actually consist of his own forenames so we discounted, for the time being, any names that did. That narrowed things down a bit but there are still days missing in his trail of hotels.
We identified several more rooms he’d used but, as you mentioned, especially after this length of time, forensics is pointless. We did, however, get a confirmation of a sleeping bag. Soapy didn’t realise its significance until I happened to mention it. He said one of the 189
chambermaids saw it. She and several others also commented on how clean he left his rooms. Some remembered him by his description, having spoken to him when he declined to have the room serviced, and one of them commented she thought he had OCD.”
Thurstan shot him a quizzical glance.
“She saw him doing some repetitive stuff. Closing his door several times, returning to touch the door handle. She said she recognised the behaviour because her brother’s got it, does the same sort of thing.”
“Hmm...” Thurstan raised his eyebrows. “OCD. Intriguing. Not quite sure where it gets us but interesting all the same. What about the Hungary enquiry?”
Degsy was looking at his notes. “Yeah. That was the transport links thing. The man in the wall he used is two stops away on the underground from ...” he hesitated briefly. “Looks like you pronounce it Delly Pallyowdvar. Anyway, it’s the Budapest train station for getting to the west of Hungary. There’s another two big stations but they’re on the opposite side of the river. One of them basically serves the east and south of the country and the other one is the main international and intercity terminal.”
The DCI looked thoughtful. “I don’t think he would have made that withdrawal if he lived in the City or even nearby. So, probability is that he’s living in the west of the country.” He fell silent a moment.
“Or he wants us to believe he lives in the west of the country. It’s something, yet it’s nothing.” It was his turn now to look apologetic.
“Ok, let everyone know I’m very grateful and they’ve done a great job, but let’s just dot the i’s and cross the t’s if we can.”
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“Will do, Boss.” Degsy sensed the briefing was at an end. He rose from his seat but then added: “Do you think he’ll be back?”
Thurstan rubbed his chin. “Do you know what? I’ve got absolutely nothing more than a gut feeling but, yes. I think he will come back. I don’t think it’s finished yet.” He yawned then stood up. “Right, I’m going to take some time due, Derek, and head home. I noticed the other day you’ve got some time owing to you so if you want to do the same... seeing as you obviously have something that needs sorting.
I’ve no objections. Just make sure all your lot are accounted for and let Lizzie know what you’re doing.”
Degsy nodded. “If you don’t mind, it would be handy, Boss,” he said, then made for the door.
Thurstan called after him, “Oh, and Derek!” Degsy halted and looked back. “You’re doing a great job too. Thanks very much. I mean it.”
191
14th April 2014
“Just drop me off at Old Hall Street. You won’t have to dick about to get me to the hotel. I need to clear my head and anyway, it’s better for us both this way.”
It was a week since Nicks had returned from Hungary where he’d administered retribution on behalf of young Katalin Lukács and her family. Her resemblance to Anca was seldom far from his mind. He took a mouthful of water and then pushed the bottle down the side of his day sack, nestling it against his fleece.
Making safe the Yarygin pistol, he slid it into the right-hand leg pocket of his distinctive, unmistakably Russian, combat pants.
Their current target, a leading Newcastle gangster, had newly emerging links to Russian mafia people in London. Like the weapon and ammunition, the pants were an easy clue. The police tended to like easy clues. It saved them from having to think out of the box.
Simon looked at him, briefly.
“You sure? I must admit I’m knackered and every minute counts when there’s another early start.”
Nicks looked back at him. He could see how tired he was. They’d spent the whole day driving around the north-east of England to no avail, waiting for the surveillance to highlight an opportunity for him to use his skills.
“Yeah, I’m sure,” he said, slipping the suppressor into his left leg pocket.
192
“Just here, Si, on the corner will be great. Go and get your head down and I’ll see you later on. Same place as you picked me up.”
Simon pulled over and Nicks got out. As he walked away Simon called after him.
“Don’t forget, seven o’clock.”
Nicks turned and waved. “Yeah, yeah. I know. Stop worrying.”
193
Four monitors bathed the otherwise unlit room in a soft glow. The ticking of the wall clock supplied a soundtrack for the night. Two switched rhythmically between internal views and another alternated views of the rear. The last one maintained a steady oversight of the glass entrance doors and the street beyond.
The business sector on the northern edge of the city centre had no attraction for the average party animal, despite its proximity to several nightclubs. There was no fast food, no flashing lights and no night taxi rank. This put it in a no-go zone for all but the few in a hotel room or apartment there. After midnight, if there was tumbleweed in Liverpool, this is where you’d find it.
It had been months since anything interesting had appeared on three of the monitors. The last time was when two hooded figures broke in and stayed long enough to be captured by the police. The footage of one of them trying to outrun the police dog was particularly amusing and ultimately very satisfying for those privileged enough to see it.
The front entrance was different. Often, it’d revealed comedy drunks, male and female urinators, couples having sex and the occasional domestic dispute. Tonight, since not long after midnight, it’d stolidly recorded the building facades opposite, together with the dark entrance to the narrow cobbled roadway cutting between them.
Until that is, just after 3 am. On the opposite pavement, a woman coming from the direction of the city centre walked unsteadily past.
194
She stopped and then returned to stare into the gloom of the alley.
After checking to her right and left, she disappeared into its depths.
Twenty seconds later, a figure dressed in dark clothing, a hoodie covering his face, walked briskly into view. Without hesitation, he followed her into the gloom.
A full two minutes elapsed before the man in the odd pants with a small light-coloured rucksack on his back walked past the entrance and continued out of view into the city. Fifteen seconds later, he came back and walked slowly along the cobbles. When he reached the periphery of light, he stood still.
195
Nicks waited on the edge of darkness as if he was on the threshold of space. Had he heard something or just imagined it? He was tired and yearning to get to bed, another long day to come. Part of him wanted to turn and walk off. Another wanted just a few more minutes to be sure. He listened intently. There it was again. A low, almost distant, squeal. Silence. Now a muffled sobbing.
Quietly and slowly, he took several paces into the shadows until he reached some railings he’d not seen from the street. Satisfied he couldn’t be seen, he removed the Yarygin from his leg pocket, regretting having made it safe in the car.
Turning his back to the darkness, hoping his body would help suppress any sound, he slowly racked a round into the chamber under control; it wasn’t the recommended way as a misfeed could prevent him from getting the first shot off but his drills would correct that, if he had time. It was a risk he preferred to take for the advantage of surprise. Facing back into the gloom, he carefully screwed the silencer onto the weapon and took a deep breath before casually but warily walking along the middle of the setts that formed the narrow roadway, adjusting his eyes to the dark, weapon held firmly to his side.
There it was again. Sobbing. Faint but unmistakable.
It came from an area to his left, ahead of him. He quickened his pace. Suddenly, his foot made contact with something, sending it scuttling briefly across the cobbles. He winced with annoyance. The 196
sound hadn’t been loud, but it was a sound. Stood frozen for several seconds, he took another couple of steps and found his foot was now on the object. He crouched down. A woman’s high-heeled shoe.
Following the line of spiked railings to his left, he was about halfway along the street when he heard a short deep moan followed by something the nature of which he couldn’t distinguish. Movement? A whisper? He didn’t know, but both came from behind and below. He moved back.
A set of steps led down to an enclosed basement. Cautiously, he descended them, the weapon ready at his hip, slightly extended in front of him, his left hand holding the guard rail. The lack of unevenness on the steps told him they were iron, not stone. There would be a space beneath them he’d need to take into consideration; another place for someone to hide.
Despite having obtained some night vision, the further he went the less he saw. The phrase “blacker than a very black thing” flitted through his mind as he reached what felt like the floor of the basement. He probed in front with his right foot. Satisfied he was on solid ground, he fumbled around with his left hand for the small lighter with its little torch he knew he had somewhere and instinctively turned to follow the stair’s guard rail back on itself.
Sobbing erupted from the void ahead of him. At the same time, he was struck heavily by someone bursting out from the darkness beneath the stairs. The initial contact on his left side was almost simultaneous with the full blow of a body which took him off his feet and slammed him into the pitch-black recessed doorway to his right. As he lay 197
slumped against the door, his head swimming from the impact of the doorframe, he could dimly discern a figure running up the steps.
Without thinking, he raised the Yarygin and pulled the trigger. He’d no idea where the round had gone, it was completely instinctive. Had he’d thought about it, he wouldn’t have done it.
It complicated things. Now he had to finish it.
Nicks reached the top of the stairs with a high-pitched buzzing in his ears, a sharp pain in his side and a sudden feeling of nausea. He steadied himself momentarily with his left hand on the railing; his legs didn’t feel right and he felt weak.
He knew he couldn’t pursue his attacker silhouetted ahead of him against the fatigued light from an unseen streetlamp. He'd thought they’d be running much faster but dismissed it from his mind as he raised the weapon in a weaver stance and fired in quick succession.
Klak!Klak!Klak!
The first round hit the figure centrally in the lower back tearing the muscles, deforming as it did so, shattering its way through the sacral plexus. The second hit the upper back, slightly to the left of the spine, passing through the muscle, narrowly missing the 7th and 8th thoracic vertebrae before ripping through the thoracic aorta and into the heart.
The third round passed easily through the figure's jacket into clean flight and clipped the sign at the end of the alley, sailing wildly off into the darkness, well beyond the reach of the nearby street light. The figure stumbled forward and slapped itself unceremoniously onto the cobbled roadway.
198
Nicks walked forward, carefully stripping his left glove from his hand with his teeth, so his latex one remained in place. He shoved the outer into his pocket then stuffed his hand up inside his jacket so he could wipe the area where he’d been struck. He licked the back of his fingers. Blood.
Cautiously, he lightly kicked the prone form. No reaction. He knelt beside it. The buzzing in his ears had disappeared. A faint gurgling sound was all he heard.
Abruptly remembering why he was there, he stood up, checked both ends of the street for movement and returned to the stairway.
Slowly descending the steps, he tried again to adjust his eyes to the darkness. He could hear muffled whimpering. Turning the corner on leaving the last step, he cautiously edged his way forward, as silently as he could.
After a few steps, he felt something underneath his foot and dropped to one knee. It was the lighter he’d lost when struck. Alert for any movement, side throbbing, weapon readied in front of him, he found the button at its base and pressed. Its weak white light was enough for him to see the figure of a woman lying on her right side, almost foetus-like, her back to a wall, her jumper pulled up and over her head exposing her bra and the breasts that hung from it. Her dark trousers were pulled down to just below her knees, her white briefs just above them. He could see her arms were held behind her back and through whatever was stuffed in her mouth he could hear her frightened whimpers gather into deep sobbing.
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“Ok, what have we got?”
Thurstan hung up his coat and accepted a steaming mug of coffee.
Standing on a cold Liverpool street in the early hours of the morning was beginning to lose its attraction. Though he’d returned home to shower and change, he looked tired.
“We’ve viewed the CCTV,” Lizzie replied. “I’ve got a copy here, and we’ve taken the victim and witness statements.”
Thurstan squeezed himself between his seat and his desk and put the mug down on a coaster. His PC had already been turned on, so he entered his password and slid the disc into the machine. “Where’s Derek?” he enquired.
“He’s got his promotion board this morning, Boss, but he’s briefed me. I’ve seen the footage and read the statements.” Lizzie gave him her don’t panic, I’m on top of it smile.
He rubbed his face and eyes. “Damn! I’d forgotten about that.”
Pretty sure he was being short-changed by his shower gel, which promised he’d feel refreshed and invigorated, he swivelled his monitor so Lizzie could view it with him. The screen flashed into life as the compilation of images from three different cameras showed the victim, her assailant, and the murder suspect’s approach to and into the alley.
“As you can see, Boss, it’s not great footage. Too distant for the most part, other than the building opposite and even that’s not what we’d hoped for. It’s from their reception area, the angle and glass 200
doors make it difficult to see clearly. You can make out the figures and some detail, like that distinctive pattern on his pants, but not the stuff that matters like the face.”
They sat in silence as they watched, Thurstan sipping his coffee.
Eventually, Lizzie said: “There’s a fair gap here where nothing happens. It’s around ten minutes before you see them coming out again.”
Thurstan nodded, picked up the statements and began to speed-read them, bypassing the usual introductory personal information. Between sips of coffee, he occasionally glanced at the monitor. Lizzie got up.
“Just getting myself a drink,” she explained and left.
As she walked back into the office with her cup of tea she glanced at her watch and said: “It’ll be coming up soon, Boss.”
Thurstan put the statements down, took another sip of coffee, and rested his elbows on the desk. He watched the victim and her rescuer emerge from the depths of the alley. They walked to the steps of a building slightly further up the main street where he sat her down before calling and waving to someone, unseen, back towards where they had just come from. Seconds later, a couple, a man and woman, entered into shot. After a short conversation, the female sat next to the victim, putting her arm around her. The male took out his phone to make the call for assistance which the Police Control Room had recorded. The rescuer appeared to say something to the male then walked back into the alley where he disappeared from view. From the statement he’d just read, Thurstan knew he’d told the male he was going to find the victim’s handbag, which she was asking for, and he’d 201
be back soon. On the CCTV footage looking into the alley, several small flashes of light could be periodically seen in the two minutes it took for the first police patrol to arrive.
Thurstan didn’t need to see anymore. He knew, from the first officers to search the alley, what they had and hadn’t found. They had found a man lying dead, a bloodstained knife, a woman’s handbag and four empty cartridge cases. They’d not found the mystery rescuer and chief murder suspect. It mattered not. Thurstan was fairly certain he knew who he was dealing with.
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Seeing the first flashes of blue splashing across the walls at the far end of the street, Nicks knew he had to abandon his search for the knife. Despite the handkerchief beneath his jacket, he could feel the warm wetness of the blood oozing out of him. Leaving the alleyway, he turned right and stopped briefly to get his bearings, shielded by the building line. He could hear the siren closing rapidly; more, almost iridescent, blue bouncing over the walls and windows of the buildings further down on the main road.
The path through the little un-gated park opposite beckoned. He desperately tried to remember where it exited, if at all. Pall Mall! It had an exit there! He crossed the narrow street and was quickly absorbed by the darkness, masked by the edifice that had been the old Exchange railway station. As he walked, he took out his phone.
“What’s up?” Simon answered.
An unscheduled call from Nicks was not common, especially at this hour.
“Si, I need a bit of assistance. I’ve been stabbed,” he said, casually.
“You’ve been stabbed! How the fuck’ve you managed that?”
Simon replied, incredulously.
Nicks sighed. “Too long a story, mate, but I need to get to a doctor.”
“How bad is it?” Simon wandered around his bedroom trying to remember where he’d thrown his pants.
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“I don’t know, but it’s hurting and I’m losing blood.”
“Well, take a look, for fuck’s sake! How much is it bleeding?”
He sighed again, impatiently this time. “I don’t know. Enough. I don’t want to look and I’m not in a position to start stripping my kit off.”
“Ok, fine. I take it you’re not at the hotel, so where are you?”
Simon danced on one leg as he unsuccessfully attempted to insert the other into his trousers before collapsing sideways through the curtained opening of his walk-in wardrobe, bringing the curtain and rail down with him.
“I’ll be on Pall Mall at the entrance to the little park behind Exchange Station.” He stopped walking. “What the fuck was that?
You ok? Simon?”
He leapt back to his feet, phone still in hand. “Yeah! Everything’s fine. No problems. You stay there, and I’ll have somebody with you within five minutes.”
The phone went dead. Nicks looked forlornly at the screen then pocketed it. He was almost at the exit point, a long narrow path bordered by a wall and shrubs to his right and a low wall with trees to his left. He crouched down amongst the shrubs and removed his day sack; pulling out the fleece which he stuffed up the inside of his jacket against the wound. He wasn’t sure how effective it would be, but it made him feel better. Something was throbbing.
It was the phone in his pocket. “Yeah,” he said laconically.
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“Black hackney cab. Two minutes. Plate number 723. The driver’s called Phil. He’ll sort you out. I’ll speak to you later.” It was Simon.
The phone went dead.
On the soil under the shrub, hidden from the road, he took out the small bottle of water from the daysack and gulped down several mouthfuls before replacing it in the bag. He didn’t feel too bad under the circumstances; “all things considered” as his Dad would say. He stood up and hugged the bag to his chest, grimacing slightly. He was tired again. The adrenalin gone.
The phone buzzed in his pocket. Before he could say anything, a voice said: “Hi, it’s Phil. I’m on Pall Mall now. Will you be able to make it to the cab or do you need some help?”
He smiled. Relief flooded through him. “I can make it to the cab ok.”
Seconds later the hackney pulled up, exactly opposite the exit to the park, and Nicks left the shadows, clambering into the rear.
Phil got out and jumped in the back, wrapping him in a foil blanket and then a tartan rug. He pulled down the jump seat and rested Nicks’
feet on it.
“You sure you’re ok for now? It won’t be a long journey,” he said, getting back into the driving seat.
As they drove away, the driver initiated a long conversation which just about covered everything. Football (it was evident from the pendant dangling from the dashboard he was an Everton supporter); politics (socialist, definitely); religion (agnostic bordering on God’s a spaceman); holidays (Europe’s fine, but Wales has a lot to offer) and 205
cookery (you can’t beat a good Sunday roast). It was an interesting 15
minutes or so. Nicks knew what he was doing and joined in as enthusiastically as he could, in the circumstances … all things considered.
****
Phil stopped the cab midway along a deserted and silent Marine Crescent in Waterloo. The Crescent was remarkable for two things. It was once the home of Captain Edward John Smith, the first and last Captain of the R.M.S. Titanic, and it wasn’t actually crescent-shaped at all. Constructed between 1826 and 1830, the Grade II listed buildings sat serenely gazing out across the adjacent marine lake and its sand hills; the River Mersey and Welsh mountains beyond. In winter, a walk past its snow-covered Victorian lamp posts evoked memories of Narnia.
Phil quickly jumped in the back of the cab. Lifting the free portion of the rear seat, he took out what Nicks recognised as a ballistic bag.
“Do you want to unload it or shall I do it for you?” he asked, pulling on a pair of forensic gloves.
Nicks slowly slid the weapon from his leg pocket, carefully offering it to Phil, then the same with the suppressor. “You ok doing it? I feel a bit too shaky at the moment. It’s loaded with one up the spout.”
“Yeah, no problem,” Phil grinned.
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He pointed the pistol into the ballistic bag, unloaded and cleared it then placed everything inside, zipped it up and returned it to its hiding place. Taking the daysack, he jumped out and held the rear door open.
“Ok, you still alright? Manage by yourself?”
He nodded. “Yeah, I should be able to.” Holding the improvised fleece bandage with his left arm, he levered himself up by the door frame with his free hand and eased himself onto the footpath. For some reason, he ached all over. Phil handed him his rucksack and said:
“Straight up the path. They’re expecting you.”
Nicks’ eyes followed the line of the pathway from the wrought iron gate to the Victorian stained glass panelled front door, two wide floor-to-ceiling bay windows guarding the entrance. A warm glow was visible through the curtains on the left-hand side. At that moment, the stained glass panels flickered into life and the front door opened, the gentle hall lighting escaping into the garden. A small matronly figure came out to greet him. Putting her arm around him, she waved at Phil and guided Nicks into the house.
“I believe you’ve been in the wars, my dear. Come this way and my husband Maurice will sort everything out for you. And after, if you’re able, I’ll give you a nice cup of hot sweet tea.” Then she called:
“Maury, the young man’s here.” Young man. A faint smile flickered over his lips. She smiled sweetly at him. For the first time that night, he felt completely safe.
Doctor Maury was a short stocky man with faded sandy coloured hair and matching moustache. He looked Nicks up and down.
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“You know you’re very lucky. If it hadn’t been for your padded jacket and that bit of excess weight you’re carrying around your waist, it could have been much worse.”
“How much worse?”
“Oh, considerably worse,” Doc Maury smiled. “If it had perforated your large intestine, it would have opened up a whole can of worms.
Lots of problems involved there, but the blade didn’t penetrate further than your internal oblique muscle, so I’m satisfied you’ll be fine.
Judging by the wound and the amount of blood it produced, I’d say you were stabbed with a double-edged blade, quite sharp, something like a commando dagger, or a switchblade I think they call them.
Anyway, you’ll need to come back in ten days and I should be able to take the stitches out then. In the meantime, don’t exert yourself too much.” He smiled again. “Now, I just have to give you a tetanus injection and we’re finished here, but you’ll be staying the night in the guest room.” As Nicks tried to protest, Doc Maury raised his left hand, palm towards his patient, then briefly placed his forefinger against his lips. “Don’t waste your breath. You will be staying in the guest room.
My wife will have made a considerable effort to make you comfortable and we mustn’t disappoint her. There, that’s done. Good for another ten years.”
He looked for his bloodied T-shirt. It had gone, replaced by a fresh one. He hadn’t even noticed her.
The Doc patted his arm. “Right! Time for some hot sweet tea and a chocolate digestive, I think.”
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“Apparently, my love handles saved my life.” Nicks was speaking to Simon on his mobile as he walked to the railway station later that day. “Well, that and my big “fuck off” padded jacket, of course.”
“Wonderful, Nicks. Naturally, I’m thrilled for you, but your antics have thrown everything out of sync somewhat.” Simon sounded tetchy.
Nicks ignored the seeming lack of sympathy. “It’s not as if I planned it, Si.”
“I know, but they’re not exactly overjoyed with the unscheduled body count. Anyway, you’re off the plot for the next ten days at least, so the Newcastle job’s been reallocated to another Leveller. One less thing for us to think about, but don’t leave the country because there are things in the pipeline. May happen, may not.”
“Does Wales count?” Nicks smirked to himself. He felt a strange urge to wind Simon up, which he could only put down to the joy of life.
“Wales? Count as what?” Simon was bemused, then the penny dropped. “Fucking hell, Nicks! You know Wales is fine, just don’t leave the mainland. I’m under pressure here, mate.”
“Sorry, Si,” He reined himself back in. “I think I’m just happy to be alive.”
“Yeah, well, so was I until this morning. First, you frighten the shit out of me and then the bollockings started via Don from some fuckers 209
I can only describe as the Y Department.” Nicks heard his exhalation of breath. “Wh y didn’t you drop him off at the Hotel? Why did he still have the weapon? Why haven’t you got more control over him? Why didn’t you tell someone earlier he couldn’t do the Newcastle job? Jeez, I’m not a fucking psychic. And if you dare tell me to fucking chillax I’ll find you, so help me God.”
“Furthest thought from my head,” Nicks interrupted, lying. “Look, Si, if you need me I’m going down to Llangrannog, the Pentre Arms for a few days. Why don’t you come down there when you get the time? We could do a little fishing.”
Simon tried but couldn’t stifle a chuckle. “You don’t know how to fish! Apart from tinned mackerel in sauce, you hate fish!”
Nicks laughed. “Well, they’ve got those little fishing nets on sticks.
We could look the part. I’ll buy you a bucket and spade. What do you say?”
“Fuck you, Nicks, you’re incredible mate!” The tension in Simon’s voice had lifted. “Ok, give me a couple of days and I’ll see you down there. And don’t forget you’re buying the first five rounds! You deserve to after what you’ve put me through.”
“It’s a deal. And if you’re really lucky I might let you see my fluff collection. See you then.” He pocketed the phone and entered the station shop to buy a ticket.
He’d book the Pentre Arms on the journey into the city, buy the usual materials from the minimarket near his hotel and spend the evening on the ritual cleaning of his room before a good night’s sleep.
210
pm 14th April 2014
Thurstan took a sip of coffee and sat back in his chair. “Do we have any biscuits?” Before Lizzie could respond, he called out: “Taffy!
Taffy! Are there any biscuits left in the tin?”
“I think we’ve got custard creams, Boss. I’ll get you some,” the Welshman replied looking up from his desk. Thurstan looked back at Lizzie, “Sorry, Liz, where were we? Yes! What else have we got?”
She looked down at her notes, a little smile playing across her lips.
“We have, as yet, an unidentified male, approximately 30 years of age.
No marks or scars. No identity documents, no cards, thirty pounds in cash, set of keys to a Ford something we haven’t yet found and a set of house keys for somewhere or other. Fingerprints have been taken and are being checked, but at the moment it would seem he’s never come to the attention of the police before, at least not in this country. He had several bullet wounds; an entrance and exit wound to his right calf, indicating that particular shot came low from his right side, one to the lower back and the last to his upper left back which, I’m informed, most probably penetrated the heart before exiting. All to be confirmed by the post-mortem, which will be carried out this afternoon.
“We’ve four spent cases, so the hole in the top left-hand shoulder of his jacket was probably caused by the fourth bullet; we’re still searching for that. Initial indications from the guys at Firearms Training are they’re nine millimetre, possibly Russian or Bulgarian because they appear to have Cyrillic letters on the base. Fingerprints 211
have taken a look, but it’s negative there I’m afraid. They’re clean.
Dead man’s DNA samples are being processed so there may be something to come back from them, but it could take a while. The knife found was his, fingerprints confirm, and we’re getting a DNA profile done from the blood that’s on it. Again, it could take some time.” She paused, adding, “Oh, and the suspect’s pants. I showed the Firearms guys the camera footage and one of them said they thought the pants he was wearing were probably Russian birch pattern camouflage. It seems some of them are into that sort of thing. He was pretty certain. Said you couldn’t mistake it, it’s so distinctive.” She laid her notes flat on her knees and looked at Thurstan expectantly.
He rubbed his chin, thoughtfully.
“Any luck with finding CCTV from further afield?”
“Still being sorted, but I’ll chase it up,” she replied quietly.
“Four custard creams enough, Boss? I can get you more if you want.” Taffy laid the saucer cradling the biscuits on the desk.
“Actually, Sarge, I can update you on one of those matters.
Chewbacca located something from one of the traffic cameras at Leeds Street, junction with Old Hall. Dark-coloured Vauxhall Astra, old model, W plate, owner registered in Exeter, shows our suspect getting out and walking down Old Hall.”
Thurstan leaned forward as he dunked a custard cream into his coffee. “And have we sent someone round to the owner’s yet?”
“Sorted, Boss,” Taffy replied, watching Thurstan holding his wet biscuit. “Chewy had the local uniforms pop round and it seems the car’s not been off the drive for days. Owner’s had the engine in bits in 212
his garage.” He hesitated. “I’d eat that pretty quick if I was you, Boss.
They’ve been in the tin for a while.”
Thurstan looked gloomily into his cup as he realised the tensile strength of a dunked biscuit had a direct relationship to its freshness.
Lizzie leant forward and handed him some clean tissues from her bag.
“Do you want another drink, Boss? Taffy enquired. “I can get you one, no problem.”
Thurstan busily mopped up the liquid which had cascaded onto the desk as one half of the custard cream had somersaulted into the cup.
“No, it’ll be fine, makes the last mouthful more interesting.” He looked up. “Thanks for that information Taffy a nd the biscuits.”
When he’d gone, Lizzie stood up and took the wet tissues from Thurstan’s hand, used a clean one to round up the last few smears, and dropped them in the waste paper basket. She sat down again. “I’ve got some of the staff out looking for any CCTV from the city, now we know the route our female victim took when her boyfriend dumped her out of the car after their domestic. Hopefully, we’ll know soon, roughly, where she attracted the attention of our dead guy.”
“Great stuff,” Thurstan replied. “So, to recap, we have a dead sex attacker who’s been killed with, possibly, Russian bullets from, possibly, a Russian gun by a man wearing, possibly, Russian pants.
The gun fired, in the words of our victim-witness, sounded like ...what did she say they were called?”
“Clackers,” Liz responded.
“Clackers! That’s right. So, sounded like Clackers, which makes me think silencer. Now, judging by our shooter’s distinctive patterned 213
trousers he either doesn’t mind being noticed or he wants to be. This is a man who just happened to be walking past whilst armed to the teeth, having been dropped off at the end of the street from a car on false plates.”
He sat back in his chair and ran his hand pensively across his mouth several times. “I’m pretty certain from the CCTV he was just strolling past on the way to somewhere else and at that time of night my gut feeling says the place was bed. So, he gets involved in an unplanned incident. But why the Russian thing? What was he doing or going to do that he or they wanted to blame on the Russians? Do we have a Russian problem?”
“Not that I know of, Boss, but I’ll speak to someone in SB and see if they can tell us.”
“Thanks. I know the Met have issues there. I’ll speak to Chalkie when he comes in and you speak to SB. In the meantime, have a few of the staff check the hotels for any obvious Russian or Eastern European names. In fact, have Gandalph do it. He’s built up a few contacts in that department.”
He looked at Lizzie. God, you’re beautiful he suddenly thought and equally suddenly banished it from his head. He looked at her again.
There was an awkward silence.
“Right,” he said, “Well, erm ... I’ve got nothing else I can think of.
We good?”
She smiled at him and nodded. “We’re good.”
214
Nicks stood patiently as the cashier tossed him the mandatory opener whilst checking his items.
“Had a nice day today?”
“Yeah, not bad,” Nicks threw back as part of his warming-up exercises.
“The weather’s been good, hasn’t it?” he said, scanning the bleach.
“Yes, it has.” Nicks was on a roll.
Re-scanning the bleach, he offered: “They say it’s going to stay dry for the next few days at least.”
Nicks began packing his carrier bag. “Really?” He was tired already.
“Yeah. Do anything interesting at the weekend?”
He’d been doing his best but felt it an intrusion too far. He’d fantasised about such an occasion; when he could say something outrageous, and here it was, the perfect moment. “Did I do anything interesting? Let’s see… Oh yes, I read my mail-order copy of naked and taking it up the arse and spent the entire weekend masturbating.”
Clicking back to reality, he found himself saying: “Well, yeah, actually I went to Wales and…”
“That’s £7.32p,” the cashier interrupted having exhausted all the interest he was paid to dispense per customer.
Receiving his change in silence, Nicks didn’t bother with a farewell. He could see his interlocutor was already engaged with the next victim..
215
“I’ll have the chicken curry, please. Rice, no chips,” Thurstan told the young woman serving behind the counter at the HQ canteen.
“Alright, Boss. I’m back,” Degsy sidled up to the DCI, dragging his tray along the counter. “Lasagne, please, and some broccoli as well.”
“Ahh, Derek!” Thurstan looked up after pushing several buttons for the delivery of his Café Latte. “How did the interview go?”
Degsy shrugged his shoulders and exhaled sharply. “Who knows?”
“That’s what I like, Derek. Positive attitude. Look, I’m just going to pay for this then I’m going to grab that table over by the window before someone else does. I’ll see you over there.”
Degsy waited for a new tray of lasagne to be brought from the kitchen. Thurstan wandered over to the table, glancing up at the lunchtime news: a Cabinet Minister’s resignation in order to spend more time with his family, a senior Judge’s unexpected early retirement and weather prospects that promised a warm and sunny start to the coming weekend.
Placing his plate and cup on the table, he slid the tray onto the window ledge.
“So, come on. What happened?” he asked as Degsy joined him.
“Not much, Boss. I just don’t feel confident. I mean I was ok in the interview. Felt good. I even thought I was doing well, but since coming out I just don’t know.” He took a swig of his bottled mineral water. “I mean, Chalkie spent a lot of time with me on the interview technique stuff and gave me some cracking examples of how to 216
answer questions he felt certain were going to come up, and he was right. They did.”
“So what’s the problem, Derek?” Thurstan said between mouthfuls of curry.
Degsy stabbed at his broccoli and waved it absent-mindedly in front of his bemused face. “Well, basically, I left Derek Drayton outside and they interviewed Chalkie White. I only became Derek Drayton again when I closed the door behind me on the way out.”
Thurstan looked at him seriously. “And your issue with this is...?”
Degsy swallowed his food before answering. “Well, if I get promoted it won’t really be me they promoted. It’ll be Chalkie. I feel a bit of a fraud.”
Thurstan took another mouthful of curry and rice, chewed it thoughtfully, then put his fork down and took a sip of coffee. “It’ll always be you they promoted, Derek. Just a wiser and better prepared you than the one that would have gone in having not taken appropriate advice. I did the same thing. Went in as me, not properly prepared the first time. Learnt from it, took the advice I was offered, went in next time and passed.”
Degsy swallowed the lasagne he’d shovelled into his mouth and took another swig of water. “So, who did you go in as?”
Thurstan laughed and sipped his coffee. “Jerry Holden. You probably wouldn’t know him. Retired now. Great bloke.” He took another mouthful of curry. “It’ll be fine. They’d be stupid not to promote you, and anyway, Chalkie knows his stuff, so stop worrying.
What’s done is done.” He scraped up a last mouthful and slid his plate 217
to the side. “To change the subject, I have to take a couple of days off.
Got gripped by the Superintendent earlier who said he’d authorised my carrying over some annual leave, but I had to start taking it now. So I’ll be having Thursday and Friday off. It’ll give me a long weekend.
I’ve got stuff to do at home on Thursday, after which I thought I’d have a couple of days away.”
Degsy finished off his broccoli with another slice of lasagne and pushed his plate away. “Going anywhere nice, Boss?”
“Oh, just a little place I’ve been to once or twice over the years. It’s nice and I can get a decent walk in as well. I’ll have the job’s phone with me.” He looked at the plates. “You done?”
Degsy nodded. They put their dinner things and trays on the trolley in the corner and wandered out of the canteen over to the HQ building.
“I need to bring you up to speed about this morning, Derek,”
Thurstan said as they strolled along the walkway leading to the rear entrance into reception. “But first I’d like you to contact the Border Agency and check on our friend. Use whatever contacts you have there.”
“So you think our alley killer could be him, Boss?”
“I think it’s an extremely strong possibility, Derek. As we discussed this morning at the scene, there are significant similarities.”
“But three or four shots? Not his usual M.O.” They’d come to a mutual halt near the main doors. Degsy acknowledged two passing uniforms.
Thurstan lowered his voice. “Given a fleeing target, the distance and the lighting conditions, it was still a pretty decent bit of shooting 218
and, given we now know from our witness that the killer was most probably knifed in the scuffle at the foot of the steps, well, it makes it even more commendable.”
“Or maybe his OCD kicked in, Boss.” He let out a little laugh.
“Maybe.” Thurstan smiled back. “Anyway, sort that out for me.”
“I’ll get on to it straight away.” Degsy held the door open.
They reached the lift and Thurstan patted his sergeant’s back.
“Look, you go on up. I just want to get something from the newsagent down the road. I won’t be long. I’ll bring you up to date when I get back.”
Three-quarters of an hour later, Degsy found Thurstan sitting in his office reading a well-known satirical news and current affairs magazine.
“Sorry I took so long, Boss, I was waiting for the Border guys to call back and I had to catch up on a few things.”
Thurstan looked up. “Oh, no problem. What did they say?”
Degsy sat down. “He’s not come back into the country, at least not through his normal route. He could have flown into Dublin and then got an internal flight from Belfast or a ferry, I suppose.”
“Or he’s using false documentation,” the DCI said as he undid the top of a small mineral water and took a mouthful. “One way or another, I’m pretty certain he’s here.”
He paused, took another mouthful of water then, setting the bottle on his desk: “Anyway, did you see the news today? Cabinet minister?
Prominent judge retiring?”
219
“Yeah, I’ve just seen it on the late lunchtime news. Why? Do you think they’re connected to our councillor?”
“More so now I’ve read this, Derek.” The DCI waved the magazine in the air, folded back some pages, leant over his desk and passed it to Degsy. “Left-hand column. You need to read between the lines.”
Degsy sat back, reading the article.
“Interesting, Boss. I like this description - a bastion of public service and child welfare whose unexpected but understandable demise from an uncommon but natural cause will no doubt shock many - I suppose you could describe the bullet in his head like that.
Natural justice, at least, maybe?” He placed the article back on Thurstan’s desk.
“Exactly, Derek and it seems to me Special Branch and the Security Service aren’t going to find this one as simple as they thought. This is, probably, not the last we’ll hear about this.” He leant forward, recovered the magazine and slid it into his top drawer. “I think we may get another visit from them. Bully boy tactics, hot air and bluster, you know the score. They’ll probably suspect we’re a source for the article. Now, I know we’re on solid ground as far as the councillor’s concerned, but I don’t want them inadvertently finding anything out about Nickson and then interfering with the MacMahon job. It could leech into what we have on Tommy Cole. Despite our general opinion of him, I think he’s astute enough to sell himself to them as a drugs source and I don’t want any deals being done, not when we’ve got him by the balls.”
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“I think we’re ok there, Boss. There’s nothing on the Niche system to connect Nickson to all this. I hid the intel checks amongst a list of others, all appropriate to the investigation: suspects, hotel guests, witnesses, that sort of thing. It should be ok.”
Thurstan rubbed his chin. “What about the Border Agency?”
“Same again, Boss. They could’ve automatically notified us of his departures and arrivals, but it would have meant putting a marker on their system so I declined. He’s just one of many now. Apparently, they’re doing crap loads of these checks every day. Someone would have to be looking specifically for him before the line of inquiry became apparent.”
“Good.” Thurstan sat back and relaxed. “Speaking of Tommy Cole, are you available all next week?”
“Yep, I’m on Days, Boss.” He was intrigued.
“Right, sit here and read this whilst I go and have a chat with Chalkie.” He handed Degsy a large file from the bottom of his tray.
“Don’t take it out of the room. Up to this point, there’s only me, Chalkie and Arthur know what’s in it, but I think it’s time we spoke to Mr Cole about what he was doing on Oglet Lane two years ago.”
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