The small coastal village of Llangrannog lay in the valley of the little River Hawen, on the Ceredigion Coastal Path. On a sunny day, as one drove down past the houses to the beach, it could be mistaken for a Cornish village. However, this was Wales and the beauty of Cardigan Bay. Nicks had discovered it quite by chance as he drove aimlessly around the area, finding accommodation as he travelled; trying to put some normality back into his life in the days before he and Anca had met.
He’d stopped at the Pentre Arms and sat sipping a pint, watching the families on the beach, waiting for confirmation a room was available. Its simple magic had infected him. Since then, he’d been back several times over the years, but never often enough to be recognised by the staff. Once, a wild sea pounded the shuttered windows so hard he thought they would implode. The locals hadn’t batted an eyelid.
In the afternoon of his second day, Simon joined him, stipulating he could only spare two nights and then had to get back; there were things to be sorted out, plans to be made.
The weather was good. The first evening was spent drinking whilst watching the sunset over the little cove which Nicks always thought had an element of pirate about it. Had he been in female company, it may have been romantic.
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The day after, he dragged Simon’s reluctant mind and body up out of the cove and along the coastal path where they experienced some magnificent views amidst Simon’s periodic whining enquiries of “Is this going to take much longer?...Is it far now?” and “are you certain there’s a pub at the end of this bloody thing?” Nicks answered: “Not long...not far” and “yes.” Only once did he have to say: “Yes, I’ve bloody told you twice!”
After 9 miles they reached New Quay with its picturesque harbour and expansive sandy beach. Stepping through the stile from the path onto tarmac, Simon suddenly gained new vigour striding off along Rock Street like a man on a mission. It was a beer mission. He could see the harbour wall and figured the pub couldn’t be far now. Nicks couldn’t help but smile.
After a couple of pints and a meal, they’d explored further, visiting several pubs before ending up at the Penrhiwllan Inn where they sat outside in the sunshine watching the world go by before catching a taxi back to the Pentre. The next day, Simon left Nicks to his own devices, having grudgingly admitted he’d enjoyed himself.
The following morning, after a breakfast of two poached eggs with mushrooms on toast, Nicks showered, packed his stuff and vacated the room. Then he strolled across to the village car park, threw his rucksack in the boot of the hired Nissan SUV and returned to the Pentre Arms where he sat in the dining room, with a newspaper and a coffee.
When he felt it was time to pay, he entered the bar where an unexpected feeling gripped the pit of his stomach. He turned abruptly, 223
scuttling back into the dining room where, from behind a newspaper in a corner seat, he was shielded from view but could still see anyone going to their room.
“No, it’s quite alright. I can manage,” the man said, as he headed for the stairs.
Nicks peered over the paper and watched him disappear before quickly re-entering the bar.
“Good morning, Sir. Are you paying your bill now?” she said with a smile then, acknowledging his nod, continued: “Just a moment. Ahh, here it is. Is it cash or card, Sir?”
“Cash,” Nicks replied, glancing at the receipt she gave him. “I hope you don’t mind, but that gentleman who just went upstairs looked familiar. I think I used to work with him many years ago, but can’t for the life of me remember his name.”
“Oh, yes, he had an unusual name.” She looked at the reservations screen on the computer. “Yes, it’s Thurstan Baddeley,” she said, then added, thoughtfully: “It’s got a nice sound to it, hasn’t it?”
“Yes! That’s it! I thought it was him.” Nicks was doing his best not to seem hurried.
“Well, you’ll be able to have a chat because he said he was just going to unpack and then come down for a drink.” She smiled again.
“Unfortunately, I have a train to catch.” He handed her a £5 note. “I wonder if I can give you this and ask you to pull him a pint of Guinness when he comes down but make sure it’s the normal stuff, not the chilled. He doesn’t like the chilled stuff.” He felt a desperate urge to leave, and quickly, but managed to maintain his air of calm as he 224
smiled at her and said: “Give him my regards and please keep the change.” As he turned and walked away he heard her say:
“I will and thank you very much. Come again soon.”
Leaving the bar, he made his way back to the Nissan, only quickening his step when he knew he was out of sight of the Pentre.
Settled in the driving seat, he drove onto the narrow B4321 gunning up the hill towards the main road where instead of turning left and taking the more direct route back to Liverpool, he turned right and headed to Hereford before joining the A49 for home.
Thurstan unpacked his weekend bag and, after peering out of the small recessed window that overlooked the cove, he locked his room and descended to the bar wearing the same grey chinos, blue polo shirt and brown casual shoes he’d travelled down in. He looked around for somewhere nice to sit. Having chosen his spot, he turned to the girl behind the bar to order his drink but hesitated on seeing her pulling a pint of un-chilled Guinness which he assumed was for a temporarily absent customer.
“How’s the Guinness today?” he casually enquired, immediately regretting it in the realisation she wasn’t likely to say: ‘It’s shit, I wouldn’t touch it with a bargepole.”
“Well, you tell me,” she smiled, placing the dark creamy-topped pint in front of him. “That’s from your friend who left about five minutes ago. He said you used to work together and to give you his regards, but he couldn’t stop because he’d a train to catch.”
Thurstan was pleasantly stunned. It was always nice to get a free pint. He lifted the glass to his lips and took a satisfying mouthful of 225
foam and liquid. The Guinness was indeed good. He wiped his mouth.
“Did this chap say what his name was, at all?”
“Ooh! No, he didn’t. I forgot to ask him, but I’ll check his room details for you.” She pushed a few keys on the computer and then said:
“His name was John Steed.”
Thurstan looked confused. “Well, it rings a bell. Certainly sounds familiar, but I can’t place him at the moment. Did he say where we worked together?”
She shook her head. “No, just to give you his regards.”
“I dare say it’ll come back to me. Probably at three in the morning.
Don’t worry, I won’t phone you.”
She looked blankly back at him. Sometimes, he thought, humour was wasted on the young. He took his pint and sat down at a small table by the picture window and looked out onto the beach pondering the mysterious Mr Steed. Eventually, he gave up and settled down to enjoy his drink as he read the lunchtime menu.
After a pleasant meal, he had a walk around the village and meandered through one of the shops. It sold all the things interesting to small children on holiday and he reacquainted himself with fishing nets, plastic buckets in the shape of castles, cowboy pistols and the like. Afterwards, he bought himself an ice cream and wandered up the hill overlooking the bay.
At the top, he sat on a bench for some quiet reflection and it wasn’t long before his thoughts turned to Lizzie. Just thinking about her made him feel good. Was he misreading the signs? Maybe, when she smiled 226
that smile, it wasn’t just for him. Maybe, it was just the way she smiled at everyone. He’d no idea. He needed to pay more attention.
“Sorry, did you say something?”
He spun round. A couple of walkers were looking at him.
Thurstan blushed with embarrassment. “Oh! Um. Sorry. I didn’t realise I was err...”
The woman smiled. “Oh, that’s alright. I do the same myself, quite often. A right little chatterbox and there’s only me there.”
He threw them a smile, grabbed his jacket and walked back down the path to the village.
Later that evening, after a shower, he had dinner in the restaurant then entered the bar, carefully scanning its occupants for the walking couple. Their absence a relief, he was able to enjoy a pleasant evening in conversation with several locals.
The following day, he walked south along the coastal path to Aberporth, after which, filled with a sense of achievement, he lay on his bed and idly flicked through the TV stations waiting for his attention to be caught.
“Is that you, Steed?” the attractive woman, bound to a chair by heavy rope, called out.
A dapper man in a suit, wearing a bowler hat at a jaunty angle, leaned against a doorway smiling flirtatiously, waving his umbrella at her.
“Ah, Mrs Peel. I see you’re a bit tied up at the moment. Shall I come back later?”
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The end titles rolled and the music played as Thurstan, now sitting bolt upright, stared at the screen.
“And you can join John Steed and Mrs Peel tomorrow at the same time as we air another classic episode of The Avengers.”
“Ahhhh! That’s it! That’s why the bloody name’s familiar,” he declared aloud to himself as he scrabbled about the bed for his phone.
Quickly, he connected to the internet and typed in ‘John Steed’ then clicked into several sites before he began to feverishly scribble down something on the writing paper provided in his room’s welcome pack.
Slipping his shoes on, he left the room and went to the bar. She was there. He asked for a Guinness. She was about to ask whether he wanted chilled or un-chilled when she recognised him. As she pulled the pint, he asked her if she could look up his friend’s address on the computer and confirm whether he had the right one. He waved the piece of paper at her.
She smiled sympathetically. “I’m not allowed to give you people’s addresses and things. I shouldn’t really have given you his name. It’s something called Data Protection, you see.”
“I know all about Data Protection. I’m a policeman. You don’t have to give me anything because I’m giving you the address and all you have to do is nod or shake your head,” Thurstan said pleasantly.
“Oh, a policeman. You don’t look like a policeman,” she replied.
“Thank you, I do my best,” Thurstan retorted, handing her the piece of paper.
She took it from him. “I don’t need to look it up anyway. I can remember it. One of those Mews places.”
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She looked at the address Thurstan had written down.
“There’s your Guinness,” she said as she placed it carefully in front of him and passed him back the note. Then she nodded.
“Thank you very much and please, please keep the change,”
Thurstan said as he handed her a £5 note.
Stepping over to an empty table, he sat down, took a large mouthful of beer, leant back and said quietly: “You cheeky bastard.”
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21st April 2014
“Good morning, Boss. How was your weekend?” Degsy cheerily greeted him as the DCI took off his coat and hung it on the coat stand.
“My weekend, Derek was both extremely refreshing and gut-wrenchingly frustrating.”
He threw his mobile in his top drawer and plonked himself in his chair.
“Well, you’ll probably need this then.”
Degsy offered Thurstan the mug of coffee he’d started making on seeing the Boss striding purposefully across the HQ car park. There was something about his demeanour, even at that distance, that had made him think all was not well.
Thurstan took the mug, placing it on his blotting-pad.
“What happened, Boss?” Degsy asked more out of politeness than curiosity.
The DCI took a mouthful of coffee and said: “He was there, Derek.
He was fucking there.” Degsy looked at him blankly.
“Nickson, Derek. Nickson! He was staying at the same hotel. Left just as I was booking in.”
“Did you see him?” He sat down on the edge of the nearest chair.
“No,” Thurstan replied curtly. “But I’ll tell you how I know.”
For several minutes he recounted the incident at Llangrannog as his Sergeant sat engrossed.
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“Even the description they were able to give me matches what we have of him at the moment and he’s still got the beard. Plus, he was down there with another bloke; shorter in height, fair hair, in his forties, wearing glasses, slightly overweight or stocky, depending on who I spoke to. I don’t know. Connected to the jobs? It could be the driver, given he’s used a false name and address as well, and paid cash too. I doubt very much he’s just a mate. But what were they doing there? They went walking along the north coastal path and they made it to New Quay because someone at the Pentre saw them come back in a taxi and I checked with the firm. They were picked up outside a pub there, so if they were doing a recce for a job it has to concern someone living or working somewhere along that section of the path. We need to look into the possibility, Derek.”
Degsy had taken a sheet of blank paper from the desk, folded it notebook size and was furiously writing on it as Thurstan spoke.
“I mean, the name and address he gave.” Thurstan wasn’t entirely sure whether he was still trying to convince himself or just Degsy at this point. “It’s pure him as far as I’m concerned.”
“At least we know he’s an Avengers fan,” Degsy quipped without looking up from his piece of paper. “And from what they told you of his drinking habits, like yourself, a fan of un-chilled Guinness.”
He’d stopped writing and was looking at Thurstan, who taking another sip of coffee, then said: “Well, I don’t mind telling you, Derek, that little comment of his almost drove me paranoid on Sunday night when the significance properly hit me. But, having given it quite some thought, I’ve decided it’s a titbit about me probably anyone I’ve 231
ever had a drink with knows about ever since they brought the chilled stuff out. That they’ve been gathering such information is interesting.
A little warning shot, I think, just to let me know. Just to let us know.”
“Do you think we should be worried?”
Degsy was suddenly thinking of the wife and kids and Thurstan saw it.
“No, Derek, not at all,” he tried to reassure him. “It’s just a message. A bit of mental jousting designed to disturb our focus and it certainly did that to me last night.” He sipped his coffee again, deep in thought. “No, that information most probably came from further afield than this office. I’ve never been for a drink with any of the staff, as yet, and even you didn’t know that about me, did you?”
“Well, I did actually,” Degsy confessed.
Thurstan frowned. “Who told you?”
“Well, Ralph, the porter at Lower Lane. I believe you used to work together when he was on the job. I was chatting to him a few weeks ago,” Degsy smiled.
“Well, there you go! Idle chatter picked up in passing. One of the foundations of intelligence gathering,” Thurstan said expansively, then added: “How is Ralphy, by the way?”
“He’s fine, Boss. He said if you’re ever out that way to give him a call and he’ll take a can of Guinness out of his fridge, put it on a radiator for ten minutes and serenade you with his guitar while you’re waiting.”
“Good! I can hardly wait!” laughed the DCI then slapped his palms gently on the desk and stood up. “Right, let’s make some of those 232
enquiries. Get Gandalph to help you and, if need be, Taffy. He might have some contacts out that way and, if not, just the fact he can speak the local lingo might help.” He eyed the clock on the wall. “I’ve got a meeting I have to attend so I need to get a move on.”
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7th May 2014
“Is that it then, love?” the middle-aged woman behind the cash till enquired.
“Yeah, just the chicken wrap and a decaf to go.”
“The healthy option,” she said and they smiled at each other.
Sliding his empty tray in with the others, he started his walk back to the canteen entrance when he heard: “Degsy!”
Someone was waving at him from a table in the far corner. The figure got up and came towards him.
“Terry!” Degsy said as they shook hands. “Sorry, mate, I didn’t see you when I came in.”
“Not a problem, Degs,” Terry replied. “How’s things? Still enjoying MIT?”
Degsy nodded. “Yeah, still enjoying it. What about you?” he asked, looking Terry’s suit up and down as he stood in front of him.
“Uniform a thing of the past?”
“I’d like to think so, mate,” Terry grinned. “SB now, you know!
Out at the Airport.”
“So what brings you to Fantasy Island?” Degsy asked, using the Forcewide nickname for Headquarters.
“Oh, my oppo just had to pop in to drop something off and have his appraisal with the Chief Super. Not much point in hanging around the office. I’m the new boy. No one’ll tell me fuck all, so I thought I’d just 234
grab a coffee. It’s handy I saw you, actually. I gave you a bell the other day, but you were out.”
“Why, what’s up?” Degsy asked as he gave a quick wave to another former colleague at a table some distance away.
“Guess who I saw last week?” He didn’t wait for an answer.
“Nicks!” He saw the lack of recognition. “Chris Nickson! You were asking me about him a while back.”
“Oh! Chris Nickson. Yeah.” Outwardly he appeared calm but inside Degsy felt a strange combination of interest, excitement and concern.
“How’s he doing?”
“Good, so he tells me. Saw him at the airport. I told him you’d been asking after him and he sends his regards. Still living in Berlin, lucky sod.”
“Really!” was all Degsy could manage at this point.
“Yeah. He’s looking well. Still sporting the beard. Gives him a distinct middle eastern look, I think. I was just glad he wasn’t wearing a fuckin’ rucksack!” Terry laughed.
“Did he say what he was doing there?” Degsy asked casually.
“Picking someone up, I presume?”
Terry nodded, breaking off to speak to another suit who’d approached them. “I’m sitting over there, Dave. Give us two minutes and I’ll be with you.” The suit smiled and wandered off. “Sorry, Degs. Well, he was the first time I saw him. Now, last time, he said he was there buying a ticket for his German mate. I suppose that’s who he was waiting for the first time.”
Degsy was intrigued. “So you saw him twice?”
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“Yeah. Same week, funnily enough. First time I saw him he was coming in.” Terry flashed a mischievous grin before continuing. “So I sidled up to him, gripped his arm and said, dead official-like, ‘Would you mind coming this way, Sir?’ He nearly shat himself! Funny as fuck!”
Degsy managed to force what he hoped would at least pass for a chuckle, then enquired, “So his er… his mate’s name? Did he mention it? It’s just I met a German mate of his once, years ago. Nice bloke.
Name’s on the tip of my tongue, just can’t get it.”
“What are you like with names, mate!” Terry laughed, looked thoughtful then triumphantly exclaimed: “Dieter Ackermann! That’s who his mate was. I’ll tell you why I remember. I knew a bloke with the same name, years ago. Well, not exactly the same name because that would’ve been spooky. No, his name was Rudi, owned a bar.
Great fellah.”
Terry’s mind worked a bit like a neon scrolling information sign in a travel agent’s window. Sometimes the next piece of information was connected to the previous, often it was the beginning of a whole new thing.
Knowing this, Degsy clarified. “So, it was Dieter Ackermann who was Nicks’ mate, not the bar owner?”
“Yeah, spot on!” Terry replied.
“No, doesn’t ring any bells,” Degsy said, shaking his head in fake bewilderment.
“We’re needed down the Ferry Terminal.” It was the other SB man.
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Terry nodded, looking apologetically at Degsy. “Sorry, Degs, got to go. Anyway, great to see you again, mate. Give us a bell at the Airport and we’ll go for a pint sometime.”
“Yeah, no problem,” Degsy replied. After a moment, he called after him. “Terry, just out of interest. What was the airline?”
“Easyjet, matey. If you’re thinking of trying to catch him and his mate at the airport for a pint, you’ll have to be quick. The flight’s sometime tonight. Six o’clock, I think.” With that, Terry waved and disappeared into the depths of the stairwell.
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When Degsy reached the doorway of the DCI’s office, Lizzie was just leaving. She turned back to face Thurstan, “So, Sunday then?”
“Yes, definitely,” he replied, standing up behind his desk before confirming. “A normal Sunday lunch with the family. Just a small, informal, sort of thing.” He paused. “How many exactly?”
Lizzie laughed, catching his concern. “Well, there’ll be me, my Mum and Dad, my Nana and Gramps, my three sisters and three of my brothers. My brother Melvin is still in Afghanistan.” Then she added,
“Oh, and Auntie Lydia.” She flashed him a sparkling smile, noticing he seemed to have lost some colour from his cheeks.
“Oh, good. Nothing to worry about then?”
“No, nothing to worry about,” she laughed. “Just a normal Sunday lunch.” She turned, smiled at Degsy and strolled across the main office to her desk.
Having waited patiently for the interaction to come to a natural end, somehow he couldn’t help but join Thurstan in watching her progress.
“You want to see me, Derek?” Thurstan said, breaking the spell.
“Er... yes, Boss! I’ve just been speaking to a mate in the canteen.
He works at the Airport. SB...”
Thurstan let him talk then said: “So, you think it’s Nickson leaving on this flight?”
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“Yes, Boss. It’s got to be, surely! Officially he’s not in the country, so this is how he did it. Your being there at the same hotel probably spooked him and he’s taking the first opportunity he could to do one.”
Thurstan looked thoughtful. “I’m not so sure, but...” He rubbed his chin. “I think you’re right. It’s too good an opportunity to waste. If we can lock him up on the passport offence we can, at the very least, get his bloody DNA and keep him in custody.” He looked at his watch.
“You said the flight’s around six?”
Degsy nodded. “I could phone the Airport and check?”
Thurstan shook his head. “No. It’ll just waste time. The traffic’s not going to be good this time of day and it’ll only get worse. We need to get up there now, Derek. Right now!”
“I’ll get the job’s car, Boss. It’s got blues and twos and I’ll see you in the top car park by reception.”
Thurstan pulled on his jacket and grabbed his mobile from the drawer. “Somebody get me a radio with a fresh battery, please,” he called from the doorway of his office before returning to his desk and phoning the Control Room. Requesting a doubly manned patrol to meet him in front of Liverpool Airport terminal, he then strode out of his office, snatching the Airwaves radio Arthur presented to him.
“Book me out, Arthur, will you? Speke Airport,” he told him and walked briskly to the office exit just as the SB Superintendent entered, impeding his progress.
“Baddeley, I want a word with you, in your office!”
Without pause, Thurstan looked at him disdainfully and brushed past. “Not now! ” The SB man was left flapping in the wind.
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Once in the passenger seat, Thurstan wound down his window and deposited the small but powerful, blue, magnetic strobe light on the roof. Driving down the ramp and out onto the main road, Degsy switched on the yelp siren and with alternating flashing headlights began to weave his way through the traffic.
“Have you used these sirens before, Boss, or just the two tones?”
Degsy shouted over the noise as he accelerated away from an intersection.
“It was just two tones in my day, Derek. I must admit this looks confusing,” Thurstan confessed loudly, perusing the emergency equipment control box.
“No problem, Boss. Ignore everything else and just press wail when we’re on a straight run, the sound carries better, and yelp when we’re approaching and going through a junction, it’s an attention grabber.”
At each set of red traffic lights, Degsy manoeuvred to the front, checking right, left and ahead before accelerating through the junction when safe to do so. At green lights, he was looking for pedestrians, cyclists and random thinkers.
It’d been a long time since Thurstan had experienced the thrill of a blue light run and it was only after some challenging and inventive manoeuvres on Degsy’s part that he felt able to relax as they eventually turned into Speke Hall Avenue, the dual carriageway leading to the industrial estates and JLA. As they shot down the near-empty road, he turned off the sirens.
Less than two minutes later, they pulled up behind the marked police car parked on the Emergency hatchings in front of the first 240
entrance to the Terminal. Thurstan took the blue light from the roof and stowed it in the footwell; two uniformed Officers got out of their vehicle and donned their hats. Thurstan slammed the door behind him, slapped the smaller of the Officers on the shoulder and told him: “You mind the vehicles, son.” The other Officer was muscular. “You come with me, big fella,” he added, racing towards the entrance.
Nicks popped an earphone into one ear, leaving the other dangling.
He pressed play on his iPod and settled back in his seat, glancing briefly out of the emergency door window. Beyond the wing, he could see his fellow passengers walking from the Terminal towards the aircraft. He wondered how many more there would be. Buckling his seat belt, he perused the emergency instructions read a thousand times before and inspected the emergency door confirming it agreed with what he'd seen on the card. Satisfied, he closed his eyes and leaned his head against the cabin wall.
Walking briskly through the concourse, Thurstan located the airline desk and flashed his badge. “Detective Chief Inspector Baddeley. I’m after a person wanted for questioning in connection with a murder and I believe they’re booked onto your flight to Berlin today. His name’s Ackermann. Dieter Ackermann.”
The woman behind the desk stabbed a few keys on her computer.
“Yes, he’s on the flight. But you’ll need to hurry. They’re boarding now, Sir, Gate five. I’ll get security to take you through.” She called and waved to a security guard who was standing by the check-in desks opposite. He ambled towards them.
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As Thurstan impatiently watched his progress, he instructed the woman.
“Contact the gate and let them know we’re on our way and if need be, you’ll have to delay the flight. Do you know what seat he’s in?”
“Ten F, extra leg room. As you go in from the front, it’s the first row on your left, over the wings.” He lost patience and strode off to meet the security officer strolling towards them. She shouted after him: “He should be in the window seat.”
Thurstan showed the guard his badge, took the man by the arm, spun him round and guided him towards the departures gates whilst explaining the situation. The former lethargic attitude changed in an instant and the security man set off at a fast pace, gabbling into his radio, causing Thurstan, Degsy and the uniformed Officer to jog after him to make up ground.
At the departure gate, they were joined by other security officers and Thurstan quickly briefed them. “I want all exits to the plane covered and no one, absolutely no one leaves that plane until I or DS
Drayton here okays it first. Clear?” Nods all round.
They stood and watched the last of the passengers exit the main building and walk across the apron towards the plane. As they ascended the stairs, the security officers took up their positions.
Thurstan, Degsy and their colleague joined the last passengers as they entered the aircraft. After a few quiet words with the cabin crew, Thurstan looked over in the direction they indicated. Between passengers stowing their luggage, he caught fleeting glimpses of an arm and then the top of the head of the person sat in seat 10F.
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Beckoning the others, he weaved his way towards his prey, feeling the rush of adrenalin he always felt when making an arrest. “Police,”
he said to the man sitting next to the window. “Dieter Ackermann?”
From underneath a baseball cap, the man looked up at him and replied: “Yes, I’m Dieter Ackermann.”
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Whilst the aircraft moved slowly from its gate, Nicks watched two suits and a uniform escort Ackermann from the adjacent Berlin flight and stride across the tarmac towards the terminal building. He allowed himself a little smile, removed his earphone and turned off his iPod, directing his attention to the flight safety demonstration. He felt it was incumbent upon him to do so, seeing as they were always kind enough to provide it.
As they trudged up the stairs, Degsy explained to the hapless Dieter how the procedure would unfold and the possible consequences should things not be as the German was insisting. Thurstan stopped on one of the half-landings and watched an aircraft taxi out towards the runway.
“Where’s that one going to?” he called to the accompanying Security Officer.
The security man turned and came back down the steps to be alongside the DCI. “What? That one there?” He pointed at the same aircraft the nodding Thurstan had enquired about.
“Palma de Mallorca,” he said and, readying his pass, scuttled back up the stairs to join the others, now waiting at the security door.
Thurstan followed him slowly. “Don’t take him to the SB office, Derek,” he called. “Use Security’s.”
Once ensconced away from prying eyes, Thurstan told Degsy to carry out the necessary checks via the MIT office.
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“They want to know if they should unload his hold luggage,” the Security man asked.
“Basically, you mean how long is he going to be? Tell them not to do it for now. I just need to check something out, then I’ll confirm.
Give me 10 minutes. Derek, I’m off to the airline desk.”
Degsy looked up. “That’ll be great, do that then,” he said into the phone as he nodded back to Thurstan.
Ten minutes later, Thurstan returned. “Any news?” he asked.
“Yes, Boss,” Degsy replied. “By a stroke of luck, Gandalph was speaking on the phone to an on-duty German mate of his when I called him. They’re both in the IPA. He’s been able to shortcut the checks on Mister Ackermann. Checks out okay, here and there. Not known.”
Thurstan smiled: “Well, young Mister Ackermann, I’m sorry we delayed you and I do apologise for the inconvenience caused. This Security Officer will escort you back to your plane. Have a safe flight and I hope all goes well at home.” He nodded to the Security man who escorted the relieved German from the office.
Degsy looked at the DCI who shook his head. “No, Derek, I doubt we’d gain anything further from him if we took him into custody. I think what he’s been telling us is the truth. Besides, I’ve just had a look at the passenger list for the other flight that was leaving as we came back into the terminal. Nickson was on it. Using his own details and sitting in the same bloody seat.”
“Should we get him pulled when it lands, do you think, Boss?”
“No. We’re still in the same boat. No hard evidence and you need at least something if you’re going to extradite someone.” He shook his 245
head sadly as he rubbed his chin. “No, best to let it be for the time being. Come on. Let’s get back.”
Walking through the terminal towards the exit, Degsy said: “It’s my fault, Boss. I should have thought this out better. I should have thought out of the box.”
Thurstan shot him a glance and smiled. “It’s not your fault, Derek.
It would have been foolish not to have gone for it. Anyway, it’s not easy to think out of the box when you don’t know you’re in one.” He let out a little laugh. “We did exactly what he wanted us to do and I don’t think he was taunting us, if that’s what you’re thinking. No. He wanted us to know he’s left but he didn’t want us to be there, not right there, when he did. I think we’ve just witnessed the difference between a concert pianist and Chas and Dave.”
“I don’t suppose we’re the concert pianist, are we, Boss?” Degsy replied with a slight smile.
“Most probably not, Derek,” Thurstan said, patting him on the back as they left the building. “Most probably not.”
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a.m. 12th May 2014
“I’m sorry about the other day, but I had to dash. Urgent enquiry,”
he said, affecting an air of pleasantry a long way from how he felt.
There was something about the SB Superintendent that always made his teeth itch.
“Anything I should know about? Something you’re not telling me?”
the SB man said as he sat, his hands held to his lips as if in prayer, fixing Thurstan with a long stare.
“No,” he replied, adding “and anyway it’s a need-to-know basis. ” It was SB’s own mantra.
The Superintendent narrowed his eyes in annoyance.
“I think I do need to know.”
Thurstan stared back at him.
“That may well be, but I know you don’t.”
An awkward silence, then: “Why didn’t you provide us straight away with the camera footage you recovered of the vehicle and occupants you knew would be of interest to us in connection with the Councillor’s murder?” He was more forceful in his tone this time.
“I did,” Thurstan prevaricated.
“Oh no, you didn’t, Chief Inspector!” the SB man retorted. His dropping of the word ‘Detective’ from Thurstan’s title was deliberate.
“Effectively, you kept that piece of information from us for a week!
We should have had it when you handed over all the original statements and evidence. You’re well aware of that!”
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Thurstan leant forward on his desk, his voice raised slightly. “Yes!
However, I couldn’t give you something which, at that time, I didn’t have, hadn’t seen and couldn’t assess!”
“And this simple task took a week! I should have expected nothing better,” the SB man replied, condescendingly.
“No, it didn’t take a week!” Thurstan could feel his annoyance rising. “I delivered those discs to the SB office, properly labelled and exhibited, within two days.”
“Oh, really!” His opponent’s voice was raised. “Then why did you fail to highlight to my Exhibits Officer the importance of what they contained? Why didn’t you bring them directly to me?”
Thurstan leant back in his chair. “You weren’t there,” he said casually. “Anyway, it was all on the report I left.”
“So what did you do? Sneak in when he was on his lunch and casually leave it in a pile of other items on his desk? Oh, granted, there was a report! In a separate envelope which was, mysteriously enough, found on someone else’s desk!”
Thurstan leant forward again. “Listen to me very carefully. I don’t sneak! That’s your department. I left those items. If your office management isn’t up to it then you need to get your act together!”
Taffy sat at his desk. Gandalph passed him a coffee and a bacon sandwich from the cardboard holder he’d carefully balanced all the way from the canteen. He placed his own coffee on the desk, pulled up a chair and unwrapped his coronation chicken sandwich.
“You didn’t forget the brown sauce, did you?” Taffy enquired as he took a sip of his coffee and pulled his brunch from its paper bag.
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Gandalph took a big mouthful of sandwich and shook his head.
“Oh, look at that!” Taffy said as he peeled the top layer of toast from his sandwich revealing the succulent bacon, smothered in tangy brown sauce. “Lush, that is,” he said, replacing the toast and taking a big bite.
They sat in silence, chewing steadily, watching from a distance as Thurstan and the SB man’s discussion became more and more animated. They couldn’t hear what was being said but now and then the voices rose loud enough for them to discern a “what!” or a “how dare you!”
Taffy, having finished the first half of his sandwich, started on the other. Gandalph wiped his hands on a serviette, thoughtfully provided by the canteen, before taking a swig of his coffee, his cheeks bulging with the remains of his coronation chicken.
“I’ve not seen him this angry before, have you?” Taffy observed.
Gandalph shook his head and held his hand up, pointing to his bursting cheeks. He took another swig of coffee and swallowed several times. “No,” he eventually answered.
Suddenly the door to the DCI’s office flew open and the SB
Superintendent shouted: “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you. I’m off to Personnel!” and stormed off through the main office towards the exit.
Thurstan stood in the doorway. Taffy and Gandalph had the impression he was going to say something else, but he shot them a glance then simply shouted back: “You do that!”
Thurstan slammed his office door shut and returned to his desk.
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Gandalph, finishing his coffee, switched on his computer and keyed in his password. As he waited for access to be granted, he idly glanced at the news report on the office television. A Newcastle gangster had been machine-gunned to death, in a quiet corner of a local industrial estate, by the pillion passenger of a motorbike. The DCI giving the interview to the news crew seemed to think, for some reason, there was a link to Eastern European organised crime in the London area.
Thurstan knew what the SB Superintendent was inferring when he said he was ‘off to Personnel’. A veiled threat, his personal file was going to be marked in such a manner that it would limit his future career in some way. He’d heard other people complaining this’d been done to them. The conspiracy theorists had maintained “You can never find out what they’ve written because they take it out of the file before they let you see it.”
He’d taken it with a pinch of salt but knew the SB Super would hurt him if he could. The man had waited a long time. Of course, he could’ve followed him up there but it would have, without doubt, resulted in a scene and Thurstan was trying hard not to draw attention to himself and his enquiries, at least for the time being.
He sat down and scratched the Personnel Department and Special Branch from the career bucket list he hadn’t written. At the same time, in the main office, Taffy scrolled down the information on his computer screen and chewed thoughtfully on the remains of his bacon toasty.
250
p.m. 12th May 2014
Striding across the main office, he’d almost made it to the exit when Arthur hailed him.
“Thurstan! Phone.” He held it up to reinforce the message.
Thurstan sighed, then called: “Tell whoever it is I’ll phone them back in 30 minutes.”
Arthur shook his head. “I think you should take this now. It’s Bill Cheesewright and it’s important.”
Bill Cheesewright was the DCI running the St Helens murders enquiry. Thurstan huffed and pointed back to his office. The phone rang as he entered. He looked back at Arthur who nodded feverishly in return.
“Bill! Thurstan. To what do I owe the pleasure?” he said affably.
“Hello, Thurstan,” Bill replied. “I assume from your greeting you’re not aware.”
“Aware of what?” Thurstan said as he made himself comfortable in his swivel chair.
Bill laughed.
“I thought as much. It’s the way they’ve sent out the notification, you know the one regarding your alley victim’s DNA profile? Now, would I be right in suggesting the one you received simply told you they’d profiled him and he’s not known?”
Thurstan’s interest was aroused.
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“Yes, you’d be absolutely right. Are you going to tell me otherwise, Bill?”
“I am indeed, mate. I received a similar notification.” He paused and Thurstan could hear him saying: “Two sugars, please” before he continued. “But mine tells me who he is.”
Thurstan leaned forward, elbows on his desk. “And who is he, Bill?”
“Thank you, just put it there,” he heard Bill whisper before saying:
“Well, it’s not so much who he is, Thurstan, but what he is.” A pause.
“He’s our serial killer, mate.”
252
12th May 2014
Beneath a large white parasol, Nicks sipped freshly made iced lemonade as Anca stepped into the pool and waded up to her waist.
“It’s not as cold as you’d think,” she called before launching herself fully into the water. She wore the black and white one-piece bathing suit she’d bought in Budapest, two years previously. She always looked particularly cute in it.
He lay back and watched her swim up and down. On the table beside him were the books he was currently reading: Jim Marr’s Crossfire and Jim Garrison’s On the Trail of the Assassins.
When he’d pulled them from his rucksack, Anca had looked at him tenderly. Running her palm gently down the side of his face, she’d smiled, softly. “Again?”
He took another mouthful of lemonade and pressed the cool glass against his forehead like he’d seen her do sometimes. She always made it look like a sensual wonderland. It was cold and wet, he concluded, wiping his face with the towel. He’d expected more.
They’d been lucky to get a place at such short notice. He’d been hanging around Liverpool waiting for the next job, idly surfing holiday locations when he saw the villa in the mountains with its own pool, magnificent views and solitude. It was perfect. As if it were fate, Simon called him saying everything was on hold and he was free to go home. It’d been too much to resist.
253
Having bumped into Terry at the airport, he thought he’d have to abandon the idea of leaving direct from Liverpool, making up the story of meeting a friend as a means of escape. But then he met Dieter Ackermann.
The idea had formed only when he’d overheard the young German in the pub, complaining to a relative on his mobile phone that he couldn’t make it home for the funeral because he didn’t get paid for another week.
Telling Dieter he’d already bought a ticket for a flight to Berlin but couldn’t now use it, he explained that someone had done something similar for him when he was younger and he felt he had to carry on the vibe. All that had to be done was the change of name and the ticket was his. Dieter was only too pleased to accept, promising to do the same one day. Returning to the airport to buy the ticket, Nicks deliberately sought another encounter.
Terry was a nice guy but tended to talk a bit too much, having all the hallmarks of a gossip genuinely enjoying the experience. Nicks wasn’t sure SB was the safest place for him, concluding he probably hadn’t been asked the right questions in his interview. The name Drayton had been vaguely familiar to him on their first meeting, but it was only when Terry mentioned MIT that the penny dropped.
Knowing his primal urge meant Terry would tell whoever listened of their encounters, Nicks was fairly certain he’d covered all the angles.
“Come on in, sweetheart!” she called, waving excitedly. “We can have a race!” He smiled and waved back. Peeling off his T-shirt, he descended the steps from the terrace to the pool.
254
14th May 2014
“Derek!” I’m glad you’ve managed to turn up... finally,” Thurstan said as he took his arm, guiding him back towards the office entrance.
“Arthur, book us out somewhere nice, will you? I’ll speak to you later,” It was the code he and Arthur used for those occasions when he wanted to avoid someone such as the Superintendent or another Senior Officer, or for when he needed to camouflage the nature of his enquiries. Arthur had a flair for this sort of thing.
“Boss, you told me I could come in late,” Degsy protested as Thurstan propelled him along the corridor towards the lifts.
“Yes, yes,” Thurstan told him, impatiently. “But it was before I decided we have to do something that must be done. Come on! We can catch that lift if we’re quick.”
Bundling him out on the ground floor, Thurstan led Degsy across the reception area and out onto the car park.
“You want me to do what!? Steal a toothbrush?” Degsy asked incredulously as they cleared the entrance.
Thurstan strode meaningfully towards his car.
“For pity’s sake, Derek, I’m not asking for the world,” he replied as the indicators of his car flashed several times. He hesitated as he opened the driver’s door. “Just get in and I’ll tell you everything en route.”
They were driving towards the Dock Road. “I’ve just received the DNA profile from the knife found in the alley,” Thurstan said, “and I 255
need to get some form of confirmation regarding Nickson, something that will let us know we’re definitely on the right track. Well, today’s the best day to get it. His Dad meets up with a few pals at the Masonic Hall every Wednesday leaving his Mum on her own. So, I thought –”
“How do you know that, Boss?”
“Know what?” Thurstan checked over his shoulder and then slipped into the nearside lane.
Degsy replied, deliberately: “Know that his dad’s going to the Masons this afternoon.”
“Well,” Thurstan began then paused as he negotiated the roundabout before continuing. “You’re not the only one with contacts or influence. A friend of mine is running the surveillance courses that’ve been going on recently so, because we couldn’t do it officially, too many questions, I asked him if he could use Nickson’s parents as their training targets. I gave him a cover story, of course. The thing is, they weren’t able to cover it round the clock, but no sightings of Nickson and they managed to pick up this behavioural pattern of his parents. Today’s the day and we can’t afford to waste time.”
Degsy was thoughtful for a moment. “Boss? I can actually see where you’re going with the toothbrush thing, but … why do I have to be the one to nick it?”
Thurstan threw him a scathing glance. “Because, Derek, I’m a DCI.
We don’t do this sort of thing.”
“But I do?”
Thurstan grinned. “Do you want to get on in this job or not?”
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“That’s unfair, Boss,” Degsy complained. “Anyway, what am I supposed to do? Ask if I can use the toilet, again. She’ll think I‘ve got some kind of problem.”
“Perfect! Good thinking!” Thurstan exclaimed. “I’ll tell her you’ve got a prostate issue, but you’re too embarrassed to talk about it.”
“Great! Thanks very much!” Degsy replied. “And what if there’s no toothbrushes? What if they’ve both got false teeth?”
“Then, Derek … I think we’re fucked,” He paused, thoughtfully.
“Having said that, perhaps...”
257
Thursday 15th May 2014
The DCI waved a finger. “The problem is the Chief blows hot and cold. When he’s on his cold cycle, meetings can be somewhat tense.
That’s why the senior management avoids them if they possibly can and sends rent a sucker instead.”
Degsy took another bite of his spicy chicken wrap, chewed thoughtfully then said: “Can’t be that bad, surely?”
“Easy for you to say, Derek. You don’t have to go to them,”
Thurstan replied lifting the top layer of bread from his egg mayonnaise sandwich and powdering the contents with black pepper before flattening the bread back in place and taking a mouthful.
Degsy swallowed hard and took a swig from his glass of milk.
“Technically, Boss, neither do you. Should be the Super, shouldn’t it?”
Thurstan wiped some stray egg mayonnaise from his chin with his serviette. “Full marks for spotting that. You’re quite correct, but he’s an awfully busy man, apparently.”
Degsy looked back at him incredulously, “Really? What with?”
The DCI took another mouthful of sandwich and washed it down with a sip of coffee. He thought for a moment then said, “Golf, I think.”
Degsy smiled. “Anyway, it’s a one-on-one isn’t it, Boss? More civilised,” he concluded.
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“You’d like to think so,” laughed Thurstan, “but there’s nowhere to hide. No one else there to deflect his attention.”
They both looked up, suddenly aware Chalkie was joining them.
“What’ve you got today?” Thurstan enquired.
The DI sat down. “Beef stroganoff and rice. Thought I’d give it a go. Looked nice. How come you’ve not gone for it?”
Thurstan peppered his second sandwich. “They were changing the trays over and I couldn’t be bothered to wait. I’ve been summoned to see the Chief at three.”
Chalkie casually checked his watch and slid the tray to the far end of the table, rearranging his plate and mineral water before taking a mouthful of food. He chewed in silence for several moments.
“Mmmm. You missed out. It’s really good.”
Thurstan munched on his sandwich. “Is Lizzie on duty yet? I thought she might have come down here with you?”
Chalkie scooped up some beef with his fork and waved it towards Thurstan. “You really should have had this. Yeah, she is, but I had to send her out on an enquiry.” He opened the mineral water which fizzed and spluttered into his lap. “What’s the Chief want, do you know? McMahon job?” he said as he wiped the residue off his trousers with his hand then took a swig.
The DCI glanced across the table and Degsy returned an almost imperceivable shrug.
“I expect so” After a pause, Thurstan said, “Look, Derek and I need to tell you something. Can we move to that table over there in the corner?
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A smile flickered across Chalkie’s lips. “Yeah, no problem.”
Safely ensconced in the quiet far reaches of the HQ canteen, Thurstan and Degsy told him everything.
“I knew something was going on,” he chuckled, waving his forefinger when they’d finished. “And I’ve got to say, I understand totally why you wanted to keep it under wraps for so long. I’d have done exactly the same thing. Honestly, I’ve got no problems with it at all.” He glanced at his watch. “If you have to see the Chief at three, you’d better get a move on.”
Thurstan looked at his wrist. “I’ve got another five minutes yet,” he said.
Chalkie grinned, offering the bottle of mineral water “You’ll need five minutes to get that egg stain off your lapel. Here, use this, works for me.”
260
Friday 16th May 2014
“Good morning, Derek!” Thurstan hailed his DS who was waiting for him in the office.
“That for me? Thanks very much,” he said, as he relieved him of the mug of coffee he was holding. “Not having one yourself?” He placed it by his computer and hung his jacket on the coat stand before sitting down behind his desk.
Degsy could only mutter, “Er, actually…” before he was interrupted.
“Well, the meeting with the Chief went well yesterday. In the wake of our alley victim turning out to be the serial killer, he appears to have forgotten we haven’t solved the McMahon job. Of course, the major plaudits went to the St Helens Enquiry Team, and rightly so.
They put in a lot of hard work. Not their fault the killer lived outside the area and wasn’t known to the system. Anyway, it seems we’ve managed to fly in under the radar and we are, currently, in the Chief’s good books because, Derek, he views us as ‘sharing the responsibility for having solved the crime.’ His very words.” He smiled broadly.
Degsy hadn’t seen him quite this ebullient and garrulous before, at least not this early.
“Not what I expected when I reached his landing yesterday, I have to say, and I admit I was quite relieved when I saw Bill Cheesewright was there as well.” He took a sip of coffee, emitted a satisfied sigh and then beckoned the DS to him. “What’s that under your arm, Derek?”
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“It’s today’s newspaper, Boss. I know you don’t usually bother with this sort of thing but I thought you might need to read it. Are you sure you don’t want to savour the moment a bit longer or at least finish the coffee first?”
Thurstan shook his head. “No, no. Let’s have a look,” he replied, enthusiastically.
Degsy handed him the office copy of the local newspaper.
Unfolding it, the DCI took another sip from his mug and then looked down at the headline which proclaimed: The Shadow!
The local crime reporter was theorising that a vigilante was responsible for the recent unsolved murders which had left the police completely baffled. By the finale, leaving no forensic evidence behind, able to avoid camera surveillance and virtually disappearing into thin air, the mysterious figure began to take on an almost superhero status.
A serious look replaced the previous jovial countenance; the DCI rubbed his chin several times. “Bugger!” he said quietly. “You know, Derek, I realised it wouldn’t last for long but I was hoping for longer than that.”
Degsy felt he should say something, but wasn’t sure what.
The phone rang. Thurstan picked it up, signalling him with a raised palm to hold his thoughts a bit longer. “DCI Baddeley,” he said. “Yes, Sir … No, Sir … I’m on my way, Sir.” He put the phone down, slowly stood up and casually walked to the coat stand in the corner. “Derek, is there any chance we still have such a thing as the Yellow Pages in the office?”
Degsy looked confused. “Yeah, I think so, Boss. Why?”
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“Why?” Thurstan threw him a weak smile. “Because, Derek, I might need to stuff it down the back of my pants,” he replied, slowly, putting on his jacket with a heavy sigh. He patted his colleague on the shoulder. “Should you need me, I’ll be with the Chief. I may be gone for quite a while.”
Standing by the lift, Thurstan knew he had to tell the Chief everything. He’d known it yesterday; it was why he’d decided to tell Chalkie. He felt bad he hadn’t told his DI before but rationalised he’d enough on his plate investigating Monica Jean’s murder. Still, he felt guilty that he hadn’t done it sooner.
Stepping out on the first floor, he saw his reflection in the hard plastic cover of a notice board. Adjusting his tie and quickly brushing his lapels, he took a deep breath and swiped his warrant card through the security device. In the outer office, he introduced himself to the Chief Constable’s Personal Assistant. Pretty in an unconventional way and in her early forties, her short cut hair was almost white and she wore a dark grey, below-the-knee, pencil skirt with a crisp white blouse.
“I’ve been expecting you,” she said, pleasantly, flashing him a stunning smile as she stood up and walked towards the large door behind her. “Follow me, please,” she told him cheerily.
She knocked and entered without waiting for an invite.
“DCI Baddeley is here to see you, Sir.”
She waved him in, then turned and gave him the same dazzling smile before leaving and closing the door behind her.
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The Chief was seated in a large swivel chair behind an even larger oak desk. He was a lean man, mid-fifties, with sandy-coloured hair now greying rapidly. “Take a seat,” he said gruffly.
He waited until Thurstan was safely seated then lifted a copy of the local newspaper from his desk. He held it as if it were contaminated.
“Tell me about this,” he said, fixing the DCI with a stern stare.
And so Thurstan told him. When he’d finished the Chief leant back in his chair and said: “So you’re convinced this information hasn’t been leaked by one of your team?”
Thurstan nodded. “Absolutely. There’s too many inconsistencies and insufficient detail. I suspect it’s come from one of the departments we’ve been channelling requests through.”
The Chief rubbed his chin. “I’ll have someone carry out a routine audit and see what it flushes out. If necessary, we’ll deal with it by issuing a few postings to less interesting places. But just clarify something for me. You’re now waiting for the result of a DNA analysis on a toothbrush you stole from your suspect’s mother? Did I hear that right?”
Thurstan cleared his throat. “Borrowed, Sir. I borrowed it.”
“Borrowed? Without permission? Is that not theft?” the Chief Constable enquired with a hint of a smile.
“Well, not exactly, Sir. There’s no intention to permanently deprive. We intend to give it back.”
He could feel the sweat trickling down his back as he sat forward to emphasise his point.
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“Notwithstanding that technicality, you can’t use the result in evidence should it indicate a positive match.” The Chief held his hands out in an open gesture. “It serves only as an indication you’re on the right road. You still need to get your suspect... what’s his name?
Nickson?” Thurstan nodded. “And match him against your sample found in the alleyway.”
“That’s right, Sir,” the DCI replied tamely.
The Chief got up and walked over to the window. He stood for a moment in contemplation before returning to his desk to sit on its edge, one leg in contact with the carpeted floor.
“I’m concerned the wider implications of what you’re telling me do not become public knowledge. To be honest, I don’t even want the facts to be known outside the existing circles. It could cause all manner of unwanted reactions. Not least from Special Branch, who I’m not at all sure see me as their master. I think we both know who they do. I don’t want them even thinking they could get involved in what we’ve discussed.” He rubbed his chin again, pensively. “What we need is a bit of divide and conquer.”
He paused, deep in thought. Eventually, he slapped the desk with his palm and declared, “Right! What we’re going to do is neither confirm nor deny the lone vigilante theory to the media. In essence, we’ll ignore it. What you’ll do is issue a press release in relation to the MacMahon case to the effect, say, ‘information of a positive but complex nature has been supplied by persons involved in organised crime which make protracted international enquiries necessary and 265
we’re hopeful of a satisfactory result’. Yes, that’ll do. We’ll leave it at that. That’s enough to infer a distinct separation from the other cases.
“In the meantime, I’ll have something leaked to the local Press regarding the Councillor’s murder, confidentially of course. After all, SB tell me they carried out extensive and exhaustive enquiries and insist the Councillor’s death resulted from an act of a lone previous victim who’s since taken his own life. They don’t fool me but I think the press will buy it. Yes, there’s something to play with there.
Nothing contentious, naturally; something roughly along those lines will suffice. Seeing as the Security Service threw the label of National Security all over it, we can leave them to carry out any blocking manoeuvres required for the more persistent reporter. Personally, I think it’s a can of worms that’ll explode in their faces, given what’s appearing more regularly in the satirical newspapers. However, it would be nice, at the very least, to have unplugged the fan before that happens.” A thoughtful look. “Yes. I think it’s achievable.”
He got up and wandered over to peer out of the window again.
“Now, with regard to our dead serial killer,” he said quietly. “Well, perhaps it was just the result of a chance encounter. Maybe he tried to rob the wrong person. The city’s not awash with guns, as some would claim, but we all know they’re far too freely available.” He stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets. “I need to speak to someone about that, but it sounds feasible.”
He turned to face Thurstan. “And yes, I realise, should we get our man, it provides him with the basics of an almost instant way out, but 266
judging by what you’re telling me, I’m sure it’s not something he or they couldn’t come up with themselves.”
The DCI nodded sagely. He’d already considered the possibility of Nickson claiming he’d been stabbed in an attempted robbery not long before his assailant had been killed himself.
“That should do it, at least in the short to medium term. No more serial vigilante.” The Chief looked pleased with himself as he returned to sit on the edge of the desk again. Leaning forward, he wagged his forefinger at Thurstan. “You need to get this man, Nickson, and get him soon, if at all possible.” He paused, “If what you say is true, I doubt very much, once arrested, your man is going to contradict whatever we say in respect of his being a lone operator and I’m pretty certain some anonymous benefactor will make sure he’s provided with the very best of legal representation.”
Another nodded agreement.
He extended his hand. “Thank you for being so candid, Detective Chief Inspector. It’s refreshing. You should have spoken to me much earlier though.”
Thurstan stood up and shook his hand. “I’m sorry about that, Sir.
Thank you for being so understanding.”
The Chief moved behind his desk and sat down. “I’ll get someone I trust from the Press Office to write the press release for you. Liaise with them when they’ve been in touch.” The phone rang. He held his hand up to indicate Thurstan should wait. “Yes? Okay, Mrs Byrne.
Thank you for that. Tell her to take a seat and I’ll see her shortly.” He replaced the phone and looked Thurstan in the eye. “Officially, I don’t 267
condone how you’ve handled this matter but, unofficially, I don’t condemn it either. Keep me posted.”
As he opened the door to leave, the DCI heard: “If need be, at the end of it all, we can always blame the Russian Mafia. They’re hardly likely to complain and no one’s going to ask them for an interview.”
He turned and the Chief threw him a mischievous grin.
268
17th May 2014
He sat on the lounger, listening to the ring tone.
Eventually: “Hi son, how you doing?”
“Hi, Dad, doing fine. Sunning by the pool. Just wanted to see how you both are,” he replied.
“We’re fine, but I can’t talk now because we have to go and get your mum another toothbrush. She seems to think I’ve used it to clean the sink or some such nonsense and she’s waiting in the car. You know how impatient she gets.”
“Ok, I’ll call you back later then.”
“Okey-doke,” Dad said, then added as an afterthought: “Oh, and those two detectives came back the other day and spoke to your mum, whilst I was out. They told her they need to speak to you again to clear something up.”
“Really? Did she let them in, Dad?”
“Yes, apparently the young lad’s got a prostate problem and needed to use the loo. You should tell him to get it checked out. Would be silly to ignore it.”
“Right. Yeah, well I’ll tell him that when I speak to him. Take care and love to Mum.”
He cancelled the call and sat quietly in thought.
Leaning over, he popped the cap off a beer, took a mouthful, swallowed slowly then muttered, “The sneaky bastards.”
269
19th May 2014
Quietly reading through a file, Thurstan looked up in response to the knock on his open door.
“Derek! What news can you bring me?” A slight smile played across his face. “I believe the results are out today, am I right?”
Degsy laughed. “You are right, Boss.”
“And? Don’t be shy now,” he chided him.
“I passed.” Degsy blushed as he shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. “I don’t know how, but I passed.”
The DCI rose from his chair and shook his Sergeant’s hand firmly.
“Congratulations, Derek. They obviously have more confidence in you than you have yourself. We all do.”
He wasn’t surprised by the news, he’d had a phone call earlier but protocol dictated it had to appear as if the successful applicant for promotion had received it first.
“Right, take a seat, I’ve had a rethink,” he continued. “Nickson. We need to check all Ports and Airports from the seventh of May up to today. I want to know if he’s come back. No stone unturned. I know he doesn’t appear to have come back under his own details but we need to close down the possible Irish re-entry route so we’re going to have to officially circulate him. No arrest, information only.
“He could be using false documentation. Speak to the Border Force and see if they can give us the data and we’ll sift through it; names that 270
reoccur and coincide with the periods we know he was here but for which, officially, he wasn’t. Patterns, that sort of thing.”
Seeing the look on Degsy’s face, he waved his hand dismissively.
“I know. It’ll go down with that lot out there like a lead balloon but it can’t be helped.” He easily managed to simulate a look of genuine apology. He’d been a police officer a long time and was a great believer in the saying: “If you can’t feign sincerity, you shouldn’t be doing the job”.
“If it has to be done, it has to be done, Boss.”
The DS shrugged and managed to raise a smile. His DCI looked pensive.
“Thing is, Derek, I doubt he’ll use the same false documentation twice. Judging by the array of stuff he’s been producing at hotels along the way, he’s got access to new stuff all the time. If I were in his shoes, I wouldn’t use it more than once – increases the chance of being traced.
“If he has come back in under his own details, he’ll have done us a favour. At least we’ll know he’s here but I doubt he’ll be leaving us more messages. He’ll have guessed we found the knife and he knows its potential. Yes, it’s needle-in-a-haystack stuff, I know, but I’d hate to ignore the possibility he’s been more obvious and we missed it because we weren’t looking for it. Bottom line? Those enquiries will probably amount to nothing, but if we don’t do them, we’ll never know.” A genuine apologetic look this time. “Can you sort that?”
“No problem, Boss. They might moan a bit at first, but they’ll get stuck in nevertheless. I’ll get Gandalph and Taffy to head it up.
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They’ve been working well together doing the Welsh enquiries and at least we know Llangrannog seems clean in terms of potential victims.
I suppose even Avengers need to take a little break now and then.”
Thurstan got up and closed the door then said quietly, “I’m glad you raised the matter of The Avengers. It’s caused me to give this a lot of thought and I’m sure you’ve done the same. We need to have a candid conversation and I need to know exactly what you think.”
“No probs, Boss.”
Thurstan smiled his appreciation. “Look, as far as I’m concerned this is how it goes. Our job is to impartially report the facts, as we find them, and the CPS decide whether or not there is enough real evidence in those facts to obtain a conviction. That’s the actual bottom line. It seems that doesn’t always work for some, but that’s how it works for me and always has.
“Sometimes, if the first test isn’t fully met, the CPS will decide it’s in the Public Interest to proceed, which tips the scales. I think Nickson is going to be one of those cases. At this moment in time, this is definitely a no cough, no job situation. Unless we find him with the smoking gun, the best we can hope for is his DNA.”
He waved the file he’d been reading then removed a report sheet.
“It says, Derek ‘there is a very, very strong probability the DNA from the toothbrush and the knife will match any sample obtained from your suspect, as named.” He put the sheet back into the file and closed it. “We get him, we get DNA. That’ll be enough to get him charged, well, that and the Public Interest considerations. Is it enough for a 272
conviction? Clever Barrister, I don’t think so.” Degsy nodded agreement.
“We both know sometimes a defeat at Court is hard to take, Derek.” He paused and leant forward. “But, in this case, I really don’t think it would bother me. Would it bother you?”
Degsy chuckled. “I know exactly where you’re coming from, Boss.
Of course, I want to nick him – personal and professional pride – but I have to confess I’ve got a sneaking admiration for him and, whoever they are, what they’re doing. I know it’s probably not what I should be saying but the fact is it wouldn’t bother me either if he got off with it.”
It was his turn to pause as he rubbed his chin. “I almost wish we didn’t have to catch him. Is that wrong or weird, Boss?”
“No Derek, neither. I know exactly what you mean.” He leant back and waved his forefinger. “But we are going to get him.”
“Absolutely, Boss. Absolutely,” Degsy said seriously.
There was a moment’s silence then Thurstan added, “Oh, before I forget. Any movement on his accounts at all?”
Degsy shook his head. “I’ve been keeping an eye on that since he left. Nothing. Squat. He must be dealing in cash he brought with him or ...” he shrugged, “maybe he’s using someone else’s money.”
Thurstan placed the palms of both hands on his desk and declared,
“Ok. It’s good to know. Let’s get to it then.” He gave him a warm smile.
As Degsy opened the door to leave, he turned back towards his DCI. “Incidentally, I hope you don’t mind me mentioning it, Boss, but I assume you’ve told Lizzie everything as well now.”
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“Yes, I have. I thought it was about time and, in fact, I really shouldn’t have left it so long.”
Degsy nodded, sagely, then added: “Oh, I forgot to ask! How did your Sunday lunch go, by the way?”
“Sunday lunch?” Thurstan looked puzzled. “Oh, that Sunday lunch!
Yes, it was lovely actually, Derek. Great bunch of people, very nice meal.” He felt awkward and hoped it didn’t show.
“I’m glad,” Degsy said, thoughtfully, noting the awkwardness.
Turning to leave, he smiled to himself then casually said: “Maybe it’s a love interest.”
Thurstan looked at him quizzically.
“I mean Nickson. Maybe he’s getting his money from a partner we don’t know about.” He smiled. “Door open or shut, Boss?”
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21st May 2014
“Ok, we’re on.”
Opening the door, Nicks turned to Simon.
“Goes to plan? Dowesfield, corner with Yewtree. If not, play it by ear.”
Snuggled in the shadows at the far end, the only other vehicle in the car park rocked gently from side to side. Walking briskly to the entrance, he paused, shielded by the trees, plastic carrier bag in hand.
Simon drove past him, turned right onto Yewtree and began his circuit.
Touching his lapel, Nicks replied to the message, stepped out from the trees and crossed the road. Silhouetted by a distant street lamp, a figure walked casually towards him.
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“Quite nice.” Degsy sipped his coffee and looked up at the stars.
Thurstan smiled. “Yeah, not bad. That little touch of caramel syrup makes all the difference. There’s more if you want. Flask’s in my bag on the back seat.”
They were leaning against Thurstan’s car, blue lights from the road closures strobing the trees and bushes. In the darkest section of the street, portable lighting bathed the body sprawled on the pavement opposite; white suits calmly went about their business.
“Well, what do you think, Boss?”
The DCI drained his cup, shook it out and threw it on the back seat.
“I think we both know, Derek. Especially with that new unopened toothbrush lying on the floor next to him. It’s a long way to the nearest shops. Why wander about with it in his hand? No. He knows. He’s letting us know he knows and yes... he’s taking the piss.”
Degsy placed his empty cup through the open window, dropping it onto the seat alongside Thurstan’s.
“So, what do you reckon? He followed him to the darkest part of the street and shot him from behind?”
Thurstan shook his head. “No. It is a perfect ambush point but I think he probably came out of the car park further down. There’s no CCTV there.” He turned to face his DS. “Approaches him from the front. Less suspicious. Nobody likes hearing someone behind them on a dark street. I think he’d probably have engaged him in a short 276
conversation. Asking the time, that sort of thing, to allay any suspicions. It’s what I would do. Then, as they part company, a few steps, turn and pop. Then he goes to the body, headshot to finish him off and leaves our little gift.”
He sighed deeply. “Do you know? If I didn’t know better, I might think he actually knew what rota we were on.”
Degsy chuckled. “It has passed through my head before, Boss”.
“What time did the FME reckon?”
Degsy flicked through the pages of his notebook.
“She said roughly about an hour before he was found, give or take, so that would put it around one-thirty.”
Thurstan poured himself another coffee.
“Help yourself, if you want one, Derek. I’m going to have a word with the Crime Scene Manager. In the meantime, start calling them in.
I want them briefed, ready to go and feet on the ground by seven o’clock.”
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Thurstan read the victim’s profile while the rest of the management team sat in silence. Chalkie methodically dipped a custard cream.
Eventually, the DCI leant back:
“It beggars belief. How could this man be a candidate for early release? A mother and three kids? What he did was horrendous.”
Chalkie spoke first.
“I’ve made some enquiries there and it seems it’s all part of a new experimental release programme. He was judged not to be a threat to the Public, the one stipulation being he had to be as far away from the victim’s family as possible and Liverpool fitted the bill.”
“He might not have been a threat to the public, but he was certainly a threat to the next mother and kids he latched onto.” Picking up the small bottle of mineral water from his desk, Thurstan struggled to release its top. Lizzie leant across, took it from him, twisted the cap and placed it back on the desk. “Thanks, Liz,” he said absently before continuing. “Surely the PPU should have known about him?”
“They did. They were told yesterday.” Chalkie replied.
The DCI pointed to the file in front of him. “But this says he’s been here a week!”
“It seems someone was a bit lax in notifying them. They’re looking into it. Apparently, it’s never happened before.” Chalkie dropped his papers onto the coffee table. “They’re definitely not happy at all. I 278
know the DI there and she’s not one to be messed with. I’m sure it’ll be followed up.”
Degsy chipped in. “Is that the little one with the eclectic clothing?”
Chalkie nodded. Degsy chuckled. “Yeah, I’ve seen her about.
Attractive but I wouldn’t want to fight her.”
Thurstan pushed the victim file to one side. “What’s the score with the hostel he was staying in, Derek? How come he’s wandering around at that time of night?”
“Again, experimental, Boss. Worked on trust. They have their own keys and self-contained flats. There’s four of them at this place on Allerton Road. Well, three of them now. Very low-key. The neighbours seem to think it’s to do with drug rehabilitation. They’re not entirely happy but I think if they knew what it was really about they’d see their arses. His room’s still being turned over but early indications are he’s already been researching local dating sites. Lonely mums, that sort of thing.”
“Anything from our house-to-house teams yet?” He looked at Chalkie who shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.
“Yeah, I’ll be surprised if we get anything but it’s got to be done. I even asked for Forensic to check the toothbrush for DNA just in case.
I’d hate to think what we didn’t do was more significant than what we did.” Thurstan ran his hand through his hair. “Look, if anyone disagrees with me about Nickson, please say so now?” They looked at each other and shook their heads. “I’m certain it’s him. If nothing else, the toothbrush confirms it. He’s back. I don’t know how he’s doing it, but he’s back. I want a full intel check, anybody with sound contacts 279
in SB then use them, any contacts anywhere let’s use them. We won’t expand the house-to-house, I don’t see the point, in fact, once we’ve completed the immediate area let’s close it down because I’ve decided to come at this from a different angle.
“I’m sick of chasing him around. I want to identify any potential targets and see if we can’t get one step ahead and be there when he does the next one. It’s going to mean a lot of extra work. A lot of hours. The only thing I’ve got for you and your families is just sit back and think of the overtime money at Christmas.” He stood up, putting on his jacket. “Right, I have to go. The Chief Constable wants to see me.” He patted Chalkie on the shoulder as he walked past. “Make it so, number one.”
“Chief Con not happy?” Chalkie enquired.
Thurstan turned in the doorway. “Do know what? I think he’s enjoying it.”
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28th May 2014
Gandalph stood at the door. A full week since the DCI had decided the unit would go on the attack and they still had nothing. Thurstan looked up wearily.
“Stephen, come in. What’s the matter? You look troubled.”
Gandalph smiled sheepishly and shuffled into the office.
“Can I have a private word with you, Boss?”
“Go ahead,” Thurstan said, slightly anxious; personal matters were not one of his strong points.
“Not here, Boss. I can’t be certain. That SB bloke and the suits were in here, if you get my drift.”
Minutes later, they were strolling through the Albert Dock.
“So, why are you so worried, Stephen?”
“I’ve got some information, Boss, but everything about it is very, very sensitive, including how I came by it.”
“From an informant?”
Gandalph shook his head.
“Not exactly.”
Thurstan looked at him searchingly.
“Is this something to do with your aptitude with computers?”
The slight smile told him everything.
“Have you hacked into something, Stephen? Something big?”
Gandalph nodded. “Something massive.”
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Without really being conscious he was doing it Thurstan had started to surreptitiously glance around. “Have you hacked into SB’s systems?”
Gandalph sat down on an isolated bench. Thurstan next to him.
“That’s only the start of it, Boss. Maybe I got carried away but it’s all untraceable. Believe me. I’m good at this stuff.”
“Please tell me you haven’t hacked MI5?”
“Ok, should we go back now then?” Gandalph looked him firmly in the eyes.
They sat in silence.
“Ok, tell me,” Thurstan eventually said, with a hint of exasperation.
“You said to pull in any contacts we had. So I did. An old mate from my SB days.”
“You were in SB? I wasn’t aware,” the DCI interrupted.
“Yeah, I was only there eighteen months. I got caught shagging the missus of one of the DIs. In my defence, I didn’t know who she was originally and when I found out I was as gobsmacked as anyone else.”
“I assume when you found out that was the end of the matter?”
Thurstan looked at him hopefully.
A wicked little smile played across his face. “Not exactly. She was a good looker and horny as hell. The DI found out and it all went tits up. To keep things quiet, I got to pick where they were posting me, so I was happy. SB wasn’t my thing, Boss.” He paused. “Anyway, I spoke to my mate. He played the game. Didn’t know anything, but I know him too well and he knows it. He gave me some very subtle clues, probably would have been missed by anyone else. I knew he 282
was pointing me in the direction of the Councillor file. Just before he left we ended up discussing that programme from years ago, Call My Bluff. Remember it?” Thurstan nodded. “As he was going he said,
‘There’s a lot of strange words in the English language. Triskelion.
That’s odd.’ Then he did one.
“I couldn’t ignore it so I worked from the back of my camper van and parked up in a couple of quiet lay-bys I knew from my younger days and bam! I was in. Interesting stuff. But something was missing.
It wasn’t quite interesting enough, so I checked it all again and that’s when I caught it. There was a mention of triskelion, sneakily hidden away. Although it didn’t say so it was obvious, to me at least, it pointed to MI5.” He leant back and glanced around as he did so.
“Well, I’d started, hadn’t I, so it had to be done. It was strangely easy, but then again I am fucking good at this. I’ve read everything. In a nutshell, two people fit the profile we’re looking at. Both are in Liverpool. One of them is due to be moved shortly and the other spends a lot of time at his holiday plot in North Wales. There’s too much for me to tell you here, Boss, so I posted it to you in a birthday card. When you get it just separate the back part of the card. Between the layers is a thin sheet with everything on it. It’s sort of delicate so be careful.”
“And you’re sure you’re not traceable?” Thurstan looked at him searchingly, looking for a glimmer of doubt.
Gandalph chuckled. “Absolutely. I bought myself a second-hand laptop from a market up in Cumbria for cash and everything I used has been wiped, stripped down and disposed of. It’s either in a canal 283
somewhere now or part of a cube that used to be a car, on its way to Africa probably. Yeah, I’m certain.” He stood up. “Ok if I go back to the office now, Boss?”
The DCI looked up and replied absently, “Yes Stephen, go ahead.”
He took a few steps then stopped and turned. “Oh, and you’ll need a magnifying glass, Boss. For the card.”
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Thurstan returned home to find a large, slightly bent and crumpled pink envelope waiting for him on the hallway floor. Without thinking, he found himself peering, briefly, through the living room curtains before he returned to the hall and picked it up. Throwing it on the kitchen table, he removed his jacket and poured himself a large single malt. Later that evening, in a secluded part of his garden, he burnt the envelope, card and its contents in a metal bucket.
The following day, he took a blustery early morning walk along Thurstaston Beach where he periodically and surreptitiously scattered the ash contents of a plastic bag to the wind before going to work.
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In the Ship and Mitre, Don sipped his glass of Fruli. “It’s really pleasant. I don’t know why I haven’t tried it before.”
Nicks smiled, nodded appreciation and took a mouthful of his pint.
Sitting in the shadows of the rear room, they were alone apart from a couple standing at the bar. Simon scuttled up the steps towards them.
“Apologies. A customer came in looking for a copy of Up and Running’s Sorry. I knew we had it on cassette somewhere but it took ages to find the little bugger. You two ok?” He pointed at their drinks.
They nodded. A few minutes later, he placed his drink on the table, sat down, lay his coat on the empty seat next to him and said: “Okay, I’m ready.”
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Friday 30th May 2014
Thurstan stepped from the lift to be met by Gandalph’s: “Morning, Boss.” They waited, briefly, whilst the doors closed. “Just came to tell you everything’s fine,” Gandalph said quietly. “I swept the place as you asked and I’m more than happy there’s nothing there.”
“You’re absolutely sure?”
He smiled. “Yep, absolutely.”
“How much do I owe you?” Thurstan asked him.
“Five hours twenty and a scoff allowance, Boss,” he grinned.
The DCI patted him on the arm.
“Good lad. Go home and get your head down and we’ll see you this afternoon.”
Entering the office he bumped into Arthur.
“You’re in early, Thurstan. Wet the bed?”
“Cheeky sod!” he retorted. “What about yourself?”
“At my age, it’s expected. You’re only a youngster,” he laughed.
“Want a cuppa?”
Later that morning, like scouts around a campfire, he, Chalkie, Lizzie and Degsy sat huddled around the coffee table in his office. The conversation was muted.
“So that’s my thoughts on the matter. Even though one of the subjects, as far as we can tell, doesn’t fully fit the profile, I think we should cover him as well.”
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Chalkie eyed the other two as he spoke. “I think it would be foolish not to.” They nodded their agreement.
Degsy leant forward and took another chocolate digestive from the plate. “Given that we’ve only got two days until MI5 move their chap, how long are we going to be watching the other fella out in Wales, Boss?”
“Well, I’ve already spoken to the Chief who says we have the resources for three days max. He spoke to the Chief Con of North Wales whilst I was there. It seems they’re big buddies. Your man in North Wales agreed to pay a third of the costs on the basis that it would probably cost him a lot more if he had the bloke’s murder to deal with. If nothing happens within three days, the guy gets locked up on child porn allegations. Any more questions?”
“You’re quite certain of the provenance of this information?”
“Totally, Chalkie. Couldn’t be more certain. The uncertainty is whether Nickson will show up. It’s the best shot we’ve got.” He smiled apologetically.
“Seeing as we’re encroaching into MI5 territory, it sounds like this has come from a hacker or someone of the Deep Throat mould?”
Lizzie chipped in, looking at Thurstan expectantly.
Again an apologetic smile, with a hint of a sigh.
“I don’t think I’m giving anything away if I say it’s a bit of both but anything else I can’t say, sorry. If this leaks there will be hell to pay so the only people who can know about MI5, as I said before, is us, in here.” He pointed to the main office. “Them out there get told nothing but what they need to know to do their jobs. The same applies to the 288
surveillance and firearms people with the exception of their operational Team Leaders. They’ll have to know about the MI5 close protection team, we don’t want any accidents there.” He bit into a chocolate biscuit before he continued: “We’ll be there to identify and arrest Nickson. We want to prevent what he intends to do or, if we don’t manage that, we prevent his escape. That goes for both locations.
“With regards, specifically to the MI5 operation, anything that happens within the safe house compound is theirs to deal with. If it spills out onto the street in the immediate vicinity of the premises, say within 50 metres, they sort it out; we mop up if needs be. Anything further than that, we intervene. Hopefully, we’ll get him on the way in.
I anticipate the safe house will be locked down at night so that’s when we’ll be getting some sleep. There’ll be a skeleton staff during dark hours just in case but I think Nickson will only turn up when they’re ready to move their man, which will be sometime during the day on Sunday, between ten and four. The first day of the deployment here will be a settling-in period, making sure we’ve set up right.
“Chalkie, you and Liz will be Bronze for the Welsh job. Alternate with the shifts. North Wales will provide Silver command.
“Derek, you’ll be Bronze here in Liverpool, I’ll be Silver. Gold command in both locations will be the Chief Constables.”
He sat back in his chair. “Chalkie, you and Liz sort your arrangements and plan, then get back to me.”
When they’d left the room, Thurstan beckoned Degsy closer. “We haven’t got much room for error on this one, Derek. You and I will be communicating via our own personal channel. I may have to make 289
decisions I don’t want anyone else to hear. If something happens at that safe house that’s not in the game plan I don’t want people charging in. It needs to be controlled. We may even have to just quietly walk away.”
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The much-respected former headmaster of a prestigious school in the Northwest had received an anonymous phone call telling him the police would soon speak to him about certain allegations.
Thomas Weedsley was a worried man. His large collection of category ‘A’ child pornography and the skeletal remains of a 10-year-old boy, a runaway, lying buried under the dirt floor of the cellar at his holiday home in North Wales, were going to be a problem.
His initial attempts to destroy the pornography were hindered by his curious neighbours, so he’d transferred it all to his cottage, several miles outside the sullen little village of Llanfinog. Here he could do the job properly, away from prying eyes.
The sensible thing was to destroy it immediately, but the impending threat brought a strange new titillation and he found he wasn’t ready to complete the final act. So, in the privacy of the Welsh hills, he began to indulge in a final feast of gratification.
On the dark windswept hill outside, three CROPS men settled down in their positions. Between them, they could see the whole building and its approaches. It didn’t matter the house backed onto woodland.
A twenty-metre gap between the edge of the woods and the garden’s stone wall, with its little wrought iron gate and French windows beyond, provided a safety margin.
Close by, Specialist Firearms Officers and a helicopter were ready at a moment’s notice.
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Bramwell Peterson was pleased with himself. Not only had he survived but he’d managed to consolidate his position. It’d been a bold strategy, not without danger. Ideology wasn’t the reason he’d passed classified information to the Russians and their allies. No, it had been necessity. They knew of his proclivity, but they weren't the only ones.
The Security Service’s offer was a long-awaited act of release.
Surrendering the diary which detailed his and the others' shared sexual experiences then pass false information to his Russian handlers was all he’d had to do.
They were so pleased with themselves that no one had even broached the question of a copy. Well, copies to be exact; sealed in brown envelopes, addressed to two rival newspapers and safely tucked away in a reliable and recommended bank safety deposit box. The new copy of his will and its instructions were quite clear, even the obscure solicitor the bank had recommended would be able to manage it should anything happen to him.
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Sunday 1st June 2014
Simon pulled up in front of the little shop.
“Here’s a tenner. Get me a diet Coke, a packet of cheese ‘n’ onion and a sandwich. See if they’ve got any vegetarian ones.”
Nicks took the money and ambled in.
Si turned on the CD and drummed his fingers on the wheel, losing himself in the moment.
The door opened. Nicks plonked himself in his seat and turned the CD off. “Diet Coke, packet of crisps and a spicy chicken wrap.” He handed them, with the change, to Simon.
“Didn’t they have a vegetarian option?”
“Yeah, they did.”
“What was it?”
“Fuck off.”
Si stared at his crisps. “These are beef. I wanted –”
“They didn’t have any and I know you don’t like salt and vinegar.”
Nicks gave him an exasperated look.
Simon ripped the packets open. “D’yer want some?”
Nicks hesitated then relented. “Yeah, go on.”
They ate in silence.
Still brushing bits of crisps off his trousers, Simon stopped halfway down the lane. Nicks grabbed his little backpack and opened the door.
“No, Si, sorry, but you didn’t. You still owe me a fiver,” he said.
“I’ve told you. I paid that back,” Simon protested.
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“Not that fiver! Ages ago, the one for the sandwiches and the sports drink. I mean, a fucking sports drink. You’re taking the piss,” he laughed.
“It has a nice taste. Anyway, tight arse, don’t fuck up.”
“And you,” he smiled, closing the door.
Taking the public footpath, he walked casually across the field, entering the tree line and, at the opposite edge of the woods, he knelt to thread the suppressor onto the weapon; the wrought iron gate beyond. He left the bag in the undergrowth, next to a tree stump, then racked a round into the chamber.
Swiftly, he made it across the open ground, through the gate, to the French windows. Time was of the essence now. Quietly opening the door, he slipped into the room.
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In the library, Bramwell Peterson calmly smoked his cigar. Taking a long draw, he blew out the smoke slowly before picking up the brandy glass and gently swirling its contents. Inhaling the aroma, in two distinct mouthfuls, he savoured its progress across his tongue and into his soul.
In the next room, through the French windows, a figure quietly entered and murmured into a concealed microphone. The glass-panelled doors dividing the two rooms glided silently open and the figure slowly raised his arm.
Three vehicles waited on the drive. Two saloons, between them a 4x4. Although there’d been no intelligence of any specific threat, the doors were open, engines running, CP team standing; watchful, shades on, ready.
“Mr Peterson.” The minder looked at his watch. “Time to go.”
Opening the front door, two protection officers preceded Peterson down the steps, two behind. Bramwell smiled and his head popped open like a ripe melon hit by a sledgehammer, collapsing him straight down into a heap on the steps. Spattered in blood, bone and brain, the two rear officers sought immediate cover, weapons drawn, instinctively knowing their principal was a lost cause. The other two, shielded by the 4x4, dragged him down the few remaining steps, leaving a pink trail of brain tissue behind him.
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Degsy, watching from the observation van, simply said: “Oh!! ...
Fuck!!”
Nine hundred metres away, atop one of the towers that made up the Dennings Residential Complex, known locally as Dennings Bollocks, two workmen folded the stock and tripod of an AWM sniper rifle, removed the suppressor, placed it all in a kitbag and calmly began descending the service stairs.
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“Thurstan!” It was Arthur. “Soapy’s on the phone. Says he has to speak to you. It’s urgent!”
The DCI huffed. “If it’s about his sick note tell him I’m busy!”
Arthur shook his head. “He says you have to speak to him now!”
Thurstan picked up the phone. “David, this had better be good.”
“It’s Nickson, Boss. I’ve just seen him!” Soapy answered.
“Are you sure it’s him?” Thurstan’s heart rate immediately increased.
“I was just coming back from my sister’s and I walked right past him. He was getting out of a motor driven by a little blonde guy. I’m absolutely sure, Boss. I’ve spent enough time looking at his photo.”
“Where?” Thurstan was already scribbling on a notepad.
“Mossley Hill. He’s just gone into a small wood that backs onto Granarth Close. I’ve googled it on my phone. He can’t be going anywhere else.”
“Where are you now?”
“I’m at the end of the road, sitting on a wall.”
Granarth Close? Why did that ring a bell? “Ok, stay there. Don’t approach him if you see him again!” He gave Soapy his mobile number and strode off to get his jacket. Granarth Close. He knew the address somehow. Granarth Close. Granarth Close. Bingo!
Reaching his desk, he ripped open the top drawer and grabbed the copy of the Echo. Rifling through it, he found the article. ‘ Holocaust 297
survivor’s final victory?’ There was a picture of an elderly man on the steps of a house. The door behind him had the number 15.
Driving out of HQ, in the unmarked MIT vehicle, Thurstan called into his radio.
“DS Drayton. DCI Baddeley.”
“Drayton go ‘head.”
“Derek, any sign of Nickson?”
“No, Boss. We’ve got this place pretty much sewn up and there’s been absolutely nothing.” The surveillance guy next to him tapped his leg and whispered: “Movement.”
“That’s good. Soapy just called in, says he’s seen Nickson in Mossley Hill. He thinks he’s making towards Granarth Close. I want you, our team and the firearms to meet at 15 Granarth. Asap.”
“Alright, Boss, hang on a mo’ there’s some movement here.
They’re bringing him out...Oh!! ... Fuck!!”
Thurstan pulled over to the side, hazard lights on. “What’s happening?” Nothing. “Derek! Speak to me. What’s happening?”
“His head just fucking exploded, Boss. Jesus Christ almighty!”
This was not what he wanted to hear. Decision! Think! Think man!
“Are they in the compound still?” No reply. “Derek! Are they still in the compound!”
A shaken Degsy replied: “Yes, Boss. They never got out of the place.”
Thurstan could hear calm voices in the background.
“Callsigns with the eyeball, any clues where that came from?”
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“One zero bravo. Maybe Dennings Bollocks. It’s the best vantage point.”
“Roger that.”
Thurstan stuck his arm out of the window and placed the strobe light on the roof. He called Degsy again.
“Leave them to it! It’s their problem now. Tell the surveillance guys to stay put, observe and report. The rest of you, 15 Granarth Close, now!”
He threw the radio on the passenger seat, bent forward over the blues and twos control panel and muttered: “Now, how the fuck does this work?”
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“Berger! Berger! You fucking moron!!”
“Hauptscharführer!” the Unterscharführer called back.
“What is that fucking monkey still doing on that machine?” he screamed, spittle spraying from his mouth. “Where is that fucking idiot Zimmermann? I told him to tell you. Get rid of him now or I’ll do it myself.”
“But Hauptscharführer, it will take too long to train –”
“Don’t give me that shit again, Berger!” He pointed at Hersh.
“You! Get down off that machine!” He drew his CZ P27 pistol, cocked it and waved it wildly around. Hersh immediately leapt to the ground. He knew better than to argue with the Hauptscharführer.
“You!” He now pointed to one of the bone shovellers. “Get up there and make this fucking thing work or I’ll shoot you where you stand!”
He turned to the Unterscharführer. “Don’t stand there with your mouth open! Take him away and get rid of him!”
The Unterscharführer grabbed Hersh by the scruff of the neck and dragged him towards the far exhumed pit. “I’m sorry Hersh, I’m sorry.”
Behind them, they heard a shot and the Hauptscharführer shouting:
“Move, you piece of shit! You’ve been fucking promoted.”
Berger glanced over his shoulder and saw a second bone shoveller climb onto the machine and scramble over the body of the first.
Breaking into a run, he pulled the stumbling Hersh with him.
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Forcing him to his knees on reaching the edge of the pit, Berger hissed: “Fall into the pit when I tell you. Don’t fuck up and stay still, it’ll be dark soon. It’s your only chance.” Hersh stared down at the top layer of soil-splattered decaying bodies. He was oblivious to the nauseating smell; he’d been there too long.
Berger cocked his pistol, pushed Hersh’s head forward, stepped back and called: “Now!”
Hearing the report of the gun, Hauptscharführer Sauer turned to see just another Jew tumbling into a pit. He smiled and turned his attention back to the Knochenmühle.
“If you want to live another fucking day keep that machine going!”
he screamed at Hersh’s replacement. The remaining shovellers feverishly fed the insatiable monster. “Work you scum! Clear those fucking bones!”
From the layered funeral pyres, black, fetid smoke billowed over the darkening field and through the adjacent woods. Jacob Hersh lay perfectly still. He’d no idea why Berger had done it.
This was Sonderkommando 1005, Chelmno, January 1945.
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Jack Hersh pottered around the kitchen. He still wasn’t used to where his friend Rose kept all the things, but he was getting there.
Dropping some tea bags into the pot, he added the milk to his cup and switched on the kettle. Rose. He smiled at the memory of a friendship lasting the years.
Washed and dressed in her fresh nightgown by the nurses who’d moved on to their next call, she’d eaten the toast he’d gently fed her earlier and had taken some sweet tea from her baby cup. She was asleep now.
In Liverpool for a short series of talks about life and death in the Nazi extermination camps, Jack had volunteered to help out, so Rose’s son could take a much-needed short break.
At 88 years of age, he was still a fit man. A long brisk walk every afternoon, snow and ice permitting, and daily use of some light weights kept him feeling sprightly. Both he and Rose were survivors of the camps.
After the war, he’d tried to put that existence behind him as best he could, then in 2002 he’d read an article about a wealthy German industrialist and had instantly recognised the photograph. Contacting renowned Nazi hunter Simon Wiesenthal’s office he’d explained the man had formerly been known as Hauptscharführer Ernst Sauer, the man in charge of running the gas wagons at Chelmno, the man in charge of Chelmo’s Leichenkommando Corpse Units during the 302
Aktion Reinhard clean-up operation; the man known and feared by the inmates for his enjoyment of the killing and barbarity.
It had taken a long time but shortly Jack Hersh would travel to Germany to give evidence in the 96-year-old’s trial; the last-ditch attempt to bring him to justice. Witnesses had been few; Jack was now the last one still alive.
The doorbell rang. He dropped the teaspoon into the cup and strolled to the door. Opening it, he saw a young woman in her early forties.
“Alright, luv. I’m Barbara’s friend. You know? The cleaning lady?
She was here yesterday. Well, she can’t make it today so I’ve come to sort you out as a favour.”
She grinned cheekily at him. He closed the door behind her and they walked into the living room. She seemed like a nice young woman but was about to lose points by insisting on speaking to him as if he was a five-year-old.
“You don’t need to show me where all the things are, Barbara’s told me. Is that a cup of tea you were making? Why don’t you sit yourself down in front of the telly? I’m just gonna pop me handbag in the hall and I’ll make you a nice cuppa before I get started.” She smiled brightly. “Right, come on, you get sat down there. That’s nice.
There, the telly’s on and here’s the remote so you can choose whatever you like and I’ll bring your tea shortly.”
She left him, returning five minutes later with a tray upon which sat a cup of steaming tea, a sugar bowl, a spoon and a plate of digestive 303
biscuits. She placed it on the small table next to him. “I’ve just got to nip to the loo then I’ll start with the hoovering.”
She disappeared into the hall. He put two sugars into the cup, stirred, broke off half a biscuit and dipped it in his tea. In the hall, she opened her handbag to remove the already loaded and cocked Smith and Wesson M and P 9mm pistol. Screwing a suppressor on it, she slowly returned to the door of the living room and quietly peered around the frame. She could see the back of his head as he sat in the armchair, sipping his tea and watching the news. Stealthily, she stepped into the room and began to level the weapon.
On either side of her ponytail, a slight, almost imperceptible breeze caught her neck.
She was still trying to register its significance when the bullet hit her, crumpling her straight down onto the limp rags that were her own legs, her torso flopping on its side into the carpeted floor.
Nicks, who’d entered through the French windows and hidden momentarily behind the rich velvet curtain, strode over the body and recovered the Smith and Wesson. The pool of blood from her head was expanding.
Jack Hersh stood up and said: “I’ll get some towels from the cupboard.”
Returning a few moments later, he and Nicks placed them around her head. Jack shook his hand. “Thank you, young man. I could see her reflection on the silver vase. I have to admit I was worried. Look, I’ve spilt my tea.” He wiped the front of his jumper.
Nicks clicked his radio. “Elvis, clean up.”
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He went to the front door. Within a minute a black transit marked –
Private Ambulance – pulled up. Three men entered the building, one of them carrying a tool bag.
In the front room, two of them rolled the cleaning lady and towels into a body bag and carried it out to the van. The third studied the blood-stained carpet. Opening his tool kit, he produced a Stanley knife, cut a square around the blood, removed the section and rolled it up into a plastic bag. He and Nicks moved the settee. The fitter eyed the floor then quickly cut another square of carpet which he slotted into the space the bloodstained one had occupied. They replaced the seating. He examined his work.
Stuffing the knife and bloody carpet remnant in the tool bag, he shook Jack’s hand as if he was just a run-of-the-mill workman affecting a temporary repair and declared with a smile:
“Not a perfect match but it will do for now. Someone will pop round to replace the whole thing tomorrow.”
Nicks handed him the unloaded Smith and Wesson with the fully charged magazine and saw him to the door.
In the distance, the emergency sirens closed in.
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Vehicles screeched to a halt, doors already open, uniformed firearms officers spilling out across the street, seeking the available cover.
At the rear, armed officers leapt from an unmarked van, quickly formed a crocodile and, with a shield man at the front, briskly walked along the alleyway until they reached the rear gate of number fifteen.
An extendable ladder placed, one of them climbed up providing cover from the top of the wall. The rest, shield man in front, rapidly entered the garden, through its gate, fanning out as they did so.
Back at the front, the firearms Team Leader began to call out the occupants. Following the instructions being shouted at him, Jack reached the pavement to be whisked behind safe cover, searched and swiftly interrogated. A second crocodile formed up and strode to the entrance steps. A brief halt, then they entered and searched. After several minutes, the TL appeared in the doorway. “Clear!”
Thurstan and Degsy stood in the living room.
“Are you sure you don’t want a cup of tea or something?” Jack called from the kitchen.
They politely declined. Thurstan looked around the room. Nothing seemed unusual. Dated, but comfortable furniture and a busy carpet, not new but serviceable.
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“Look, Mr Hersh, I’m terribly sorry about all this but we had what we thought was very reliable information. I really can’t apologise enough.”
Jack strolled back in with his cuppa.
“Detective Chief Inspector, please don’t worry. It’s a long, long time since I’ve had such an exciting morning.” He placed his cup on a coaster. “And believe me when I tell you, it’s a great honour to have a man of your stature come to visit, although next time you could just ring the bell.”
He laughed. They produced awkward smiles. Thurstan looked down at the floor, slightly embarrassed.
“Well, we’ll leave you to recover what you can of the day and sorry again for all the trouble.”
Jack closed the door behind them. He’d checked on Rose already.
She was still sleeping peacefully. When she woke, he would have a tale to tell her. That was for sure. Smiling, he returned to his armchair, cup of tea and the remote control.
Sat in the car Thurstan rubbed his eyes, ran his hands up and down his face, hard, then brushed his fingers through his hair and kneaded the back of his neck.
“Where to now, Boss?” Degsy looked at him sympathetically.
He said nothing. Staring out of the windscreen he looked blank.
Eventually, he let out a heavy sigh.
“We have to speak to the surveillance TL, Derek. Then we have to stand them down.”
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They travelled in silence. Apart from the cock-up he’d organised, something else was troubling him but he didn’t know exactly what it was.
After five minutes, he said abruptly:
“Turn around, Derek. Go back. Number 15. Something’s not right.”
The bell bing bonged. After a few moments, the door opened and Jack greeted them.
“Chief Inspector, you haven’t just come back to practice, have you?
Come on in.”
In the living room, Thurstan explained. “I’m sorry for the intrusion but there’s something I wanted to check, if I have your permission?”
Jack nodded.
“You have your job to do, Chief Inspector.”
Thurstan moved the armchair and crouched down to the carpet.
Degsy looked on intrigued. The DCI began to pull at the fibres, lifting a neatly cut square from the floor. He inverted it and placed it down.
In the space created could be seen the underlay on which there was a slight, dark staining. Thurstan stood up and pulled the armchair over the gap.
He smiled politely at Jack then nodded Degsy in the direction of the settee. They pulled it to the side revealing a similar gap in the carpeting. Thurstan smiled at Jack again. He looked around the room intently. Suddenly, he was down on his knees, peering under the sideboard in the back part of the room, closer to the French windows.
He beckoned Degsy.
“Pencil or pen, Derek, please.”
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After several seconds, he produced a 9mm empty shell casing.
Degsy already had a small evidence bag open.
Standing up, Thurstan brushed his trousers and smiled again at Jack.
“I think we’ll have that cup of tea now, Mr Hersh, if you don’t mind.”
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MIT was a hive of activity. Chalkie, Liz and the team were on their way back from North Wales. He’d pulled the plug, in light of the day’s developments. The job’s mobile began to ring and wobbled its way towards the edge of his desk. He watched it for several seconds then picked it up.
“Boss, it’s Devon. Sorry, we’re not back yet but we got sidetracked.
I’ll explain fully later but we’re in Sefton Park, the car park, Mossley Hill Drive and Greenbank. There’s something you might want to take a look at.”
“What is it Devon, it’s been a long day?”
“Me and Ikky came across a couple of bobbies giving CPR to a woman they’d dragged out of a car that was parked up. We stopped to help them out. Paramedics have confirmed she’s dead and I’ve asked them to stay ‘til you get here. We went through her stuff, naturally.
Nothing untoward until Ikky started reading her diary. Seems she’s been having an affair with another woman. Today’s entry is interesting though. It says ‘Helen. Sefton Park. Can’t wait.’ Underneath she’s written,15 Granarth Close 11 am.”
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“So, tell me, Boss?” Degsy asked, placing his pint back down.
“What the hell was all that about?”
They were alone in the snug.
“It’s a long and complicated story, Derek, but I’ll do my best to give you the short version,” Thurstan replied, wiping the beer froth from his mouth. “When they killed the Councillor they opened up Pandora’s box. I think they were aware of that. “The Councillor had been privy to the dirty secrets of some very highly placed, influential people, including Peterson, who’d been spying for the Soviets for a long time, also for the East Germans.
“When the Warsaw Pact collapsed he continued with the Russians but, it seems, he was also spying for some other former Pact country, now an EU member. All highly embarrassing stuff.
“MI5 and MI6 knew about Peterson. SIS in particular used him to feed false information to his masters. The Security Service were aware of his predilections and his connections with the Councillor and others.
“Subsequently, they felt they had to protect not only this knowledge but also the individuals themselves, believing having their co-operation and compliance in certain matters would conserve the status quo. What were a few kids from broken families or care homes compared with the overall state and health of the nation? Not my or 311
your response but in the murky world of politics and intelligence gathering such an outrageous thing seemed viable.”
“But where does Weedsley come in? Was he part of all this?”
“No, Derek, I don’t think so. He was in the sense he was a paedophile, but it seems he’d no connection to the higher echelons. He was just the Patsy. Found by MI5 and nurtured specifically so he could be fed to the wolves, should their operation be compromised by journalists or events. That’s what Triskelion was all about. The Councillor, Peterson and Weedsley. Of course, I’m not sure they knew about the body in his cellar. If they did, they may have been instrumental in steering him away from further acts of that kind. We’ll probably never know.”
He paused, deep in thought, as he slowly turned his glass on its base, left and then right. “I think they knew about his fragile mental state though and I think they would have contributed towards it, probably with the idea that should they launch him into the media spotlight he’d kill himself rather than face the ignominy.”
He took a mouthful of beer. “Want any peanuts?”
“Not for me, Boss.”
Thurstan got up and walked to the bar, returning with a packet of dry roasted.
“Well, what about Hersh, then?”
Thurstan smiled. “I think Mr Hersh was targeted by the wealthy industrialist whose reputation he was about to sully. Maybe a member of his family organised it but it was probably more about money than reputation.” He munched a few nuts. “You can’t win them all, Derek.
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Peterson’s out of our hands now, national security and all that. Hersh?
Well, we’ve got a suspect we can’t find, a body we can’t find and a witness who doesn’t want to go on record. Looks like a non-event.
Perhaps that’s how it should stay.”
He munched a few more nuts. “The cleaning lady in the park? If the opportunity arises, maybe we should overlook the little mark on her chest. I suspect, apart from that, we probably won’t find significant traces of whatever her killer, our missing body, injected her with. I think a heart attack in her car scenario would be the line the family would prefer, rather than the lesbian affair and murder by lover we’d have to present. Who wins with that?”
He took a mouthful of beer and they sat silently eyeing their pints as Thurstan munched another handful of peanuts.
“So, where do you think he went?”
“Who, Derek?”
“Nickson. Soapy said he never came back out of the woods, so where did he go?”
“Fuck knows.” He gave him a tired smile. “Wherever he is, I hope it’s a long, long way from here.” He drained his glass. “Another? I’m getting the train tonight.”
Degsy finished his drink. “Yeah, go ‘head, Boss. I think I’ll do the same.”
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Thurstan wondered why the large oak desk somehow looked even larger now than the last time he’d seen it. The silence was broken by the Chief.
“Right. I think we’re both certain there’s absolutely nothing to be gained by alarming the Public with news or even hints of some sort of organised retribution organisation. It’s going to cause all sorts of problems. You know what they’re like. Any old excuse to plunder the nearest electrical store and set fire to all and sundry, not to mention nutter copycats crawling out of the woodwork.” He rubbed his forehead then waved his open hand towards the DCI continuing with a hint of exasperation. “Similarly, no one will thank us if it’s actually official? Look what happened to the last chap who let the cat out of the bag, the Deputy Chief from Manchester and his Northern Ireland enquiry.” He let out a sigh. “No! Might as well go downstairs to the firearms range and shoot ourselves in the foot right now.” He took a sip of iced water from the tumbler on his desk before continuing:
“I’ve asked the CPS and Courts to expedite the trials regarding the Masterson murder and Tommy Cole. Strike whilst the iron’s hot, so to speak. Get it in and out of the papers quickly; leaves the MacMahon job to fade away gracefully. We’ve already blamed organised crime and hinted at international involvement so I think interest will wane given time. That only leaves MacMahon’s wife to make a fuss but she’s unlikely to pressurise us in respect of where our enquiries are 314
going. From what I’ve been told, she firmly believes it was Tommy Cole that saw him off.”
Thurstan interjected: “I think our saying it was organised crime with international connections, which ... sort of fits Tommy Cole to a tee, might have fuelled the fire a bit there, Sir.”
The Chief stared at him questioningly.
“Oh, I see what you mean. Quite possibly. Never mind. I think it’s highly unlikely he’ll be serving his time here so if she pays some other inmate to see him off it won’t be our problem. Maybe when she finds out Masterson was his mistress she’ll lose interest altogether,” the Chief added thoughtfully then looked at Thurstan, who felt the time was right to give a little nod and a smile.
“The Councillor’s murder? Well, totally out of our hands now and the one that never happened.”
He looked at Thurstan: “Coffee?” Thurstan nodded. He pressed the intercom. “Mrs Byrne, two coffees, please, and a small plate of biscuits.”
He went walkabout. “This chap, McGee, the St Helens serial killer.
To be honest, I’ve had some things altered. We’ve reversed the injuries so it sounds like he was shot from the front. The official line is
– commits an attempted rape and bravely fought off, then tries a knifepoint robbery and simply picked the wrong person. Of course, we’ll tell the Press our enquiries indicate this just happened to be a member of Liverpool’s gun-toting organised crime who’s now left the country. Enquiries continue, no stone unturned. That sort of thing.
They’ll suck it up.
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“And in case you’re wondering, I’ve spoken personally with the pathologist, an old friend of mine, and the victim. It’s sorted. Should they be asked any awkward questions they’ll refer it all back to us. At the end of the day, if we get caught out by the Press, we explain it away by saying enquiries were of such a sensitive and protracted nature that a cover plan was needed so as to not alert the people we were seeking. Long term, we’ll have to play it by ear.”
The Chief appeared to have a knack for this sort of thing, although Thurstan wasn’t very keen on his using the word we.
There was a subtle tapping low on the door. “Get that, will you, Thurstan? You’re nearest.” Mrs Byrne entered with a tray and her glittering smile.
“Thank you, Mrs Byrne,” the Chief said, giving her a big grin.
Bewitching them both again on the way out, she closed the door behind her. Thurstan couldn’t help noticing, she had a curious but attractive flick to her hips going on as she walked.
“Help yourself to milk and sugar,” the Chief said, handing Thurstan his coffee, “and don’t forget to have a biscuit.”
The DCI poured some milk, slid a sugar cube beneath the darkly marbled surface and stirred. Leaning forward, he helped himself to a custard cream. He decided not to dunk as he didn’t know exactly what the Chief’s policy was with regard to dunking. His strategy today was to play safe.
The Chief Constable sipped from his cup as he stared out of the window. “Now, your man in Yewtree Road.” He smiled benignly at Thurstan. “Information from the underworld, I think. Disgruntled, 316
former prison inmate, suspicions of some sort of fallout regarding drug transactions, that sort of thing. Given time the Press will forget about it; what with summer fashions and then the football season almost upon us they’ll have more than enough to fill their pages. It’ll be dead in the water. Feel free to dunk, by the way.”
Thurstan leant over and removed another custard cream from the plate. He had to admit the Chief was good, very good. He dunked, ate half and took a sip of coffee as the one-sided conversation continued.
“Now regarding Nickson. I have to say he hasn’t dispatched anyone either of us are likely to shed a tear over. Now, I know you’ve circulated him to all ports and airports but he may be able, nevertheless, to slip back into the country. If that happens, then he’s our number one priority. Use the Ways and Means Act if needs be.
Personally, I don’t care what you lock him up for. Walking on the cracks in the pavement, having a wonky smile or even a trumped up drunk and disorderly would suit me fine, just make sure you get his DNA and, if necessary, we’ll pay for someone to open their lab up in the middle of the night and give us the result in a matter of hours.
“Even if some well-meaning Custody Officer refuses the charge, as long as we have his DNA sample we don’t have to destroy it for six months. The point I’m making, Thurstan, is the DNA sample when matched is going to ensure he’ll spend at least nine months remanded in custody, if not longer. Hopefully, the threat of that will keep him well away. In the meantime, do whatever you can to keep track of him.
Any problems you get regarding authorisations or Court Orders, come 317
straight to me. Oh, and if you still haven’t put him on the system, leave it that way.”
“I will, Sir.” He stood up.
“Sit down, Thurstan, I haven’t finished yet,” the Chief told him, returning to his desk. He dunked another custard cream. “I love these biscuits,” he commented. Looking at the DCI, he nodded towards the last one on the plate. Thurstan shook his head.
“Right!” the Chief announced. “Different subject. I need to make some changes. Bill Cheesewright is being posted to the Matrix as Superintendent. I’ve decided to promote DI White to replace him as the other DCI at MIT. Taking note of your written request regarding young Drayton, he’ll be your new DI. Good news all round, I think?”
Thurstan was pleased. He’d known Chalkie had passed his promotion board, reluctantly resigning himself to the fact he’d probably lose them both within the next six months.
“Great news, Sir. When will they be notified?”
The Chief looked at some notes.
“Let’s see. Yes, they’ll be told on Monday, officially published Friday and effective as from the beginning of next month, so don’t be letting the cat out of the bag.” He smiled. “Okay, we’re done, I think.”
Thurstan stood up again. “Just one thing, Sir...” He was interrupted before he could finish.
“If you’re concerned about the detection rate, Thurstan,” the Chief said, walking him to the door, his arm around his shoulder, “I shouldn’t worry. I have full confidence in you. You need to take a pragmatic view of things. The figures will sort themselves out so look 318
on the bright side: Christmas is only around the corner and I’m sure there’ll be one or two easily solved domestic murders over turkey dinners to even things out. Who knows? If you’re really lucky there could be even more.” He smiled affably and opened the door. “Oh, and your personal file?”
The DCI looked puzzled; he’d never mentioned the matter to anyone.
“I think you’ll find you won’t have any problems. He’s always been a spiteful little shit. Between you and me, he won’t be here much longer. I had to recommend him for a job with the Met just to get rid of him. Part of my reclaim the SB strategy.”
As he watched Thurstan disappear into the corridor to the lifts, Mrs Byrne sidled up to him, smiled and said: “Did you mention it to him?”
He looked down at her, smiling back: “No. I didn’t have the heart. It’ll dawn on him soon enough, I’m sure.”
He moved further into her office and clapped his hands together enthusiastically. “Right, Mrs Byrne, you get the tray and things from my desk and I, in the meantime, will make you a well-earned cup of Earl Grey with one sugar.” He checked the kettle, switched it on and began to arrange the tea things, shaking his head as he chuckled.
“Thirstin’ badly and dehydratin’ - the water boys.
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Don leant one arm on the table and spoke in a low voice.
“Well, I have to admit, this Baddeley chap is being a bit of a nuisance, and it is going to be quite difficult to continue to use you in the UK for the foreseeable future, especially now they’ve circulated you. It could be done, but…” He caught Nick’s gaze and smiled.
“Why don’t you take a break, make it a long one, and we’ll wait for it all to blow over.”
“It’s not going to blow over, Don,” Nicks replied with a hint of exasperation, sliding the job’s mobile across the table to him. “This isn’t the sort of guy to let it happen.”
Don smiled condescendingly. “There are ways we can alleviate the problem. Things are always going missing and people are always getting posted to all sorts of other departments, don’t you know? It’s just a matter of time.”
“You can’t do that with this fella.” Nicks shook his head. “No, if you make what he’s got disappear or fuck him about, it’ll just make him more determined. I know his sort.” He let a little laugh escape.
“It’s what I would do. It’ll become a crusade for him. I’m sorry, not only is it no longer tenable but, as I said before, I just don’t want to do this anymore. I’ve had a glimpse of my own mortality. I think I’ve done enough.”
Don reclined in his seat agitatedly.
“For goodness sake, Nicks! It was a mere scratch.”
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“It was more than a mere scratch. And anyway, I only said I had a glimpse. Nevertheless, it was enough.” He held his hands palm up in an open gesture. “Why the hell am I doing this shit at my time of life?”
Don leant forward, jabbing his finger towards him.
“Because someone has to, Nicks! And, besides, you’re good at it.”
“Yeah? Well, I think I’m losing my touch. I should have taken a bit more time to find that damned knife. He’ll have my DNA profile from it by now. Once he’s matched it to DNA off my mum’s toothbrush, the one I know he’s nicked, I won’t just be an interest to him. I’ll become an obsession.” He sipped his coffee thoughtfully.
“Look,” Don said soothingly, “you know as well as I do he can’t use that in a court of law. At the moment he’s got DNA for someone who was in or near the alleyway around the relevant time. We’ve discussed this before, Nicks. It’s nothing a damn good lawyer can’t adequately explain away to a jury.” He delicately sipped his coffee, replaced the cup on the saucer and said quietly: “Of course, we wouldn’t be in this position if you hadn’t stuck your nose into something that was none of your business.”
Nicks looked at him hard. “I couldn’t just ignore it.”
“No, no, of course.” A hint of sarcasm then more deliberately, “But it seems you couldn’t just phone the police either.”
“By the time they’d have arrived it could have been too late,” Nicks countered, defensively.
Don glanced up as two young men walked past, hand in hand. He watched them as they climbed the stairs to the exit. “That may well 321
be,” he murmured. Looking back at Nicks, he picked up his drink.
“And besides, you just couldn’t resist it, could you!”
Once again, Nicks felt like an errant schoolboy experiencing the crushing disappointment of his Form Master.
“Nicks, listen to me!” Don was insistent. “We can sort this out. As I’ve told you. Things go missing. Departmental personnel change all the time. It’ll take a while, but it can be done.” He pushed the job’s phone across the table with his forefinger. Nicks slid it straight back.
Don looked down at it. “It’s not just about this Baddeley chap, is it?”
Nicks looked him square in the eyes.
“I’m done,” he said.
Leaning back in his chair, Don sighed, then pocketed the phone and said quietly:
“I’ve always liked you, Nicks, so I won’t try to talk you out of it.”
He smiled and Nicks thought it was the only genuine smile he’d seen Don produce.
“I respect your decision. Everything has a shelf life, as they say.”
He paused. “I do have to remind you, though I know I needn’t, none of this can ever be spoken about or conveyed in any manner whatsoever.” He smiled his usual smile before adding: “The consequences would be quite dire.” He wasn’t smiling anymore.
Nicks toyed with his coffee and replied quietly:
“I can imagine.”
“No. I don’t think you could.”
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Don lifted his cup, draining the remnants. He placed it back down, stood up, picked a minute piece of fluff from his jacket and deposited it carefully into the cup.
Extending his hand, he smiled again; two genuine smiles in five years and both on the same day. Nicks began to feel flattered. They shook hands firmly then Don was gone. Nicks leant back in his chair with a sigh of relief then toyed aimlessly with a napkin. Slowly, he drank the remnants of his caramel Latte.
Suddenly, Don was back.
“I forgot to mention,” he said pleasantly. “She’s done a wonderful job with the flowers.”
Nicks looked back at him vacantly.
“Who? What flowers?”
“Why, Anca of course. The window boxes? They look delightful.
Geraniums have always been my favourite.” He placed the phone back on the table. “On second thoughts, you will need this. It’s not over until we say it is. Take care.”
Nicks watched him walk away. “How long have you known?” he called.
Don swung around to face him. For a while, he just stood there.
Then he returned and said, quietly:
“Your cosy arrangement? Having your little German friend mind your phone and then forward our messages on to you? I’ve known for a long, long time, Christopher” He paused. “I know you want your own little bit of paradise on earth, but the road to Eden’s not easy.” A wistful look. “It’s… somewhat overgrown.”
323
He climbed the steps to the exit and glanced back with a last smile.
Slowly and silently, the door closed behind him as he faded into the crowds that bustled along the Kurfürstendamm.
Nicks slipped the phone back into his coat pocket.
324
As Dan Wheatcroft
The Leveller Trilogy
The Road to Eden is Overgrown
Ask the River
No Room for the Innocent
John Gallager series
The Summer of 66
The Summer of 75
As Paul Addy
Pad's Army
And for children 6 - 9
The House in the Wood
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