‘We both know that isn’t true, Detective,’ the voice interrupted. ‘I know the AAIB report has been falsified.’
Vincent sat forward as the last statement caught his attention.
‘Say that again,’ he asked cautiously.
‘The AAIB investigation into the plane that crashed at Southampton airport on Saturday night has been doctored to create an alternative version of events. If you didn’t already know that, then you are not the person I have been led to believe you are.’
‘What do you know?’ he asked, no longer prepared to refute what he was being told.
‘I know that the pilot of the flight, Captain Michael Adams, was coerced into trying to crash the flight and kill all on board. I know that a handful of flight crew witnessed this and have either been bought off or threatened into silence. I know that the order to report the crash as mechanical failure came from a senior source within British Security Services. Are you writing all this down, Detective?’
Vincent was eagerly scribbling down what the voice was telling him, and had to stop when he wrote down the voice’s last question when he realised it was directed at him.
‘How do you know all this? Who are you?’
‘I will reveal who I am soon enough, when it is safe to do so. In the meantime, you need to continue your investigation. The people that coerced the pilot wanted somebody aboard that flight to perish; it was only the quick thinking of an agent aboard the flight that prevented the pilot succeeding.’
‘Where is the pilot now?’
‘That I don’t know,’ admitted the voice. ‘I know he was removed from the airport before any of the passengers had even reached the lounge. He was taken to an unknown location and hasn’t been heard from since. His wife and son are not at home either; presumably they have been taken into protective custody with Captain Adams. It is important you find him, Detective Inspector, as he will be key to any prosecution case you try and formulate.’
‘But how? Where do I begin?’
‘I can’t do it all for you. Also, the shooting at IPSA; you will need to look into the shooter’s extracurricular activities. Find out where he was spending his free time; who was he with? There is a connection there.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’ Vincent asked, suddenly conscious that his investigation was being led by an unknown source.
‘Because I don’t want to see the bastards get away with it again!’
‘You said the bombing was linked too; how?’
‘You need to speak with the young student who wore the vest. Find out who gave it to him, what he was told to say, when he was first approached. Again, who he identifies will be key to this…’
‘He’s dead,’ Vincent interrupted. ‘He was killed while in secure custody this afternoon.’
‘How? Who by?’ the voice demanded.
‘I was with him at the time, when an unidentified group stormed the location where he was being held and executed him. I only survived as I was able to hide.’
‘Who were these men? What did they sound like? What did they look like?’
‘I couldn’t see them from where I was, but they spoke with Middle Eastern accents.’
‘They’re covering their tracks,’ the voice said. ‘They’re tying up all the loose ends. If you don’t have the bomber, we’ll need to try a new approach.’
‘New approach?’ Vincent asked casually.
‘Oh that was for my own notes, Detective Inspector. I will be in touch again soon. For the time being, try and locate that pilot and keep digging into the shooter’s background; the answers are there if you just keep looking.’
‘How do I know I can trust you? I don’t even know your name.’
‘You can call me Terry.’
‘Terry?’
‘That’s right.’
‘How do I get in touch with you, Terry?’
‘You won’t,’ the voice replied. ‘I will contact you. Oh, and another thing; how many lives were saved on the ill-fated flight on Thursday night?’
Vincent tried to recall the figure.
‘Eighty-two, including the pilot, two flight crew and a stewardess on her way home. Why?’
‘Check the records carefully, Detective. As a show of trust, I will tell you there were in fact eighty-three passengers aboard that flight when it left Orly.’
Vincent grabbed at the printed list of names the airport had provided and quickly counted eighty-two of them.
‘My paperwork definitely says eighty-two passengers, not eighty-three.’
‘I’m sure it does,’ the voice chuckled, ‘and undoubtedly the records at Orly will show the same number; that’s how cover-ups work. But I bet if you watched the CCTV footage of passengers boarding the flight, you’d count eighty-three. Don’t forget, Detective Inspector: look for the shadow line.’
The phone disconnected before Vincent could ask any more questions. He re-read his notes. If the voice was right, who was this missing passenger and why had his or her name been removed from the passenger lists? Vincent picked up his mobile phone.
‘Davies,’ he said when the line connected, ‘I have a job for you. Get your passport; you’re going to Paris in the morning.’
WEDNESDAY
26
The display on the dashboard indicated that the temperature outside had still not risen above three degrees. Ray flicked the car’s heating system back on and tried to stop his teeth from chattering. He and Alex had left the farmhouse an hour earlier to make the short trip from Hayling Island down to the ferry port in Portsmouth, and had spent twenty minutes just sitting in the car park waiting for their boat to arrive. Now that it had, they were in a queue of traffic waiting to board.
‘What time does it leave?’ Alex asked again.
‘I’ve told you Alex, it’s due to sail at six,’ he replied, nervously glancing at the dashboard clock. He could understand Alex’s concern as it was already five thirty.
‘What the hell is the hold up?’ Alex continued stretching to try and see past the car parked in front of them.
‘I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about,’ he answered, as much for his own benefit as his passenger’s.
Ray, Alex, Danny, Robbie and Tom had spent the evening drinking as much of the Jack Daniels as they could manage until one by one each man had passed out. It had been a good thing that Ray had forced each of them to set alarms on their phones before the drinking commenced, as otherwise they would surely have slept in. A grumble in his stomach told him that he needed something to eat, but Alex’s suggestion that they visit a McDonald’s drive-thru on their way to the port had seemed too risky. He had already seen from the news that not only had his and Alex’s photographs been posted, so had their names. He would never have been able to live down the embarrassment of being arrested for the heist because he had stopped for breakfast. He had told Alex that the ferry was bound to have catering facilities on board, and it might be that one of them would just have to risk leaving their cabin and buying some food for the two of them; if they were quick, there was every chance they could pass by unnoticed. The thought of sausage, bacon, scrambled egg and toast made his stomach grumble again.
The car in front moved forward five yards so Ray put his vehicle into first gear and followed suit.
‘Can you see what’s going on yet?’ he asked Alex who was still stretching forward.
‘Not sure,’ Alex replied. ‘I can see a couple of men by one of the cars about three ahead of us, but it’s too dark to see what they’re doing.’
‘Maybe this is how they now check passports,’ he surmised, even though he knew that was an unlikely explanation.
The Organiser had been adamant that they would have no difficulty boarding the ferry and with Danny’s words of doubt still lingering in his mind, Ray forced himself to believe they would make it okay.
‘Oh shit!’ Alex declared. ‘I can see better now. There’s two of them and they have a torch they are shining into cars. They’re looking for s
omething.’
Ray tried to hide the growing panic in his voice, ‘Maybe they are looking for stowaways or immigrants or something.’
‘Immigrants leaving the country?’ Alex questioned. ‘That’s a bit backward don’t you think?’
Ray acknowledged the idiocy of what he had suggested.
‘Just because they have torches, doesn’t mean they are looking for us, Alex.’
‘Oh really? The biggest heist in the county’s history happened two days ago. There is a manhunt on the television for the two of us and now we find officials checking cars on an early fairy crossing to Caen. You don’t think it’s connected?’
He couldn’t answer. Was it really possible that The Organiser had hung them out to dry?
‘Shit, Ray! They’re looking in the car in front now.’
Ray looked up to see beams of torch light shining in through the windows of the car in front of them.
‘Maybe they’re just doing a routine search for drugs or something?’ he offered weakly.
‘Get us out of here, Ray. Just back up, turn around and let’s go. We’re sitting ducks if we wait here for them to find us.’
‘You don’t think it will look more suspicious if we suddenly drive away? I mean, if they weren’t looking for us now, seeing our movement would certainly raise their suspicions.’
‘But at least we’d have a chance to live to tell the story. If they find us now, we’ll be banged up before supper.’
He knew Alex was right, and the thought of spending his retirement in a cell terrified him, but if The Organiser was legit then they had nothing to worry about; it was a tough dilemma.
‘Ray, come on!’ Alex demanded. ‘We have seconds before they come over to us. Put the fucking car in reverse and let’s get out of here!’
He checked the rear-view mirror and then his wing-mirrors. The car behind them was quite close so it would take several attempts of moving backwards and forwards to complete the arc and be able to drive away. He glanced back over to the beams of torchlight through the windscreen. Time seemed to move so slowly.
‘Oh great!’ Alex declared. ‘You’re too late, they’re coming over now. Well done, Ray, you’ve well and truly fucked us!’’
He saw the two uniformed men approaching the car. They appeared to make a note of the licence plate number as they passed before one of the men tapped on Alex’s window with the butt of the torch.
‘You stupid fuck!’ Alex hissed, before winding the window down slowly, expecting a weapon to be thrust into his face the second he did.
‘Good morning, Sir,’ offered the one who had tapped the window. ‘Can I see your passports please?’
Alex removed his from inside his jacket and then held his hand out for Ray’s. Ray subtly pressed the false moustache he was wearing to his lip to make sure it was still stuck before handing his passport over. Alex handed the documents to the uniformed man, who he could now see was a Customs official and not a policeman.
‘Where are you two headed today?’ the man asked.
‘Just to Caen to visit an old naval buddy,’ Ray shouted across. The Organiser had provided them with a brief backstory in case anybody questioned their plans. Alex looked in no fit state to speak, the sweat on his forehead obvious to Ray.
‘I see,’ replied the Officer, opening the passports and then shining the torch in to compare the pictures to the men in the vehicle. The torch lingered on Alex for a moment longer. ‘Is everything okay, sir?’
Alex’s eyes widened with fear.
‘He’s diabetic,’ Ray quickly responded. ‘I need to get him on board for some food as quickly as possible. Do you think we could hurry this up at all?’
Alex nodded to verify the story.
The customs official shone the torch into their faces once more before thrusting the passports back at Alex and telling them to proceed forward. The response surprised them both and it took a moment before Alex wound the window up and for Ray to notice that there was no longer a car in front of them. He pressed on the accelerator and the car rolled forward to the passport control window. Snatching the two passports from Alex, he opened his own window and handed them, along with their tickets, to the woman in the booth. She scanned the documents before passing them back and telling them to move forward to lane five.
*
Ten minutes later and they were walking calmly but with purpose in the direction of the cabin that had been reserved for them. As they moved across the boat, both men kept their heads down to avoid any facial-recognition hardware built into the cameras. The cabin was on the second deck of the ferry and, as luck would have it, was the first in the corridor and therefore, the closest to the car bay below. He wondered whether it was by luck or whether The Organiser had fixed it to be that way. He believed it was probably the latter, judging by the way they had managed to avoid capture during customs and passport control. He had to hand it to The Organiser; he was clearly somebody with a lot of power and money if he had managed to get them out of the country. God only knew how many officials would have had to be bribed or threatened to make it so.
The cabin was small but sufficient for their needs. It housed two single beds and a table with two chairs. Alex was disappointed that there was no television for them to watch but Ray had laughed it off, telling him they needed to catch up on their beauty sleep anyway. Ray volunteered to go and buy them breakfast as his fake moustache and hair piece were more realistic than Alex’s fake goatee and shaved head. He said he would take the cabin's key with him but that if he sensed any kind of danger he would knock three times on the door as he walked past. Alex nodded his understanding and then climbed onto the bed.
Ray maintained his low face march as he went to the nearest ferry restaurant. He had a deep hunger for fried sausages, egg and bacon but there was already a long queue waiting for food, even though the boat had yet to leave port. Deciding it would be too risky to hang around and wait, he picked up a couple of croissants and doughnuts and two cups of coffee from the self-serve machine and moved across to pay. The woman behind the counter was called Simone and spoke with accented English, so he was hopeful she wasn’t from British shores and therefore wouldn’t know his face from anybody else’s.
He was careful to look out for any familiar faces following him back to the cabin and as he approached the door felt content that nobody had recognised him. Fishing the key from his pocket, he balanced the coffee and food in one hand and unlocked the door with the other, using his shoulder to push it open. Alex looked dead to the world, still lying in the same position on the bed as he had been when Ray had left.
‘Wakey, wakey, sleepyhead,’ he began, ‘I’ve got you some…’
Noticing the man dressed from head to toe in black, in the corner of the room, cut off the words.
‘Who are you?’ he managed to get out before the man withdrew a small pistol with fitted silencer device. He held a finger up to his lips and used the weapon to usher Ray into the room.
‘Who…why…but…I don’t…’
Too many questions were racing through his head to string a cohesive sentence together. Even though he could sense the danger he was in, he obliged and closed the cabin door behind him, placing the coffees and cake bags on the edge of his bed.
‘Good,’ whispered the man. ‘Sit down on the bed, there is something we need to discuss.’
Ray sat down, careful not to disturb his breakfast. He wondered whether this man was The Organiser, but assumed at the very least that he was an acquaintance.
‘What do you want to discuss?’ Ray asked calmly, eager not to piss him off.
The man in black didn’t answer, instead, he fired a single shot, the bullet catching Ray square between the eyes and killing him instantly. His body fell backwards onto the bed, causing one of the paper cups to fall spilling its contents. The assassin stood and positioned the body so that the back was facing the cabin door, meaning if any one happened to open the door, it would just look like both men were fast as
leep. He had killed Alex the second he had picked the lock to the cabin. He had been expecting both men to be in there and had been frustrated to have to wait for Ray to return.
Checking that he had not left a clue to his presence in the room, the assassin picked up the remaining cup of coffee and left, closing the door behind him. The crossing was due to take four hours so the bodies wouldn’t be discovered for some time. He casually made his way back to where he had boarded and disembarked. Being a hired killer had not been his career choice while at school, but he could handle the dubious morals of his chosen profession; the pay was so much better than an office job too.
27
Detective Inspector Jack Vincent swiped his Oyster card against the ticket barrier and pushed through. He had once dreamed of being based in London, working out of Scotland Yard, but now his infrequent visits to the capital filled him with dread. Whether it was due to his age or whether he had become accustomed to a slower pace of life in Southampton, he didn’t know, but he detested the hustle and bustle that he always encountered when he was here. The Crown Prosecution Service building was just off Ludgate Hill in the borough of Southwark.
He had caught the eight a.m. train from Southampton to Waterloo, and picked up a copy of the free Metro newspaper which he had planned to read cover to cover while sitting down with a cup of coffee: no such luck. He found himself pressed up against the carriage’s toilet for most of the journey and, despite his best endeavours to read the paper, having to steady himself with one hand while holding his coffee in the other did not make conducive conditions for reading. In the end he had folded the newspaper under his arm and thought about the purpose of his trip to the capital.
Twelve months ago, he had witnessed the death of one of his colleagues, D.C. Alison Jacobs. She had been working undercover on secondment with the Serious and Organised Crime Unit under the supervision of D.C.I. Martin Saunders. She had been following up a lead in Southampton at a hotel when she had been shot and killed by one of the suspects. A major operation had been launched following the murder of Saunders in his own home.
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