Deadly Intent

by Iain Cameron

  Matt had wondered about this too. To travel to the Middle East and buy a substantial amount of modern weapons required big money: for travelling and accommodation, for bribes at borders, to buy the guns, and money to transport the booty back to the UK and the Irish Republic.

  ‘Kavanagh said they were backed by a rich benefactor, an Irish businessman who wants a united Ireland, but don’t all hold your breath. We don’t know his name. He did tell us what he knew about the missing guns, though. They are to be shipped to the UK in three further container drops, and the rest of the cache put on a boat and dropped off somewhere in rural Ireland.’

  This created a buzz around the room, now they were getting somewhere.

  ‘If true, it tells us a lot,’ Hillman said, his normally calm features brimming with enthusiasm. ‘We didn’t think the Leicester warehouse was set up to receive one shipment. There’s a fair chance the other three container drops are heading there too.’

  ‘What, even though we busted the place?’ one officer said.

  ‘The IRM will know Leicester’s been compromised,’ another agreed.

  ‘How could they?’ Urquhart argued.

  ‘Tony, don’t be an arse,’ Hillman said. ‘If you’d set up a place like that, you’d bloody well monitor what was going on and no mistake. In the olden days, they’d need to get hold of the fucking Leicester Chronicle, or whatever it’s called; now all they need to do is look on Google. Of course they fucking know. But, and it’s a big but, these containers are being sent by ship. Could be they departed after news of the Leicester bust came out; maybe they can’t be stopped.’

  ‘Fair point, boss,’ Urquhart said with a shrug.

  ‘The terrorists won’t be able to do much about the ship, but for sure but they’ll try and cancel the lorry. Leicester are posting a couple of officers at the warehouse in case one arrives, but our main focus will be on the container port.’

  ‘Christ,’ someone said, ‘it’s just as hard to find something in there as in Ireland.’

  ‘It is,’ Rosie said, ‘and every day giant container ships arrive from the Far East, depositing thousands of the things, but we can apply a bit of savvy. We know the terrorists are shipping from Turkey. This limits the number of ships we need to be watching.’

  ‘Good point, Rosie.,’ Hillman said. ‘Now. If we can talk about the guns recovered. Matt asked for some of the M4s to be dusted, see if we could find a few prints of the people who’d handled them.’

  Matt nodded.

  ‘Tell them, Tony.’

  ‘We got some clear dabs. Running them through the database, it flagged up the names of a couple of well-known Irishmen.’

  Chapter 15

  ‘I like this,’ Simon Wood said examining his surroundings. ‘Good choice, Rod.’

  ‘You sure this is a good idea, swanning around in public while your face is etched into the minds of every young copper?’ Roderick Lamar replied.

  ‘We’re hardly ‘swanning around.’ It’s a restaurant on the outskirts of Watford, not a celebrity hangout in Mayfair with dozens of paparazzi loitering outside.’

  ‘Yeah, but–’

  ‘Would you recognise me?’

  ‘’Course I would, you’re my bloody uncle.’

  ‘Don’t be a prick. Would you know it was me if you only saw my picture in a newspaper?’

  They were sitting in a steak restaurant, Carter’s Steak and Grill, Wood’s kind of food. His girlfriend, Ingrid, was a beautiful woman and, despite her diva reputation, an excellent mother to his children, but she wouldn’t cook steak. She was vegan and would have a fit at seeing a slab of meat anywhere near her kitchen in case it contaminated her pulses.

  To test his new look: short hair rather than long, black hair not brown, clean-shaven instead of bearded, and subdued clothes in place of loud, they’d come to a quiet provincial place. It was too risky dining out in London. They could be in the pokiest place in Soho and the guy sitting opposite could be a senior Met detective, or the picture editor of The Mirror, men who’d stared at Wood’s face for hours and knew every bump and wrinkle. In many respects, it was easier in the day-time, as with the addition of a cap and sunglasses he could look like anybody.

  Wood had a good view out of the window and saw a car he recognised making its way into the car park.

  ‘Hey, here comes Jacko. Nip into the gents, mate. See if he clocks me.’

  Lamar disappeared and Wood sat there at the back of the restaurant drinking vodka and Coke. They hadn’t booked a table and would pay cash, leaving no traceable trail. Nor had they left a name at the desk for Harris to enquire. He would have to walk around the restaurant to find him and Wood with his back to the other diners and facing a wall, didn’t want to make it easy for him.

  He watched as Harris walked in. He looked over to the right side of the restaurant where Wood was sitting. Deciding he wasn’t there, he now headed over to the left. Knowing Wood would be wearing some form of disguise, he was perhaps looking for Rod, but that would have made it too easy. He imagined Watford to be a fairly diverse place, but for tonight at least, Lamar was the only black patron.

  A half minute or so later Harris reappeared and walked towards him. With some hesitation he approached.

  ‘Simon? Is that you?’

  ‘I bloody hope so.’

  ‘Christ, I hardly recognised you, you look so different.’ He sat down. ‘What does Ingrid think?’

  ‘She hates it. Wants the old me back.’

  A few minutes later they were all seated with fresh drinks, Wood’s order for a rare rump steak with fries and mushy peas being prepared in the kitchen.

  ‘This coming Sunday,’ Wood said, ‘there’s a mega-delivery arriving; a fleet of five vans coming through the Channel Tunnel all carrying different stuff like garden fertilisers and children’s toys. They’ll go various ways, but they’ll all end up at the Barking warehouse. Rod will be my eyes down there…’ He looked at Lamar who nodded.

  ‘When it gets out there, you my son,’ he said looking at Harris, ‘will need to work your magic. It’s great gear and it’ll fly off the shelves. How’s our friend Sammy Phillips doing?’

  Harris smiled, something he didn’t do often. ‘He’s still the best performing FX manager in England.’

  ‘You’ll need to ease up there. How you getting on setting up our own?’

  ‘You told me to call a halt.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Yep, soon as I said you need to register with the Financial Services Authority, you told me to can it.’

  ‘So I did. I swear to God, it was either the haircut or the time I spent on remand eating that gruel they call food, fucked with my brain.’

  He reached for his glass and took a drink. He could drink at home, but nothing could beat sitting in a bar or restaurant. ‘We need another FX dealer, keen to make a few bucks. Can’t have Sammy’s picture appearing in the pages of Travel News again, can we? See what you can do, Jack.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘The street team,’ Wood said. ‘How are you getting on with our expansion plans?’

  ‘I’ll need a few more recruits to handle this new load. I’m loath to give these guys too much money at one time; they’re greedy bastards.’

  Wood laughed. ‘We’re all greedy, Jack, that’s why we do it. Recruit some more, but do it soon. We don’t want it ending up like 2016.’

  Wood smiled at the memory. It was funny looking back, but it had been a nightmare at the time. They were generating so much cash it was being stuffed into suitcases, plastic bags and dustbins. The need to do something more professional came when they’d found mice had chomped their way through one hundred grand.

  Harris had been their eyes and ears in the world of drug enforcement, but what Wood didn’t realise until later, was that he was a genius on the cash front. He came up with the brilliant idea of shifting money through foreign exchange shops, setting up a team of runners to deposit money into banks and to buy a couple of ‘front’ bu
sinesses, the likes of bookmakers, garages and pubs, where cash could be laundered without too many questions being asked.

  If the cops ever got around to joined-up policing, not before humans colonised Mars, he believed, they would discover his businesses, on paper at least, were among the best-performing in the country. Cars were often sold at three or four grand above their ticket price, punters would place big bets on mid-week football matches in China and Malaysia, and pubs would have bumper takings on a quiet Tuesday night.

  The meals arrived: a beautiful-looking piece of steak for Wood, a bean salad for another lentil-muncher, Lamar, and piri-piri chicken for skinny boy Harris. The steak looked delicious, cooked the way he liked it, seared on each side and red in the middle. The first bite confirmed it tasted as good as it looked.

  For a regional restaurant, the owners had spent a shed-load of money doing up the place, hence the prices on the menu would cause some diners to baulk, but not a small group of guys with wads of spare cash in their pocket. For obvious reasons, Wood had his back to the body of the restaurant, facing a brick wall inlaid with wine bottles. Lamar and Harris were seated opposite him on a red leather banquette-styled seat. He liked to think he would come back here some time in the future, but that might be pushing his luck.

  ‘Are you still keen on the idea of buying another boat and going away for a few months?’ Harris asked him.

  ‘I’m still interested, as it would stop me behaving like a vampire, but the business is too volatile at the moment. If the Russians hear I’m out of the country for a few months, they might be tempted to make another move.’

  ‘Nah,’ Lamar said, his face twisted in a sneer. ‘We sorted those bastards out down at the docks. They won’t come back for another dose of the same.’

  The memory of that night and his brush with death almost spoiled the enjoyment of his dinner. Almost. ‘I wish I shared your optimism, Rod. Any fall-out from Tilbury that I need to know about, Jack?’

  Harris shook his head. ‘It hit the papers as a drug deal gone wrong. The public don’t care what drug gangs do to each other as long as it doesn’t affect them, and if the public are cool, my boss is cool. Nothing to worry about, Simon. You’d have trouble finding anything about it in any newspaper the following day.’

  ‘It’s still an open investigation, though?’

  ‘Sure, but they’ll never make any progress. The murder team I’m told, has been reduced to three detectives.’

  ‘If they start to get close, I expect you to take steps to make it go away.’

  ‘I will, don’t worry.’

  Wood returned to his meal, forking and savouring the last few pieces of meat like a gourmet.

  ‘What are you planning to do, Simon if you don’t buy a new boat?’ Harris asked.

  ‘I’m thinking of moving in with you and Sally, if that’s okay with you?’

  Harris stopped eating. ‘You can’t be serious? You know she works for the Probation Service. I wouldn’t be surprised to find your picture up on their office wall with a caption, ‘What not to do when you’re on remand’.’

  ‘Catch his face, Rod, what an expression. I know where she works, Jack, but that wouldn’t be the only problem. She talks too much.’

  ‘Can’t argue with you there, mate, she does my head in at times. Last weekend we went to see her mother and they say take a good look, this is how your woman will end up. I tell you, I didn’t like what I saw.’

  They all laughed.

  ‘You asked me about my long-term plans, Jack,’ Wood said, putting his knife and fork down on an empty plate. The best meal he’d had in a long time. ‘I’ve decided to buy a place out in the sticks. Maybe a farmhouse in Sussex, or Oxfordshire; decent-sized house, a few barns, and no neighbours. Ingrid’s looked at a few places.’

  ‘Good idea. A place where you’ll be easy to contact but quiet enough to keep your head down. Do you need any of the money pulled back?’ Harris asked.

  Wood shook his head. ‘It sorted. We can rustle up about three mil from our various stashes, eh Rod?’

  ‘Yeah, no problem.’

  ‘Talking of money, did you bring the statements?’

  ‘I did,’ Harris said. ‘Hang on.’

  The waiter approached. ‘Let me clear away these plates, gentlemen. Did you all enjoy your meals?’

  ‘Immensely,’ Wood said. ‘My compliments to the chef.’

  ‘I’ll tell him.’

  With the table cleared and the waiter instructed to give them ten minutes before bringing over the dessert menus, Harris handed Wood a sheaf of statements. Wood trusted Harris, he needed to as in this business, it was easy for him to take his eye off the prize and allow things to get out of hand. He didn’t look at the statements to ensure the amounts agreed with what he expected, but to see the extent of his growing fortune. He did this to make him feel that all the grief he suffered on a daily basis was all worth it.

  ‘Great stuff, Jack,’ he said handing the statements back. ‘Make sure they’re shredded.’

  He nodded. ‘Will do.’

  Harris didn’t put the statements away, but sat there, a serious look on his face.

  ‘Something on your mind, Jack?’

  ‘I wanna ask you guys for some advice about something.’

  ‘Ask away.’

  ‘I told you guys about me and her indoors going to see her mother?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I can’t be sure, but while we were away, I think someone might have been in my house.’

  ‘What?’ Wood sat up, a riot of white noise running through his brain, the first sign of panic. ‘What the hell makes you think that?’

  ‘I found a jemmy in the flower bed.’

  ‘Fucking hell!’ Wood said. ‘A jemmy? Hang on, why do you think he’s been in your house? A burglar might have been doing the place next door and chucked it over the wall,’

  ‘I don’t think so. My laptop wasn’t in the same position as I left it.’

  The panic now took on form: ugly men with guns, coppers in black vans, bodies in refuse skips. He needed to stay calm. If rivals captured and tortured him, no way could he reveal the extent of their operations; Lamar knew it better. If they wanted to know where the money was deposited and how to access it, he couldn’t tell them that either, but Harris could. In a world of untidy investigations, unsolved murders and unknown assailants, Harris was a sea of calm, one of the reasons he’d hired him. If he said something had been moved in his house, he believed him.

  ‘Could it be some of your lot, the cop investigation people?’

  ‘Not their style. It’s all arrest warrants and court orders with them.’

  ‘Who then? MI5?’

  Harris shook his head. ‘I think Homeland Security; HSA.’

  ‘The cop we shot,’ Lamar said. ‘Emma whatshername. You told me she was living with one of their agents.’

  ‘That’s right and he’s been sniffing around the murder investigation,’ Harris said. ‘He’s not happy they haven’t nabbed anybody for it yet.’

  ‘Well, we’re not giving him Rod, if that’s what you’re driving at,’ Wood said. ‘So, you think this guy, this HSA agent, has been snooping around your place?’

  He nodded. ‘Yeah. He’s called Matt Flynn. I don’t think it could be anyone else.’

  Wood knew Harris’s instincts were good. If he said it was him, he was most likely right. ‘What is it you want us to do?’

  ‘He’s getting too close. We need to take him out.’

  Chapter 16

  Matt held a newspaper open in front of him and, to anyone looking around, it would appear as though he was reading it. He was sitting in the departure lounge at Heathrow Airport, waiting for a flight to Dublin. A text from DI Hillman of CTC a few minutes ago simply said, ‘Watch out for the fireworks’. Hence, he wasn’t paying too much attention to the newspaper.

  It was decided at the meeting with CTC two days before to split up the job of trying to intercept the various arms shipme
nts. The anti-terrorist boys would take the container shipments destined for Felixstowe, while HSA would deal with the remaining ship-bound consignment heading for the Irish Republic.

  This information didn’t come from the Leicester suspects, despite many hours in interview rooms, but from a search of one of their houses. There, they found a document detailing each of the shipments, including the names of the container ships coming into Felixstowe. The ship-bound consignment would be aboard a fishing boat due into an Irish harbour called Westport in two days’ time.

  Matt decided, against his better judgment and the voice in his head of his dead mother saying, ‘you can never go back’, that while he was in Ireland, he would visit the village where he’d been born.

  Matt scanned the faces of his fellow Dublin-bound passengers, wondering which one was about to get a tap on the shoulder as promised by DI Hillman. The answer would soon become clear. Through the glass panel of the lounge, he could see two armed officers striding towards the entrance of the departure lounge an airport official running along beside them, trying to keep up.

  The officers walked to the front of the room, scanning the faces and comparing them to a picture on their phones. They didn’t require the services of the intercom announcer as a few seconds later, they strode forward and stopped beside a bespectacled man a few rows behind Matt.

  The guy had been in Matt’s top five list of likely suspects. A solo businessman, mid-forties and, by look of the neat suit and compact bag beside him containing his laptop and bearing an Emirates sticker, a regular traveller to the Middle East. He fitted the profile that Matt and Rosie had developed. If a salesman could sit for hours discussing the purchase of wheat with a Ukrainian farming collective or the manufacture of a revolutionary valve with Chinese engineers, he had the requisite skills to negotiate an arms deal with a bunch of Syrian rebels.

  ‘What’s the meaning of this?’ the guy whined in a southern Irish accent. ‘I’m a respectable businessman returning home from a sales trip.’