That was the first time Betts had used the official term when addressing him, as if he’d forgotten until now. Waters remembered as if it were yesterday, Smith explaining to a rookie detective constable that there was a time and a place for that sort of thing, and that when they were out and about in the community, neither applied. Betts was a few years older and more experienced than Waters, and lecturing as Smith had done, even ironically, was not an option. So he said simply, ‘I’m Chris and you’re Clive, if that’s OK with you,’ and as far as he could tell, it was.
Betts said, ‘What about you? Someone waiting at home tonight?’
Conversation can be the curse of surveillance work, if you find yourself trapped for hours in a vehicle with someone with whom you have nothing in common. Good managers of detectives know this, naturally, and Greene had said to Waters when he gave him the job, ‘I thought Clive Betts?’, thus giving him the option to make another choice. Not that there had been many other options, the team being considerably smaller than originally planned. Maya Kumar? Waters wasn’t entirely sure why but “Not in a million years” had been his first and only reaction to that idea.
‘No,’ he said in answer to Betts’ question. ‘I have twelve neon tetras, three guppies and a catfish who I think are pleased to see me when the lights go on. And Alexa greets me with the news headlines as soon as I disable the alarm. We’re a pretty conventional family unit, really.’
Betts was smiling. ‘You’re into all the tech? So’s Jack. It’s like living on a sci-fi film set sometimes. I go out and do some gardening when it gets too much…’
As he listened, Waters accepted that it was difficult not to be a little envious of what others have; someone who makes you smile when you talk about them. Tonight, in about an hour’s time, instead of sitting here, he should have been arriving at Miriam’s house, perhaps being invited in for the first time, seeing how she lived, making friends with Ben again. She had seemed to understand, to accept he had a career that did not follow rules as far as relationships were concerned, but he couldn’t be certain. She was fiercely independent, that much he did know, and unlikely to stand much nonsense. He thought about texting, just to let her know she was in his thoughts, and then he felt a hand on his arm.
Betts said, ‘He’s early.’
There was a white Peugeot Partner van at the funfair gates, with “ADS Group” on the side. The driver was getting out on the opposite side, away from their view, and then they could see him walking towards the gates. He had a dark blue or black uniform, and the bomber-style jacket made him look like a prison officer. Waters raised the miniature binoculars first, and then swapped them for the camera. He managed one burst of shots on auto. They were side-view only and the light wasn’t as good as he’d hoped, but he had no doubt he had just photographed Michael Wortley.
Afterwards, Waters would remember the moments that followed. He had worked on the camera review screen, deleting some shots and keeping the best, while Betts sent a text to Greene telling him they had what they needed. All this took no more than five minutes, but they could have driven away first, out of sight of the funfair.
When he looked up, keys ready to start the engine, Waters realised that Wortley had only driven to a point just far enough inside the gates so he could lock them. Now he was walking towards their position on the inside of the fence, and from somewhere he had procured a step-ladder. If they pulled out now, he’d notice them and they would pass within a matter of yards of him, with only the wire mesh between them.
Betts was watching him too.
‘Bloody hell! What’s he up to?’
Waters said, ‘We’re about to find out. Start a conversation and look in my direction – I can keep an eye on him without being obvious.’
They needed to be a couple of men talking about something that in no way involved the funfair, apparently oblivious of the security guard who was now barely twenty-five yards away. Waters leaned back in the driver’s seat, so he could keep Wortley in his line of sight while he seemed to be looking at his companion in the car. He said, ‘There’s a CCTV camera mounted on one of the concrete fence posts. We didn’t spot that. I think he’s heading for it. Nod your head as if I’ve just offered you a job or a cheap, dodgy lawnmower or something.’
Betts did as suggested, and said, ‘Has he clocked us?’
‘If he has, he isn’t making it obvious. He’s reached the post and he’s going up the ladder. It looks as if this is a job he had planned, in which case we should be all right. Now he’s swivelling the camera around… He’s altered something on it. He has some sort of remote or control in his other hand, as if he’s checking it’s working.’
Betts performed some more vigorous nodding, displaying considerable self-control – he hadn’t once turned around to take a look. He said, ‘As long as he’s not taking pictures of us…’
Waters said, ‘I don’t think so. Whatever it was, he seems satisfied. Climbing down the ladder… Doesn’t seem to have spotted us… Now heading back towards the van.’
‘Thank God for that. Can I stop nodding now?’
Clive Betts read out the message from Detective Inspector Greene not long after they hit the Kings Lake road out of Hunston – ‘He says, give me a ring as soon as you’re clear of the observation point. He never sleeps, does he? I’ll call him now.’
Betts told Greene the entire story, including the unexpectedly close encounter at the end of it. There was a silence long enough for Waters and Betts to look at each other with raised eyebrows, and then Greene said, ‘Right. Does the camera you used have satellite or wifi capability?’
Waters shook his head, and Betts gave the answer.
Greene said next, ‘I need to see the pictures and get them into the system. How long will you be?’
Again, Waters told Betts the answer and there was another pause, as if even that was being noted down by the man on the desk.
Greene said next, ‘The CCTV camera that Wortley adjusted – how directional was the lens? Could you see? Any idea of the make of it?’
Betts turned to Waters and whispered, perhaps not quietly enough, ‘The make of it? He’ll be asking for a wiring diagram next!’
Waters indicated that the call should go onto speaker, and when Betts had done so, he said, ‘No, sir, no idea on the make. Do you mean, how wide was the angle of view?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sorry, we didn’t get that. Do they vary much?’
Waters wasn’t indulging or humouring the detective inspector, not at all.
Greene said, ‘Anything from forty-five to one hundred and twenty is usual but there are models with fields greater than a hundred and eighty. When you get in, we need to examine the site on Googlemaps, and you can show me exactly where you were parked. How long will you be now?’
Clive Betts muttered, ‘Three minutes less than the last time you asked.’
Waters shook his head and said to Greene, ‘No more than twenty minutes, sir, if the traffic’s all right.’
Greene said, ‘Good. Come straight up to the office.’
There was a cross drawn in felt tip on the screen, marking the place where Waters had parked the car. Detective Inspector Greene leaned in closer and peered, as if somehow he might be able to see the invisible fence post, the invisible camera and the manufacturer’s logo. Waters sat in the chair next to him, and behind were Clive Betts and DCI Freeman.
Greene looked at Waters and said, ‘And you don’t think he was aware of you?’
‘As far as we could tell, sir, he was not. Neither of us saw anything that made us think he was. We were in a line of parked cars, and there was nothing to make us stand out.’
Betts added, ‘He looked like a security guard doing what security guards do.’
Greene swivelled back to the screen, but did he just catch Freeman’s eye on the way round? Waters waited for a few seconds, and then said, ‘What are you thinking, sir?’
‘I’m thinking, Chris, about what you told us wh
en you came back from interviewing the major who obviously knew quite a lot about Michael Wortley. He told you Wortley was a scout for the Royal Anglians. A man who is good at getting into forward positions and gathering vital intelligence. Initiative and quick-thinking – I believe those were the words you used.’
Greene’s concerns made sense when you remembered that, but Waters was still as sure as he could be that the former soldier hadn’t taken any notice of the two men in the car parked across the road.
Then Greene swivelled back until he was facing Cara Freeman and said, ‘Ma’am? Obviously, it’s your decision.’
When something was critical, Waters had noticed, she spoke more slowly than usual, and she was speaking quite slowly now.
‘Regional made it clear. They wanted us to find him, verify that it is him, and then leave him in place, as long as we were satisfied he isn’t a flight risk. For reasons of their own, they don’t want to bring him in yet – and before anyone raises the point, yes, I have explained that Wortley himself is potentially at risk. Ours not to reason why. However, rather than lose track of him, I’m totally sure they would rather we brought him in. He must have considerable value to them, and I’m guessing it’s related to the sex-trafficking, not the drugs business. That’s why DI Greene is focusing on whether Wortley clocked you or not. At this point, we know where he is. Do we go back and pick him up? Or do we trust your judgement, and just drive by tomorrow night and make sure he’s still there? Because if we do that, and he isn’t…’
Her gaze fell on Betts and Waters.
‘Then someone has screwed up, big time.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
Waters really did have a problem with the first molar on the upper left. It had been twinging away at anything hot or cold for months and he’d been putting off going to see his dentist for the usual reasons. Before he made the appointment first thing that Thursday morning, he reminded himself that over the past five years he had only twice taken any time off work – one sore throat that left him unable to speak for a few days, and one twenty-four-hour bout of, as Smith might have put it, dramatic digestive disturbance. The dentist’s receptionist was as surprised as the patient to discover there was a slot available at five o’clock this coming Friday, which was when his hours for the week were due to end anyway, so this wasn’t even really taking time off work – his dentist was situated only ten minutes from Lake Central police station. He could attend the half-hour appointment, arrive home by six o’clock and then be certain of ringing Miriam’s doorbell at seven, as they had arranged.
Detective Inspector Greene had simply nodded when Waters told him, and apparently this was so trivial it wasn’t even written down in the day-book on the inspector’s desk; they all understood by now that the squad was actually under the command of this hardback A4 diary rather than of DCI Cara Freeman. It lay open on the desk and Waters, just to be absolutely certain nothing could occur to endanger that Friday evening date, was tempted to offer to put in the brief note about his appointment himself, as if seeing it in writing would make it incontrovertible that he would be gone from the office on time tomorrow afternoon. But that would have been step too far – the inspector’s suspicions would have been aroused. Greene might have asked to examine the tooth in question, and write down notes about possible courses of treatment.
The day before, on the Wednesday, the tension concerning the whereabouts of Michael Wortley was still present. There had been discussion of the best way to make sure he was still in Hunston after the camera incident, which everyone had been made aware of in the morning briefing. John Murray had a word with Eric Boyd, the uniform sergeant in charge at the small station in the town, and Boyd himself went out in an unmarked car and drove around the streets in the Queens Gardens area. He reported back that he could see no sign of an ADS Group van, and offered to put a couple of men onto it straight away – an offer politely but firmly declined by Murray after he consulted with Freeman and Greene. They also debated whether to approach the ADS office but a second call from the police about an employee was only likely to increase the risk someone would let Wortley know. Finally, last night, Serena Butler, who lived closest to the funfair site, had driven once down Seagate Lane, and had reported back that the van was parked just inside the gates as Waters had described it on the previous evening. She didn’t see Wortley but the relief was palpable at this morning’s briefing.
And so, when Detective Sergeant Denise Sterling took a call on her mobile at sixteen minutes past ten o’clock, no one took much notice at first. Their instructions at the briefing had been to have every t crossed and i dotted in the investigation into the murder of Neville Murfitt, who seemed, Waters had thought, to have been almost forgotten at times, as if he was only collateral damage in the war against organised crime. Freeman had said, ‘We need to be able to present everything to Regional yesterday. There will not be any hold-ups from our side when they finally decide to move their own case forward.’ Which, he’d reflected to himself, could be months away, unlike Murfitt’s funeral, which was to take place next Wednesday. Was anyone from the squad attending? Smith would-
‘Chris!’
Serena had had to prod his arm to get his attention. The room had fallen silent, and as he looked around he saw eyes going from him back to Denise Sterling. The detective sergeant was holding her phone in her right hand and covering it with her left, as if it was an old-fashioned handset and she could muffle whatever had just been said in the office.
He saw Freeman make a gesture they all now understood. With her left hand flat, she poked at it with her right forefinger, and then Sterling’s mobile was on speaker.
‘- put us in an awkward situation, I can tell you. But as you left your number here, I thought I’d let you know.’
Freeman made another gesture, a rapid circling with the fingers of her right hand to Sterling, which meant, you deal with him, he’s called you, not me.
Denise said, ‘Mr Davies, thank you, I appreciate you taking the time to call me. I need to get a couple of things clear. When did you get the message from Mr Wortley?’
The disembodied voice said, ‘Yesterday morning. When we opened the office, the van was parked in the yard. I-’
‘Mr Davies, I’m sorry to interrupt. You mean Michael Wortley’s van, the one he used for his security job?’
‘Yes. Someone said what’s that doing there. When we looked inside, it had the keys in the ignition. His uniform was there, neatly folded up, and various other bits and pieces. And the letter.’
Tom Greene was making notes, and Cara Freeman was staring fixedly at Denise Sterling. Waters waited for some seconds but she didn’t once look at him.
Sterling said, ‘Could you read what the letter says to me, Mr Davies?’
There were a few seconds while he found it, and during those seconds, Waters saw the detective inspector press record on his own mobile with a finger from one hand while he continued to write with the other.
Davies said, ‘Right. Here we are. It says “Dear ADS, my apologies but an urgent family situation developed overnight, and I had to leave immediately. I don’t expect to be back, so please consider this as my notice. I think I have returned everything. If not, please make the deduction from the wages you owe to me.” It is signed M Wortley.’
Now somebody was looking in Waters’ direction – it was Clive Betts.
Freeman said, in a very level voice, ‘Denise, ask him whether they’ve issued the van to someone else. Has anyone else driven it?’
The answer, of course, was yes. It was the van Serena Butler had seen parked at the funfair last night. Freeman said next, ‘Tell him we still want to see it, back in his yard in one hour. Tom, if it has company trackers, can we use those to map his journeys?’
Greene answered, ‘You mean to and from home, to give us an idea where he was living? Possibly. Some businesses track vehicles from the office as well.’
Sterling asked the question and was told yes, they had that infor
mation, and then Mr Davies, understandably, wanted to know exactly what Michael Wortley had done. Freeman made another decision then, and she took the phone from Denise Sterling. After making the introductions, she said, ‘Mr Davies, I’m not at liberty to tell you much, but I can assure you that Michael Wortley poses no threat to you, your staff or your business. However, we do urgently need to locate him again. Is there anything you or anyone in your office can tell us which might help?’
It was a desperate question. The atmosphere in the incident room was increasingly uncomfortable, and Waters had the sensation he was sinking, with no prospect of anyone throwing a lifebelt in the near future. But had that brief near-miss on the Tuesday evening led to this disaster? It hardly seemed credible.
Davies said, ‘I wish I could help… As we found out when your detectives paid us a visit, the address we had for him was wrong. When Paula tried to sort that out, she didn’t get anywhere. Let me have a-’
John Murray’s head turned towards Freeman, who was only a fraction of a second behind him. She said, ‘Mr Davies? Who is Paula?’
‘My PA. Why?’
‘What exactly did she do? How did she try to sort out the problem with Mr Wortley’s address?’
Paula was in the director’s office. There were muffled voices having a brief conversation, and then Davies was back on the phone.
‘Paula tells me she didn’t do anything on the Monday. When I was out on Tuesday giving a presentation, she saw the note on my desk about having the wrong address for an employee. Being the excellent PA that she is,’ – and every detective in the incident room sensed the reassuring look from Mr Davies to his worried-looking secretary – ‘she followed it up. In our business, we take the accuracy of employees’ records very seriously. I’m sure you understand that, inspector…’
Freeman had her eyes closed as she asked the next question.
On Eden Street Page 24
