Ethereum

by N C Mander

  ‘Any chance we can get Charlie subbed?’ Edison knew the question was futile.

  Kat shook her head. ‘Colchester’s got his teeth stuck into this and isn’t letting go. He was lead on the body in the box last year. And you know what he’s like. He’s obviously sensed that MI5 are sniffing around and worked out it’s got potential to be high profile.’

  Edison sighed, and his shoulders slumped, knowing that any cooperation from the Met on that side of the investigation had evaporated. ‘So where do we go from here?’

  Kat raised an eyebrow. ‘We aren’t going anywhere unless, of course, you fancy coming back to mine tonight?’ She laughed. Edison admired her confidence. Nothing seemed to phase Kat. ‘You are at the bank indefinitely. The finances are the key to unlocking this. I’ll be heading up to Grimsby tomorrow.’

  ‘With Colchester?’

  ‘Probably not. Tanya’s working on getting an officer onto his team, but it isn’t easy.’

  ‘Anything else I should know?’

  ‘You should know that I’d like another one of these,’ she said indicating her empty tumbler. Edison obligingly went to the bar to secure top-ups for them both. As they enjoyed their drinks, Edison filled Kat in on his first day at Penwill’s before the conversation moved to non-operational subjects. They chatted amiably about the office and Kat’s sister’s forthcoming wedding. Edison was enjoying the slightly hazy effects of three pints of beer when last orders were called.

  Without really thinking about it, he accompanied Kat back to her apartment where he stayed the night, waking early and dashing to Bethnal Green. He tiptoed into the flat a little before six, hoping not to disturb Tony. The ancient boiler rattled into life whilst Edison showered, and by the time he headed out the door thirty minutes later, there was a sliver of light under his flatmate’s door.

  *

  0501, Friday 30th June, Penn Street, Hoxton, London

  Kat had an early start, and she’d woken Edison at five. Once he’d gone, she showered and prepared for a day on the road. By the time Mo pulled his modern Mini into the car park, she had furnished herself with a large coffee to go. She’d dressed in jeans, sturdy walking boots and a thick jumper, over which she pulled a gilet. Mo sent her a text announcing his arrival, although she’d already seen the junior officer smoking a cigarette, leaning against his car as she’d busied herself in the kitchen. She pulled her hair into a ponytail and slipped a cereal bar into her pocket on the way out. Coffee in one hand, she grabbed a beanie hat with the other and quietly pulled the door shut behind her.

  ‘Good morning,’ she greeted Mo and look disparagingly at him as he stubbed out the cigarette under his foot. ‘They’ll kill you, you know.’

  Mo shrugged. ‘So will these bloody terrorists. I’ll take my chances.’ He slid into the driver’s seat. Kat got in on the passenger side and settled herself.

  ‘How long will it take us to get to Grimsby?’ Kat asked.

  ‘Satnav reckons three hours thirty. I think we can make it in under three.’

  ‘We better get moving then.’ Mo took Kat at her word and put his foot down. They sped through streets of north London, which were fairly quiet at that time of day, and were on the M1 in no time. On the motorway, Mo pushed the boundaries of the speed limit, and true to his promise, they were in sight of the Humber estuary shortly after eight fifteen.

  They parked the car a short walk from the main port building. Mo eyed the snack van hopefully. ‘Go on then,’ said Kat. Mo scurried off to join the short queue of workmen waiting for their bacon butties. ‘Mine’s white, no sugar,’ she called after him. Whilst she waited, Kat watched as vans and lorries manoeuvred out of the port. There were a few trawlermen returning from the night’s voyage, but most of the activity was from the engineers arriving to service the vast wind farms that now served as the main industry in what had once been the world’s largest fishing port.

  Mo returned with two steaming Styrofoam cups, and Kat accepted hers gratefully. ‘So,’ she said. ‘What do we know?’ They had made their way to the harbour wall and rested their drinks on it, looking out over the water.

  ‘The trawler is the Boston Jubilee.’

  ‘What do we know about the crew?’

  ‘Same crew as was interviewed after the body in the box. I went through the notes from the murder investigation which concluded that the crew had no idea what they were carrying in that crate.’

  ‘But Organised Crime was up here yesterday to talk to them about the drugs, right?’

  ‘Yes, with our friend, Colchester, too, apparently. The drugs squad brought them in – three men, all local, yesterday. That accounts for the crew but not the captain, a guy by the name of Jack Fleming.’

  ‘He’s disappeared?’

  Mo nodded. ‘From what I’ve heard, which isn’t much, I don’t have much of an in on Colchester’s team, very little has come from the interviews. They’re as ignorant about the drugs as they were about the body.’

  ‘Well,’ said Kat, draining her coffee and tossing the cup into a nearby bin, ‘let’s see what we can find out. We’ll split up. I’ll take a look at the main market. You head down to the docks and see what you can see.’

  Mo walked off in the opposite direction, humming the children’s nursery rhyme, A Sailor Went To Sea. Kat made her way casually through the fish market. There wasn’t much activity. ‘Can I help you, love?’ A grizzled dock worker approached Kat.

  Kat turned her most charming smile on him, ‘Oh yes, I’m a reporter for the Yorkshire Star. I’m doing a follow-up piece – One Year On From The Body In The Box.’ She motioned bunny ears for dramatic effect. ‘I was hoping to speak to Jack Fleming.’

  ‘Really, do you have to go stirring all that up again? He’s only just gone back to sea, a few weeks back. Poor bloke.’

  Kat pulled a small notepad from her back pocket and fixed her interlocutor with an intense look. ‘How awful. That long out of work. When exactly did he and the crew go back to sea?’

  ‘Well, where are we now? End of June. Must have been late May. It was a funny business that, with the Boston.’

  Kat sensed that her companion wanted to gossip, despite his earlier protestation, and offered him an inquisitive expression and said, ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Since they relaunched, they always seem to be picking up a new apprentice over in Europe. Every week, Jack is bringing another new face in.’ He paused assessing his audience, ‘They are always foreign. Pakis generally. Never see the same face twice.’

  ‘Can you tell me more about Jack?’ Kat encouraged him to go on.

  ‘Jack’s been skippering the Boston for years. Works with a fishery in Denmark, I think. He’s not been himself since his missus got ill a couple of years ago. Cancer, you know. She can’t work. They’re short of cash, that’s for sure. I think the apprenticeships might bring a bit extra. But he always looks on edge.’

  ‘How many apprentices do you think they’ve had?’ Kat asked.

  ‘The first one must have arrived about three weeks back, and since then, there has been a handful.’

  ‘How many is a handful?’ Kat pressed.

  He didn’t seem troubled by Kat’s curiosity and said, ‘Three, maybe four. Not sure what the deal was with their paperwork, but no one round here’s going to ask too many questions.’

  ‘The police were here yesterday?’

  ‘Yes. Couple of posh tossers from London,’ he said with venom in his voice. ‘Talking about drugs now. After all that with the murder a year ago, now they want to pin drugs on Jack and the Boston.’

  ‘Did they speak to you?’ asked Kat. ‘The police.’

  ‘Yeah, spoke to everyone, didn’t they? Not good for business. Poor old Jack. Sure, he had nothing to do with it, but it doesn’t look good does it?’ Kat shook her head. ‘Anyway, they’ll be landing soon, so you’ll excuse me if I get on.’ He headed off in the direction of the docks.

  Kat gave her new friend a good head start to get down to the docks and then
followed. There was much more of a buzz of activity than when she and Mo had arrived. The weather was bright, and the wind had picked up whilst she’d been inside. The dock workers were congregating in anticipation of the incoming fleet. Kat shielded her eyes against the sun and spotted Mo coming away from the water, battling against the offshore wind.

  ‘Find the Boston Jubilee?’ Kat asked.

  ‘Yes, couldn’t get too close. Surrounded by police tape and a local plod on guard,’ Mo said. ‘Not been in the force long. Had a quick chat.’ Mo grinned. ‘Most exciting thing that’s happened here in years, notwithstanding the body last year, so he was desperate to fill me in.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He said a chief inspector from London was up here yesterday, assume that’s Colchester, with another of his officers. They brought in the crew, but not Fleming who, in his words, “has done a runner”. Colchester spent much of yesterday questioning the crew. They’ve all three been remanded in custody.’

  ‘He arrested them?’

  ‘On some drugs charge, he couldn’t remember the specifics.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘There’s an “all ports” out on Jack Fleming, but they don’t think he’s gone far. Apparently, his wife’s in a hospice and hasn’t got long. You get anything useful?’

  ‘Possibly. Let’s go see how the catch comes in.’ The two officers set off and watched from a distance as trawler after trawler nosed into the dock. As each approached the landing stage, a noisy exchange erupted between the onboard crew and the workers stood on the dockside, pulling in ropes. Some boats unloaded crates of fish. The bigger vessels craned their cargo onto pallets, which were deftly manoeuvred on forklifts. Most of the crates went to the market building where Kat had just been. A few boxes were delivered straight onto waiting vans, which sped off as soon as their doors were closed.

  ‘So,’ Kat looked thoughtful. ‘Our theory is that the Boston was pressed back into action to smuggle in people has been corroborated.’ She relayed the headlines of her conversation with the dockhand to Mo. ‘So, we have to assume that these men, our “apprentices”,’ Kat found herself using bunny ears for emphasis again, ‘are making their way to London from here. I can’t imagine they’re just hopping on a train.’

  ‘I guess they could have been collected.’

  ‘Yes, and my money’s on one of those vans’ drivers.’ Kat indicated the fleet of transits into which box after box of fish were being loaded.

  ‘So, we need to find the driver,’ Mo said.

  Kat spotted the dockhand with whom she’d struck up a rapport earlier. He was hefting a crate of floundering fish onto the quayside. She skipped over to him, slipping back into character as a precocious reporter for a regional newspaper.

  ‘I’d really like to talk to some of John’s colleagues if I can.’

  He scowled at her. ‘You really shouldn’t be here. It’s not safe.’

  ‘Who took John’s cargo off his hands?’ Kat carried on, following him as he trudged back toward a pile of lobster cages.

  ‘You should have a chat with Damien. He usually took John’s stuff down to London for him. He’s parked up over there.’ He waved in the direction of an empty Ford Transit van, parked on the far side of the loading bay.

  Kat beamed at him. ‘Thank you so much.’

  *

  Mo stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette as Kat approached the Mini. ‘Ok, we need to talk to Damien. The driver of that Ford Transit.’

  ‘Shall I get Colin to sort us out with an address?’ Mo pulled out his phone and began tapping out a message with the registration number.

  ‘Ok, thanks, but I need you back in London with the Met. I’ll take the train home.’

  Mo nodded. He wasn’t enjoying the Met police liaison role he seemed to have been landed with. Colchester was notoriously tight-lipped and unhelpful on joint investigations.

  Kat looked at her watch. ‘How about a bite to eat and then you head back to London?’

  ‘Fish and chips?’ said Mo, his eyes brightening.

  Kat rolled her eyes, ‘When in Rome,’ and they set off in search of lunch.

  *

  After wolfing down lunch, Mo dropped Kat off at the address Colin had sent through. It was a bland, terraced house with paint peeling from the window frames and a cheap uPVC front door. Kat was relieved to see the Ford Transit parked on the opposite side of the street. She pressed the doorbell and heard a metallic rendering of Greensleeves announcing her arrival. A dog barked in one of the neighbouring houses. The door was opened by a man in his late twenties who offered Kat a wary smile. ‘Can I help you?’ Damien thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his bleached, ripped jeans as he spoke.

  ‘Might I come in, Mr Clough?’

  ‘Are you police?’

  ‘Yes,’ Kat lied and hoped that would be enough to gain admittance to Damien’s home. If he asked to see a warrant card, she was stuck. To her relief, he shuffled out of her way and indicated that she should come in.

  The front door opened into a living room, a moth-eaten three-piece suite crowded around a faux brick fireplace. On the mantlepiece, Kat observed pictures of the three young children. Colin had included a limited profile in the brief he’d sent along with the address. In some of the photographs, there was also a woman, Damien’s common-law wife, Tracy. Kat took a seat on the three-seater sofa without invitation and Damien perched on the edge of an armchair opposite.

  ‘Is this about the Boston?’

  ‘Yes, I understand you transport their deliveries to Billingsgate in London.’

  ‘That’s right, but I had no idea that Jack was involved with the drugs stuff.’

  He was anxious in the way that innocent people are nervous in the presence of law enforcement. Kat doubted it was a double-bluff and offered him a conciliatory smile. Deep cover hostile agents were trained to divert suspicion with such behaviour. Colin had dug up too much history on Damien Clough, Grimsby born and bred, to suggest he was anyone other than who he claimed to be. Kat pressed on, ‘I’m more interested in some of the passengers that have arrived in recent weeks.’ She let the statement hang in the air.

  ‘The refugees? What about them?’

  ‘How many men have you taken to London in the last month?’

  ‘Listen,’ Damien’s began to look agitated and his eyes flicked to the pictures on the mantlepiece, ‘I haven’t done anything wrong. I didn’t know anything about those drugs. And those men, well, I was just doing a favour for an old friend.’

  ‘For Jack?’

  ‘Yeah, for Jack. He just asked me to take these guys, refugees, he said they were, to London. Drop them at an address where they would be looked after by a charity. I didn’t like to ask too many questions. Jack’s been having a rough time lately with his missus being so poorly and … well … you know …’ He trailed off.

  ‘And if he was making a bit of money on the side, who were you to question it, right, Damien?’

  ‘Listen, that business last year nearly finished him off. Your lot did everything they could to pin the murder on him. It’s taken him nearly a year to get back on the water.’

  ‘I’ll need the address you took the refugees to. Just to corroborate your story.’

  ‘Of course.’ Damien pushed himself off the sofa and hurried into the kitchen. Kat followed, just in case he made a run for it out the back. He pulled a dog-eared piece of paper out of a drawer and thrust it at Kat. He glanced over Kat’s shoulder to the front door. He looked like he was hoping she would be leaving, but she had a few more questions.

  ‘Thank you for this. A couple more questions. Who did Jack Fleming get these addresses from?’

  ‘Damned if I know. He just gave me the address, and each time I would pick a guy up at the harbour and drive him to London. I’d drop him there,’ he nodded at the crumpled paper in Kat’s hand.

  ‘Then you would come back to Grimsby? You didn’t go on to Billingsgate?’

  ‘No. There hasn’t be
en any merch bound for London in the last month. The stuff I dropped yesterday morning was the first shipment since last June.’

  ‘How many men?’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘Did you talk to them?’

  ‘Not sure they spoke much English.’

  ‘Could you describe them?’

  Damien shrugged. ‘I guess. They all had brown skin, black hair, one of ’em had a beard.’

  Kat sighed. It was a generic description. She would get someone up here to attempt a facial reconstruction but didn’t hold out much hope. Maybe she could twist the Met’s arm to take care of that. She fingered the piece of paper in her hand. This, on the other hand, she thought, was cause for optimism. It was the first firm lead she had to VIPERSNEST’s location in the UK. She needed to get back to London. Quickly.

  ‘Thank you, Damien. One of my colleagues will be in touch.’ She turned toward the door and with one hand on the handle, added, ‘When did you last see Jack Fleming?’

  ‘Two days ago, when I picked up the merchandise for the delivery to London.’

  Kat left in the direction of the train station, pulling out her phone and sending an encrypted message through to Colin with the address. She itched to go and find the Boston Jubilee’s captain and interrogate him on the identity of his paymasters, but the address in her pocket would lead her team to the ticking time bomb. And the security of the thousands of Londoners vulnerable to a terrorist attack took precedence. Every time. The bigger picture would have to wait. VIPERSNEST was in London, and she had to find them before all hell was let loose.

  *

  Damien Clough closed the door behind Kat and dialled Jack Fleming. There was no answer. He decided to leave a message. ‘Jack, listen, I’ve had the police here. They’re asking about those refugees this time. Not the drugs. Might be best if you make yourself scarce for a bit.’

  He hung up.

  On the other side of Grimsby, the man in possession of Jack Fleming’s mobile phone dialled the voicemail and listened with growing anger. He deleted the message, removed the SIM card and threw the handset into the cold waters of the North Sea. The SIM followed the mobile into the icy depths. The man then made another phone call over a secure VOIP line. ‘Time to move,’ was all he said when the phone was answered. There was no reply.