by Iain Cameron
The team were gathered in a corner when he entered the Detectives’ Room. He instructed Walters to summarise the previous day’s meeting with Simon Radcliffe, while he drank a long coffee infused with two shots of a morning reviver instead of his usual one.
‘You’re right,’ Henderson said when Walters had finished, ‘if Radcliffe hadn’t come under the wing of John Carlisle, the Lancashire businessman Radcliffe cites as his mentor, he would have become a gangster like his friends. It’s not so far-fetched when you consider studies done in America and Australia found that many senior executives of top companies display the same psychopathic tendencies as the criminals we put behind bars.’
‘I knew you had to be a nutcase to become an MP,’ Harry Wallop said, ‘but I never thought it would apply to the heads of big companies.’
‘You don’t have to be crazy to work here,’ Lisa Newman said, ‘but it helps.’
‘Okay, let’s move on. Vicky, how did it go with Oliver Lee? Is the strimmer thief banged-up in the Custody Suite?’
‘No,’ she said smiling. ‘He isn’t. He’s admitted taking the chainsaw and the strimmer, but said, and produced a receipt to prove it, the chainsaw belonged to him. He’d lent it to John Beech, but it had never been returned.’
‘I’ve got the same sort of neighbours,’ Wallop said.
‘Lee said he didn’t need the chainsaw over the summer and let the loan slide, but when he went into the house to check on the plants, he saw it and thought he’d better take it back before Kayleigh sold it.’
‘What about the strimmer?’
‘The one item he took that didn’t belong to him. He said he would be happy to return it, or give Kayleigh the money for it, he’s not fussed either way.’
‘I hope you gave him a stern warning, one you must have given out hundreds of times as a PC, about taking things not belonging to him.’
‘Yes, guv, I did.’
Henderson could see how this had played out. Walking into the house next door knowing the owners would never be returning would put temptation in anyone’s mind. Lee would think Kayleigh might take a few things, perhaps the stereo, computer, TV, and even the odd dress or pair of shoes, but she wouldn’t miss any tools or gardening equipment.
It was a sad fact that often the things people collected over a lifetime had little value in the real world. Trying to sell old furniture, clothes, crockery, and beds was a thankless task, as anyone involved in clearing out their deceased parents’ house would attest. Oliver Lee was a smart guy and would be aware of this. Kayleigh had spotted the absence of the strimmer and chainsaw, even if one of the items really did belong to Lee, but what else did he take?
‘Good work, Vicky. I don’t think we need to deal any further with it, do we?’
‘No, guv.’
‘I’m glad we’ve got that one cleared up. I’ll await Kayleigh Beech’s grovelling apology for accusing some of you of theft, but I think we might be waiting a long time.’
‘She’s probably downstairs now,’ Neal said, ‘demanding you throw Oliver Lee in solitary.’
‘It wouldn’t surprise me. Where are we with finding Robert Saunders?’
‘He’s gone off the grid,’ Sally Graham said, ‘not surprising when a couple of gunmen are trying to kill him. He’s not at his ex-wife’s house, his ex-partner’s place, or his former place of work, which he left over ten years ago, and no one knows where he is. The last car he owned appeared at a car auction three months back and was bought by a woman from Luton.’
‘Call Melissa at the farm and see if she can tell you if he’s stayed there before. See if she can tell you anything about him.’
‘Okay.’
‘Also, we know he’s got a record. How long since his last offence?’
‘About three years, if my memory serves me well,’ Neal said. ‘Assault on his then wife, Jasmine something.’
‘Saunders?’
‘Thanks for that deep insight, Sally.’
‘This means,’ Henderson said, ‘we’ve got a copy of his DNA and prints on file, something to compare with when we finally catch up with him. I’m not sure his mug-shot will be representative after so long a time, but have copies circulated to the usual places. We need to find this guy.’
‘Will do.’
‘Maybe,’ Walters said, ‘circulating his photo will put him in more danger.’
‘It’s a good point, but I don’t think so,’ Henderson said. ‘If we were running a newspaper appeal, which we are not, it could scare him into doing something stupid, but no one will be aware of the pictures in the hands of patrol officers.’
‘I’m thinking more about bent cops working with whoever is seeking him.’
‘It shouldn’t make any difference. Bent cops would have his picture in any case, and probably a more up-to-date version than the one we have. That aside, if a patrol car does spot him, they’ll tell us first, and we won’t make his location public knowledge.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘Okay,’ he said, squaring up his papers, ‘if there’s nothing else, I’ll see you all at six.’
Henderson returned to his office and was about to start on some paperwork, when CI Edwards came in. When her husband walked out over the Christmas period, she seemed to deteriorate before his eyes. She took little care of her hair, her clothes often looked crushed, and her eyes took on a haunted look. There was even talk of her leaving the service altogether.
Now, six months later, she seemed to be returning to her old self. It wasn’t only the result of a new man on the scene, but he suspected she’d realised how important her work was to her, and now approached it with renewed vigour. Perhaps it also had something to do with rumours suggesting she was in line for the vacant Chief Superintendent role with the Anti Terrorist Branch of the Metropolitan Police. Not only an important policing position, but one involving much exposure to the media, an area in which Lisa Edwards excelled.
‘Morning Angus. How are you today?’
‘Feeling better now we seem to be making progress on the Black Quarry Farm murders.’
She took a seat in the visitor’s chair; Henderson returned to his chair behind the desk.
‘It’s good to hear. I’ve just had the Police and Crime Commissioner on the line.’
The PCC was a civilian, one for every police force, and responsible for overseeing its operations to ensure they were meeting the needs of the local community. The Sussex PCC was a former Brighton city councillor, who throughout her career had taken a keen interest in policing and, in her dealings with the force so far, was considered by most officers to be fair-minded.
‘Don’t tell me, Kayleigh Beech has been talking to her.’
‘They had lunch together.’
‘Oh my God.’
‘Quite, and she makes some serious allegations.’
‘About some items missing from her parents’ house?’
‘Yes.’
‘The bitch! I told her there was an innocent explanation for each missing item.’
‘Which is?’
‘Some on the list, unknown to Kayleigh at the time, such as the laptop, were taken to the farm by her parents. This has already been explained to her. The other pieces were the result of a neighbour taking back some gardening equipment that belonged to him, plus an item which didn’t. He’s been told to talk to Kayleigh about the extra item. Nothing, I repeat, nothing, was taken out of the house by any of our detectives.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. Making spurious allegations against our officers makes her, in my book, the lowest of the low.’
‘The annoying thing is, she knew most of this before leaving the interview room, and I warned her about repeating such unsubstantiated allegations in public.’
‘It’s just a shame I didn’t know this before I spoke to the PCC, it might have knocked her off her high horse. I mean the PCC and Kayleigh Beech.’
‘It couldn’t be helped. I only found out about her neighbour’s actions this morning.�
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‘How’s the investigation going?’
‘I told you about Robert Saunders?’
‘The guy who booked the farmhouse, but cancelled at the last minute believing people were after him?’
‘Yes. Although we won’t know the full story until we’ve had a chance to talk to him, but considering how hard it’s been to try and track him down, it only reinforces my view about him being the intended target.’
‘It’s a horrible thought, isn’t it? You book a week away in the country in an attempt to salvage a failing marriage, although we now know Lara was about to ask for a divorce, but through some ghastly error, they are both killed in a hail of bullets.’
‘I agree, but I’d like to know why someone is going to such lengths to try and kill him.’
‘It has to be something serious. What have you found out so far?’
‘He’s forty-seven, born in Hackney. Was married to a woman called Irene for twenty years, divorced five years ago. Two kids, both grown-up boys.’
‘Where does he work?’
‘The only name we’ve got is a haulage firm he worked at over ten years ago. We’re still trying to find a more recent employer.’
‘When you do, it might give you some clue as to what this is all about. Mind you, I’m pretty sure a tax or National Insurance number search won’t tell you that he used to work for a firm of drug pushers or gun manufacturers.’
‘My feeling is he must have been mixed up with a group of serious villains. Maybe they decided to kill him because he threatened to go to the cops, stole some of the loot, or was trying to set up on his own account.’
‘Or he killed or maimed one of their associates. It has to be something big for them to go to all the trouble of tracking him down and sending two shooters to Black Quarry Farm.’
‘The question is, will we get to him before the killers catch up with him?’
TWENTY-THREE
Most of his fellow travellers on the underground train trundling its way towards Victoria would think the hot, smelly, noisy carriage was the pits, but Robert Saunders loved it. This was his first time in the city since going on the run, and it felt like returning home. He walked out of the station wary but happy, and made his way along Victoria Street.
In order to make a new start in life, he had to take some risks. In the scheme of things, the chance of him being seen by them today was minimal. It was easy to find a man of his description in a small town in Surrey, but much more difficult to spot him in a city of over ten million people.
Here, he could remain anonymous, as neighbours in apartment blocks didn’t know one from another, nor could they tell a visitor the name of the person occupying the flat above or below. If someone was hawking his picture around, they would get the same response.
He should have thought of this earlier rather than hiding away in soulless housing estates where neighbours with young children had nothing better to do than discuss the new guy in Dean’s old house. He would move soon, but first he had to set the wheels in motion on his new identity.
Saunders walked, his eyes casting left and right, but the volume of information received was overwhelming. He had every right to feel paranoid, but here in the heart of a great metropolis, filled with office workers taking their lunch break, shoppers heading for the shopping centre, and construction crews in their yellow hats, he couldn’t.
He walked into Mail Boxes Etc. and, after showing the guy behind the counter his ID, picked up the package waiting for him. What he wanted to do now was walk into Costa, order a cappuccino and a Danish, and sit at a table like a normal person and take a look at his new passport. Instead, he walked out of the door and retraced his steps back to Victoria Station.
The underground train back to Waterloo was busy, even at this time of the early afternoon, but the South Western Railway train to Leatherhead less so. Making sure he wasn’t overlooked by a fellow passenger, he tore the wrapping off his package. To most people, the dark web was full of scarred, fat gangsters and geeky blokes with big glasses, their gaze fixed on screens of rolling computer code, but this delivery came in stout packaging which would have made Amazon proud.
The originators may have been operating an illegal business, but the connection between them and legitimate internet companies was the word ‘business’. If they sold shoddy goods, or the package fell apart in the post and revealed its contents, the blogosphere that existed on the dark web would rip their amateurish operation to pieces.
He pulled out his new British Passport in the name of Luca Tardelli. It was the same as had been depicted on his computer screen, a man who looked like him, but with sufficient differences to allow him to change his appearance. He was no expert on passports and would be nervous the first time it was scanned by a Border Force computer, but it looked genuine, with no smears, marks, or indistinct typefaces. He would compare it to the real thing when he got back to the house in Leatherhead.
It didn’t mean he would venture abroad at the first opportunity, unless of course, they got closer to him. He would take the adoption of his new identity one step at a time. Once he was comfortable with his new look, he would open a bank account, then apply for a credit card, and deposit some of the money hidden away in a suitcase upstairs, the rest secreted in a lock-up in Bermondsey. Only then would he consider going abroad. Perhaps a ferry to Holland would be the first test, but it was too far in the future to give anything so adventurous serious consideration as yet.
When he exited the train at Leatherhead Station, he hung back to read the notices on the board, as if waiting for a connecting train. A few minutes later, he pushed open the doors at the front of the station and took advantage of his elevated position to take a look around. It was hard to see anything unusual. Leatherhead was tucked firmly in the middle of the commuter belt and there was a steady sea of office workers, students, and mums with kids moving towards or from the station.
He started walking along Leret Way, a route taking him past the rear of the Swan Shopping Centre. Further on, he passed the pub he’d been drinking in the other night, his single attempt at feeling normal. It was a hot day towards the end of June and the clothes he’d decided to wear, to give him some element of cover, bomber jacket and hat, made him feel too hot. They were now squashed into the small bag he carried; so much for being discreet. A bounty hunter with Saunders’ picture displayed on his phone and mounted on the dash would now spot him in seconds.
He made it back to his house without incident and when finally closing the door, realised he was sweating. His shirt was sticking to his back and he knew it wasn’t all due to the heat of the day. At this rate, it would soon take its toll on his health, but he was comforted by the presence of the new passport lying at the bottom of his bag. In the space of only a few weeks, Robert Saunders would disappear and Luca Tardelli would step out in his place.
He made coffee, sat down at the kitchen table, and surfed the web for a couple of hours. He was looking at clothes, trying to decide if he could dress younger without people taking a second look and saying to their partner, “Why is that old geezer dressed like a teenager?” Luca Tardelli sounded to him like an Italian name, and Italian men had a certain panache he wanted to replicate.
The young guys wore pastel-coloured polo shirts, a sweater draped over their shoulder, figure-hugging trousers, and loafers without socks. Older men dressed smarter, with a nice shirt or crew neck, jacket or blazer, jeans or trousers, and perhaps an expensive-looking pair of boots.
Could he pull it off? He was forty-seven, with fair hair that seemed to be receding faster than a spring tide and a face which could only be described as quintessentially English: fair-skinned, as if never exposed to the sun, and exhibiting a pasty hue, suggesting undernourishment or a bad diet.
He shut the laptop, unconvinced he would feel comfortable making the change, but determined to do so; his life depended on it. He removed a pasta dish from the freezer, Chicken Peperonata Radiatori, a delicious fusion of pasta a
nd red peppers, topped with chicken, mozzarella and rocket, according to the card surrounding the carton. He maybe didn’t look like an Italian on the outside, but if he ate more Italian food, at least he would feel more like one of them on the inside.
When the food was ready to eat, he spooned it on to a plate, placed it on the table, and unfolded the newspaper he’d bought. He sat down to eat, turned the pages one after another, but couldn’t find anything about the shooting at Black Quarry Farm. At the time, he couldn’t get enough about the story, trying to find out if the police had any clue about the shooters. Now, he was fearful of finding his picture there, as a man ‘wanted for questioning.’
He could, of course, turn himself in and receive protection. He could name the two people he believed had carried out the shooting at the farm, while at the same time, exonerate himself from any involvement in the crime. What he couldn’t walk away from was the one-point-five million he’d stolen from his employer, and his personal connection with nefarious activities going back over the previous ten years. This was the reason he couldn’t go to the police.
He spent the evening watching television. Not the regular stuff, as he hated adverts and the news, but Netflix, kindly provided by the thoughtful house owner. There, he discovered a box set about Mexican drug cartels. It was so addictive he only realised he was tired when episode three began to download. He turned it off and headed upstairs. For once, he felt tired going to bed; the unaccustomed walking he’d done on hard pavements had sapped his energy.
He got into bed and started reading a magazine he found downstairs and, despite it being an interesting story, he couldn’t maintain his concentration. He turned off the light and went to sleep.
Some time later, he woke. He realised something must have woken him, as he had been in a deep slumber, his head feeling woozy as if he’d spent the evening downing the best part of a bottle of wine. He thought back to his previous altercation in the garden a few night’s back; was the dirty bastard who had barrelled into him hiding in the bushes again? He lay there too tired to get up, half listening for a noise, and half drifting back to sleep.
