by Adam Croft
66
Two weeks later
‘And it’s definitely Buryakov?’ Hawes asked, already knowing the answer but hoping it might all just be a horrible mistake.
‘Afraid so,’ Culverhouse replied. ‘What’s left of him, anyway. On the plus side, we don’t need to worry about a trial and there’s no way he’ll be running any more sex trafficking rings.’
Hawes shook his head. ‘They’ll just find someone else to do their dirty work for them. There are always more than enough people who think they can earn a few quick quid by bending the rules. Good news is they’re unlikely to try setting up in Mildenheath again, anyway. I’ll make sure neighbouring forces are aware of what’s been going on.’
Culverhouse shuffled awkwardly. ‘I might leave out the bit about the stakeout if I were you.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Hawes replied, shooting daggers at him. ‘I was going to. Although, it’s got to be said the place would still be operational if you hadn’t done that. Our job is to protect and serve, and at the very least we’ve managed to get those boys out of there and into safety. We’re going to need to identify more of the people involved, though. The two runners PCs Andria Fliska and Elaine Smith spotted still haven’t been caught. They might not even been in the country anymore. ’
‘Home Office been sniffing around the lads we rescued?’ Culverhouse asked, presuming the lads would now be deported back to their home countries.
‘Not yet, but it’s only a matter of time. We’ll need to report them to immigration, but let’s let the dust settle first, eh? They’ve been through enough for now. Besides which, we need to keep things a little low key. We don’t want the press getting wind of this. Speaking of which…’ Hawes opened his desk drawer and pulled out that morning’s newspaper.
Culverhouse looked at it and immediately recognised the photograph of Martin Cummings. ‘Blimey. Front page. Just where he always wanted to be.’
‘Must be a slow news day.’ Hawes paused for a moment. ‘The NCA have been sniffing around the Buryakov incident.’
Culverhouse clenched his jaw. The National Crime Agency was the UK’s main agency against organised crime, and as such was bound to want to lead any ongoing investigation. ‘And?’
‘And they’re going to take over.’ Hawes raised a placating hand. ‘I know you’re not going to like it, but there’s not a whole lot we can do. Buryakov’s dead, the lads from the brothel are safe and the top guys are on the case. You know as well as I do that this ring goes a lot further than Mildenheath. It needs national eyes. International ones, most likely. They can look at the bigger picture and really make an effort to bring the whole ring down — including its leaders.’
Culverhouse shrugged his shoulders. ‘Won’t hear any complaint from me. I don’t particularly fancy waking up with a horse’s head on my pillow. I’ll stick to the local murderers if that’s alright with you.’
Hawes smiled and chuckled. ‘That’s more than alright with me, Jack. That’s more than alright with me.’
67
Three months later
Mikhail Gushkin was starting to miss his yacht. He yearned for many things, but the Mediterranean sun was the least of his worries right now.
He watched out of the window of his Cessna Citation X as the ground got ever-closer, the runway coming into view just as the jet touched down on the tarmac. The aircraft had set him back a cool $29 million once all of the added extras had been included, and it was his pride and joy. He was only sorry that he wasn’t able to fly it himself. At least it was better than having to share a plane with a hundred or so other people.
The Buyrakov incident was but a distant memory, and he’d been back out on his yacht twice since then. He consoled himself in the knowledge that he’d be back out on it again in a few weeks’ time, and could almost feel the sun on his back as he thought of it.
He switched his mobile phone on and checked the screen. Good. There was nothing important. He’d meet his driver, get taken home and enjoy a glass of wine in front of the television. Mikhail didn’t watch much television, but tonight he was going to indulge himself. After all, what was all the effort for otherwise?
When the plane had come to a standstill, he walked to the front of the plane, checking his hair in the mirror before leaving down the steps onto the tarmac. A smile was just about to break out across his face, but it was halted by the sight of four men in suits walking towards him.
‘Mikhail Gushkin? My name’s Stephen Randall. I’m from the National Crime Agency. I think we need to sit down and have a little chat, don’t you?’
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Acknowledgements
This book took far more time and effort than I had anticipated, and its completion is down to my wonderful support team.
Thank you to my two serving local police officers who wish to remain anonymous but assisted me with inane research questions and ensuring I got police protocol and procedure as realistic as possible whilst ensuring my plot could proceed.
Thank you also to the firearms officer who cleared up a few details in the raid scene towards the end of the book. I realise your anonymity is important, but that does not diminish the huge thanks owed to you.
Thanks must also go to PC Kristina Davidson for her superb information regarding Scottish police procedure and cross-border cooperation, particular in relation to the recent changes in legislation. I’m genuinely grateful for your time and for the excellent information you provided, and sorry I ignored most of it.
Thank you to my friend Nica for kicking my arse on a regular basis and making me get the book finished and to my son, James, for making such much noise that I felt I had no choice but to lock myself in my office and work.
There are probably lots of other people who’ve helped and provided information during my research, but I appear to have neglected to keep a list of them. This is the disappointing bit where you realise you’re in the ‘thanks to everyone else’ clause.
So, yes: thanks to everyone else.
