‘Sounds ominous.’
‘Yeah. The address you gave me is no good neither. The last known occupant was a builder who had some tenuous links to drugs money. He was allegedly washing the money through his firm. That address apparently is one of the places he was doing up at the time. There’s no suggestion he actually lived there so he might have sold it straight off or he’s still the landlord. His name is Frank Nicholl. Never been convicted of anything, there’s just that intel from eighteen months ago.’
‘What about Alice and her sister?’
‘No hits. I didn’t expect there would be. In relation to Alice, immigration have a similar vetting process to us — it’s all very strict. I can’t find a sister or a Jake linked to her either. From the other databases I can tell you that Alice is registered to vote at a previous address and the DVLA believe her to be driving a Renault Clio.’
‘Understood. I’ll have to see what I can find out when I get there.’
‘You will. Basic detective work I call it,’ Ryker chuckled.
‘You’ve taken that to heart, haven’t you?’
‘Not at all, George. I’m just happy you chose to let me in on the secret.’
‘Let me know when you get back to the office with regard to this MET intel, if there’s anything of interest there about our Polish friend.’
‘Will do. I’m still sat outside Shaun’s ex-wife’s house. This shouldn’t take long.’
‘Speak soon.’
George came to a full stop at a junction then he took a right, followed by a sharp left at The Smugglers pub. He then had to take it slowly to manipulate the winding road through ancient looking cottages. Alice’s address had to be just around the corner. He killed the lights.
* * *
Nackington Road was on the outskirts of Canterbury. A good area. Big family homes within walking distance of the city centre. These would cost a pretty penny. The drive on Shaun Carter’s long-time family home was steep and it swung around a palm tree bedded into white stones. All very classy. It was a big place, detached with a double garage jutting out of its side. A brand-new Volkswagen Golf sat on the drive. Emily checked and the registration matched the car that was registered to Carol Carter. She stepped into an open porch and rang the bell.
No sign of movement.
She walked around the ground floor at the front as best she could. Every visible window had horizontal blinds, all were turned at the same slight angle. Enough to see into the house but only if you wanted to study the flooring. It was all very frustrating. She continued her walk. the Volkswagen was locked and there was nothing visible on the seats or in the boot. The garage was also locked. A gate connecting the garage to the house didn’t budge and Emily found herself back at the front door, again ringing the bell. She lifted the post box but could see nothing through the thick, black bristles.
‘Fuck it.’ She looked around. The front of the house was completely shrouded from the neighbours. The road out the front was busy but the traffic was fast moving. No one was taking any notice of her.
‘You’re not the only one who can get things done, George Elms.’ Emily often talked to herself when she was solving problems. The solution today involved dragging one of the wheelie bins over to the gate and standing up on top of it. It was a little unsteady but she managed to pull herself up onto the flat roof of the garage where she could drop down the other side.
The rear garden was in keeping with the property as a whole. It was large, neat and perfectly maintained. She walked past a rock garden with water slithering through it. There were two back doors, one was a long bi-fold style door that ran half the width of the rear and the other was a more standard back door on the side of the house. Emily faced another problem. Once again, she talked herself through it.
‘I call this the George Elms key.’ With that she threw the largest rock she could manage at the glass panel of the back door. It cracked the outer pane and bounced off. Emily swore. She picked it back up and tried again. The glass took another few blows before she was able to push through and spin the key from inside to unlock it.
The perfection of the house continued on the inside. Emily felt like she was walking through a show home. She did a quick tour. She wanted to be sure there was no one in the house first — and no nasty secrets. Then she started looking more for things that might assist, without really knowing what they might be. She found herself searching the kitchen first. Always the heart of any home, she noted the calendar, it was busy with handwritten notes including one for yesterday that said simply: football. The work surfaces were tidy, the cupboards containing nothing more than neatly stacked cutlery and cooking implements. Emily stopped to think.
‘What sort of a freak doesn’t have the standard bung-everything-in kitchen drawer?’ No paperwork, no nothing. She paced through to the hall; there was a telephone table on the left side, against the stairs. ‘Who still has one of these!’ she said. She pulled out one of the drawers, a leather-bound address book lay on top. She opened the cover. The front pages were labelled emergency contacts and an address was handwritten with mum and dad next to it. Even the handwriting was neat.
‘Some people have got too much time on their hands.’ Emily read out the address as she noted it — ‘Marybee, Crete Road, Langthorne’.
She did a second spin of the property and made her way out of the front door. The house had revealed next to nothing. Maybe the parents would be able to provide something more useful.
Chapter 25
George made it to the address and noted the Renault Clio on the drive. He pulled the car up hurriedly out on the road, jogged the distance to the front door and knocked firmly — then backed away to take in the frontage. He took a few paces to the left and peered through a window into a bedroom. He moved back to the front door and banged again, harder still. He tried the handle on the door, it was unyielding, as if it was double locked. He moved to the window to the right of the door but thick curtains were pulled across and he couldn’t see in.
Still no movement at the front door. He moved to the right side of the house. There was a six-foot gap around the bungalow, a wooden fence separating the plot and a gate that cut across half way up. It was locked too, but easy enough to scale. He dropped down the other side where he found himself in front of a side window that was high up in the wall and circular — more for show than for purpose. He peered in. He could see into the kitchen but the angle was restrictive. He moved around to the back, where he cupped his hands against the patio doors so he could cut out the reflected light.
He saw the blood first: smeared on the floor and the cupboards, thick and crimson around the island in the middle; a fiery red on the white units. Then he saw the movement, low down and on the right side. He stepped back as something threw itself hard against the back door. George stepped back and peered in. He could see a wide-eyed male lying on the floor and facing out, his legs stretching away. One of them was damaged, his ankle twisted at an absurd angle. The man frothed at the mouth and his hands were covered in blood. George watched as he scooped more gore from the floor and wiped it across his forehead. His lips were moving as he mumbled something indiscernible, then he threw his head firmly against the door. His face opened up — a split above his left eye that bled instantly.
What the fuck was going on? George backed away from the door and looked around for another way in — other windows, perhaps. Then there was another thud from inside. As George turned, he saw that the man’s wild eyes were still fixed on him, his mouth still moving as he babbled incessantly. George stepped back to the door and got close to the glass.
‘What’s your name?’ he shouted. ‘You’re hurt! I can help you!’
The man smiled then he turned his back suddenly. He dragged himself off to the other side of the room and crawled out of sight into a room off the kitchen, maybe a utility room. George tried the door handle again but it wouldn’t budge. The man’s legs reappeared. He seemed to be crawling slowly backwards as if he was
dragging something — something heavy. He had a handful of something that looked like straw. George flattened himself against the glass to see more clearly. The straw was blonde hair and the man had a big handful. George watched as he yanked it hard. A girl’s face came into sight. Her eyes were opaque and lifeless.
Fuck! George recoiled from the door and stumbled off the step. Then he leaned forward again immediately; he wanted to be sure what he was seeing. He rattled the door again, hopelessly, and the man reacted to the sound. He let go of the girl’s head as if it were a piece of meat. He turned to George, his lips moving quickly, his face a gleeful smile.
George turned to see what was around — anything he might use. There was a small shed directly behind him. The clasp was held shut by a large screw pushed through it. The shed’s contents were sparse: some flower pots of differing sizes and materials, some old deck chairs, an old metal fence post with an untidy mass of concrete clinging to its base and a rusty gardening fork. He grabbed the fork and threw it towards the door of the house. Then he picked up the post. The concrete made it heavy and cumbersome but he was able to lift it so it rested on his shoulder, the mass of concrete just behind his ear. He lugged it to the back door. The man was still lying down. He was caressing the girl’s face, mopping up blood from the floor and painting it on her.
George swung the pole forward as hard as he could, keeping hold of the metal pole as the concrete lump crashed into the glass, opening up a wide hole. The man stopped what he was doing, he looked over as if he was mildly curious. George swung again. There was no key in the lock and he had to make a hole big enough to step through. He threw the post away and it ploughed into the garden. Then he scooped up the garden fork and stepped into the kitchen.
‘You can’t beat the devil!’ the man growled, his face contoured in fear, his eyes focused, unblinking, on George. He got to his knees, his right leg still flapping useless from the shin down He tried to put weight on it and fell back to the floor. He couldn’t get up for now, seemingly oblivious to any pain. George stepped in and moved closer, keeping the fork held out in readiness.
‘You don’t know the devil!’ It was more of a screech this time. The man blew bubbles in the white froth gathered around his mouth. ‘He’s coming for me!’
George stepped closer. The girl was clearly dead. Her left side was coated with dried blood, her skin waxy and washed out, her lifeless eyes staring up at him. Another body was visible: a young man lying on his side and facing George from the utility room. There were puncture wounds on his bare chest. The blood made it difficult to see how many wounds, but there were a lot. The attack must have been frenzied. George could still hear the madman screeching as he persisted in trying to stand. He knocked over a kitchen stool, which crashed to the floor. George checked the rest of the house. He had to open doors to do it. Everywhere else was pristine. No sign of any disturbance. He returned quickly to the kitchen. There was no one left to save.
He pointed the rusty fingers of the fork downwards as he entered; his grip was one of readiness. Somehow the man had managed to stand, his left hand smeared blood on the kitchen top, his right foot twisted underneath him, forming an awkward base. He’d picked up a kitchen knife, small but sharp-looking. He held it firm in his right hand.
‘I won’t let him,’ the man whispered, his teary eyes fixed on George.
George stayed far enough away. ‘I can help you. Let me help you,’ he soothed.
‘I won’t let him. Not like that!’ Then the man screamed, a guttural scream from deep in his soul as he turned the knife on himself and forced it hard into his chest.
‘No!’ George shouted. He stepped forward, but the man pulled the knife back out and blood spurted from the wound. He roared as he brought the knife back into his chest again and started to rock. George stepped back to let him fall as the shouting was replaced by a rattle from the man’s chest. He fell forwards, his head sideways at George’s feet. He blew a crimson bubble from his mouth. Then all the noise stopped.
Chapter 26
‘Do you want the good news or the bad news?’ Emily sang. She was happy with herself.
‘Bad time, Ryker,’ George responded, morosely.
She knew straight away something was very wrong. ‘What’s happened, George?’
Emily had practically needed to pass the police station to get to Carol’s parents’ house. She had taken the opportunity to swing in to read the intelligence the MET had provide about Nowak. She had been excited at the result, but now that had been swept away in an instant.
‘Three dead up here, Ryker. I fucked up.’ The shock in George’s voice was clear. ‘I should have called this in earlier. It’s like hell on earth up here.’
‘Fucking hell, George! Shaun?’
George took his time. She could hear him sniffing over the phone and his voice cracked as it came back. ‘No. Shaun wasn’t here. He must have left before I got here. I think he took Alice. But her sister and boyfriend are dead. I think it’s her sister at least. There’s pictures of Alice and her guy on the wall. Jesus, Ryker, they look so happy.’
‘Fuck, George. What happened? Do you want me to come up?’
‘No. I’ve called Whittaker.’ George’s voice sounded more composed. ‘I brought him up to date. The whole world is on its way up here.’
‘Three dead? Who else if it isn’t Shaun?’
‘I think it’s Jake — Alice’s sister’s boyfriend. He was hurt when I got here, Ryker, but he was on something. His head was absolutely gone — I’ve never seen anything like it. He was like a wild animal. But terrified, absolutely terrified. I don’t know what’s going on. I think Jake did all this. He stabbed himself in the chest right in front of me.’
‘I’ll head up. I can pick you up.’
‘Don’t. I have a car. I’ll come away as soon as uniform get here. What’s your news? We need to find Shaun, before this gets any worse.’
‘I’ve got a little more on Nowak. I’m not sure it helps us find Shaun in the short term. It just gives us more of an idea of what we’re up against overall. The MET sent me what they have on him and what’s he involved in. He was on their watch list — he’s part of an OCG that’s being run as a Level Two concern.’
‘Level Two? For big fish?’
‘Yeah. It’s what Intel call the “proper criminals.” Level Twos don’t get policed by the likes of you and me — all the intelligence around them is kept away from anyone with only standard clearance. They use undercover resources and grasses to help build a case over time so that when they take action they can get some serious custodial sentences.’
‘So Nowak is a big fish?’
‘No. Not at all, I don’t think. But he’s on the coattails of bigger fish. The man we know as “Tee” down in Lennokshire is Benjamin Tremaine. He’s a legitimate businessman on the surface but he was arrested a couple of times with regard to some complicated frauds ten years ago. Nothing that stuck, but he made a lot of money it would seem. Now he runs a property company, but there are long held suspicions that he’s controlling a drug empire. Covert teams have been on him and they have him in our county a lot over the last few months. The latest intelligence shows him linked to a white Transit van and a silver Mercedes S Class. I did some ANPR work. Specifically I ran a convoy analysis using the details for the Vectra and for these vehicles. What do you think I found?’
‘That they’re in convoy.’
‘Not in convoy exactly, but the Vectra has hit six times in the last twenty-four hours — all in the Langthorne area. And on four of those occasions the Mercedes has hit within ten vehicles. And always heading in the right direction.’
‘So this Tremaine has been following Shaun about?’
‘Well, vehicles linked to him have. They’re both hire cars. He may well have minions doing his dirty work for him. The hire car company is based in Dover — Castle Hires. This company has intelligence of its own linking it to Tremaine’s drug supply and money laundering, according to the MET.
They’ve not done many enquiries there for fear of spooking them, but they’ve been counting them in and out. There’s a shit load of car registrations here. You can be sure they’re both being used by this Tremaine. You can’t easily leave the area without pinging ANPR at some point. The Transit van has far less hits but I reckon it’s still in the area.’
‘So we should assume one or both are going to be wherever Shaun is?’
‘Yeah. Maybe the Transit with Shaun’s wife and kid in the back — ready to hand them back when he does what he’s asked?’
‘Maybe. And what happens to Alice for that to happen?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I think I do,’ George said.
‘I’ve nominated them both on ANPR, with the same silent marker. If they hit, I’ll get a call.’
‘No, Ryker. We’re past that now. Put it out on general. Let’s have ANPR and marked units all looking out for them. We need that van. I reckon keeping that van and Shaun apart might be the only way of preventing anyone else getting hurt. That’s assuming they haven’t met already.’
‘Understood. I’ll get it broadcast out to everyone.’
‘Do that. When Whittaker gets here I’ll ask him to call up and put his weight behind it. We need to find that van, Ryker. It’s all that’s left.’
‘Understood.’
‘How did you get on at the ex’s house?’
‘All locked up. The car was on the drive, the house is immaculate. All I got was her parents’ address and I intended on going up there to see them after checking in here. I figured they might be able to give some background that could be of use.’
‘How do you intend to play it with the parents?’
‘I was just going to ask them a few questions about Carol. See if she’s in a new relationship, that sort of thing.’
‘They don’t even know she’s missing, Ryker, don’t forget that.’
‘Shit! You’re right, I’d forgotten.’
‘It’ll be a massive shock to them, too, Ryker. The parents will need to be managed carefully.’
The George Elms Trilogy Box Set Page 19
