In the Red Corner - Volume III of the Operation Jigsaw Trilogy

by Hayden, Mark

  ‘Interesting. Fleetwood is very close to Blackpool, unless I’m much mistaken. Have they got cause of death yet?’

  ‘The post-mortem results came in today: a heart attack. Apparently he left his pills and his phone at home when he went out. He had a massive angina attack and just died. Time of death is consistent with shortly before the time that Mrs Lynch reported him missing several days ago.’

  ‘Presumably he wasn’t driving the van. How did he get there? Was he picked up at home?’

  ‘No. He took his Jaguar, and that’s missing. There’s been too much rain since he disappeared to check for tyre tracks at the scene. There’s an alert on every traffic camera in the country for it.’ She flicked through the notes. ‘Wallet still in his pocket. No bruising or other signs of a struggle. The consensus view is that he went to a rendezvous, had a heart attack, and whoever he was meeting just left him there. And stole his car.’

  Hayes looked into the camera, her report concluded. Tom rubbed his chin. ‘What do you think?’ he asked her.

  She echoed his gesture of stroking her chin, though presumably she hadn’t felt any stubble when she did so. ‘Well, Tom, if you’d asked me that question six months ago, I would have said, “If it quacks, it’s a duck.” By that, I mean the official story is overwhelmingly the right one.’

  ‘But you don’t think so. Why?’

  ‘The phone and the pills. They were on the kitchen worktop, near the back door. You couldn’t miss them if you left the house. You and I both saw him having an attack. That man knew he was just a few seconds from death without those pills. I can’t see that anything would make Patrick Lynch leave the house without them.’

  ‘Neither can I, Kris … but I don’t know what it all means. Thanks. That’s good work. I’ll see you at the Earlsbury Park Country Club on Wednesday night, if they’ll still allow me to stay there after getting the place turned over.’

  ‘Use a false name, I would.’

  Tom thought about it. That wasn’t a bad idea. ‘Thanks. I’ll book us in under Leonie’s name. She’ll be there overnight and seeing the chief constable with me on Thursday. She wants to meet you.’

  Hayes frowned. ‘Are you sure she’ll let us get on without any interference?’

  ‘I’ve got to trust her. No alternative. But she did make a good first impression.’

  Hayes’s mouth twitched upwards in a smile. ‘I’m sure she did. Sir.’

  He tried to give her a baleful look, but he doubted that it came over on the screen. They disconnected, and he went back to the fireside. He lay face down on the rug and dropped off to sleep. It was the most comfortable place in the house.

  Of course Kate had heard of Consolidated International Security, but she had never expected to be walking through its doors. Their London office was close to her flat, but the look was very different: CIS occupied the whole of a three storey building where the top two storeys thrust out over the pavement, like a fighter sticking out his chin before a bout.

  She could see a large and comfortable reception area beyond, but all visitors and staff first had to pass through the security lobby first. This area was unusual in having two guards who enjoyed their work, and who spent quite some time verifying her identity and checking with Skinner’s office before admitting her to the warmer zone within.

  She had to report to a second desk inside, and was issued with a photo-ID just for this short visit. ‘Please wear that on top of your jacket so that it’s visible at all times. You will be stopped if it isn’t.’

  The lanyard on Kate’s pass was red. Members of staff had attractive purple ones, and more favoured visitors were given blue, they told her when she asked. All of them had CIS running through the fabric.

  Skinner’s assistant appeared very soon afterwards, and surprised Kate by being a man. She said nothing about that, and neither did he. They went through a secure door, and into a small meeting room. ‘Red badge visitors can’t be left on their own,’ he explained, while they waited for Skinner.

  ‘Good job I don’t want to go to the ladies room.’

  ‘Yes, it is. For some reason, women find it difficult to pee when I’m standing at the cubicle door.’

  Kate flushed bright red and her bladder gave a spasm of sympathy. She couldn’t stop herself crossing her legs.

  ‘That’s why we’re meeting down here,’ said the assistant. ‘Saves me having to give you the body search.’

  Skinner appeared, and his assistant left with a parting grin that Kate did not reciprocate.

  Her host placed two cups of coffee on the table and said, ‘Let me guess. You’ve just had the cubicle door conversation. Don’t worry: if you really need to go, one of the girls will accompany you. It’s safe to drink the coffee.’ He took a sip of his own and continued. ‘Now you know why I prefer to meet people off the premises. Much simpler, and the added benefit is that you won’t appear on any surveillance tapes. Either our own or our competitors’.’

  ‘It also means you can keep jobs off the books.’

  He shook his head. ‘If you do a little digging you’ll see that Andrew A. Sinker is listed as chief executive of CIS. Anthony Skinner is just a small variation of that. I don’t want the Yanks poaching my best people: they often have a camera on our front door.’

  Tom would have found all that out before taking a job with Skinner because he hated loose ends. ‘I don’t think you can count me as one of your best. Not after Hong Kong.’

  ‘On the contrary. You have great promise, Kate, but I’m wondering if I wasn’t pushing you in the wrong direction.’ He took a piece of paper and passed it over. ‘Would you do a job like that? It’s based on a real operation, by the way, but some details have been changed.’

  The paper was headed:

  URGENT FIELD MISSION. PESHAWAR. PAKISTAN.

  She skimmed over it.

  Client: Landowner sympathetic to Pakistani government.

  Problem: Son kidnapped by forces linked to Pakistani security services.

  NATO Response: None.

  Mission: Seek and rescue.

  It sounded like the scenario for a spy film, but she knew the reality of life in Pakistan. It was all too plausible. The fee mentioned was astronomical, if the son was returned unharmed. No alternative fee was mentioned.

  ‘I can tell from your face that it’s not your cup of tea,’ he said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘But what if you had been ordered to support that mission by gathering intelligence on radio traffic in the area?’

  ‘Remotely?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘An order is an order. We spy on Pakistan all the time.’

  ‘And what if you had been asked to support our mission when it became clear that the lad was being held in Afghanistan?’

  She hesitated. Her team had regularly supplied intelligence to the Afghan National Army. They also supplied it to the American PMCs at work in Kabul, but they did not lay intercept devices on other people’s behalf. ‘That’s getting a bit too hypothetical. I couldn’t say.’

  Skinner retrieved the paper from the table. ‘Vinnie said Yes, and so did Gareth Wade. They both provided support to CIS operations in Iraq and Afghanistan. Your visit to Pembroke was very enterprising, Kate, but Mrs Wade was in touch with me before you got back to your hotel.’

  She sat back, stunned. The implications of this were enormous. Serving soldiers and airmen were using public resources to assist private companies – and being paid for it. This must have been approved at a high level. Was it corruption or deniability?

  Her mind baulked at the implications of what she’d heard. Going to Wales had taught her just how much she was on her own. Skinner’s show of strength today with his high security fortress made it clear what she was up against. She settled for something more important to her life and her peace of mind.

  ‘What about Squadron Leader Clarke?’ she asked.

  ‘I know Conrad.’ The smile on Skinner’s mouth showed that he wasn’t lying. ‘H
owever, as he’s still very much alive, I can’t comment on his involvement in any operation. You could always ask him yourself.’

  ‘Not without a truth serum. That man tells tales for fun. I wonder if he even lies to himself about what he’s up to.’

  ‘A good point. I can tell you that no matter how hard you look, you won’t find any payment from this company or any of our associates to Squadron Leader Clarke, and that’s not because we’ve hidden them. They simply weren’t any – until this summer.’

  ‘Kabul? The helicopter pilot training?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I can ask him when he gets back. That’ll be an interesting conversation.’

  ‘He’s already back. Contract’s over – and again, I can be honest: I have no idea of where he is or what he’s doing right now.’

  Kate finished her coffee and turned the mug round with her finger until the handle was pointing at Skinner. ‘What about me?’

  ‘Have you any objections to Dublin?’

  ‘No. I’ve always wanted to go there. What’s up?’

  ‘There are a lot of companies headquartered there for tax reasons, especially digital ones. Our client had a data leak a few months ago, and their product turned up on the internet for sale to the highest bidder. They asked us to investigate, and our hacker found that the crooks had accessed the system using authentic credentials.’

  ‘In other words, it was an inside job.’

  ‘Yes.’ He pushed the file across to her. ‘You’ve got a flair for investigation. They want to know which of their employees let the bad guys into the vault.’

  ‘On my own?’

  ‘Yes. This is an official CIS operation, so you can draw on all our resources here if you need them. Take as long as you like when you get there, but you need to start on Monday.’

  She looked at the file. Pinned to the top were her fee and expense limits. ‘Book me into somewhere nice, and I want four days at home every fortnight.’

  ‘Deal.’

  They shook hands, and Skinner escorted her to reception. One of the women on duty upgraded her lanyard from red to blue and put all her details on the system.

  Chapter 7

  London – Fylde – Earlsbury – In Prison

  Wednesday–Saturday

  24-27 November

  It had been a long time since Conrad Clarke had owned a vehicle of any kind (he wasn’t counting the poor little Micra he had driven into Croxton’s Mercedes). He spent some time in the guest room of his Notting Hill flat (there being a tenant in residence) and decided that the only option for life on the Fylde peninsula was a Land Rover Defender – the old fashioned kind that farmers use. He tracked down a relatively new model at a dealer close to his new home and started packing.

  On the way to Euston, he called at a self-storage unit and arranged for a wooden crate to be shipped overnight. Then he caught the train to Cairndale.

  Between the city of Lancaster and the county town of Kendal lies the river Cowan. Its waters form the border between Lancashire and Westmorland, and straddling its banks is the town of Cairndale. Clarke had never been there before, and it was well into the evening when he arrived. The Midland Hotel was opposite the station; he was soon asleep in one of its beds.

  He made one stop in the morning before completing the purchase of his new vehicle, then drove down the A6 towards Preston, turning right before the city and making his way to Fylde racecourse. The racecourse entrance was wide, and had pillars more suited to a country estate than a racing venue. As his Land Rover climbed up the slope, he realised why, and stopped to take in his new base of operations.

  Fylde racecourse is built on a plateau above the Ribble estuary, and on the north side runs the railway. Horses were unloaded there, and on race days the excursions from Blackpool and all over the North West would disgorge the punters who filled the stands. None of this was visible from the south, where Clarke was staring up at the Fylde Gentlemen’s Sporting Club.

  Where the plateau sloped down to the river, a monumental five-storey classical building had been constructed. At its rear was the grandstand for the finishing line: from the front it was supposed to be a haven for local gentry and professional men with rooms and restaurants open all year. Clarke had read that Jennings and his son-in-law had rescued it from ruin and turned it into an upmarket spa – now known as the Sporting Hotel.

  Impressed and bemused in equal measure by Victorian excess, he continued towards the front and was directed to a modern extension on the left, concealed from the road by trees. He was expected.

  Two hours later, he was ensconced in Will Offlea’s cottage, surrounded by ledgers and notebooks. He was going to have to put his plan into action a bit quicker than he had intended.

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ said the waitress at Earlsbury Park, ‘but the Christmas menu doesn’t start until next week.’

  ‘That’s a relief,’ said Tom. ‘I’m sure we’ll be fine with the normal menu.’

  The waitress looked amazed that guests wouldn’t want roast turkey in November, but she said nothing and poured their water. Tom was finding it hard enough to cope with the enormous artificial tree that had appeared in reception since his last visit.

  ‘I see from your expense forms that you’ve been here a lot recently,’ said Leonie. ‘What would you recommend?’

  ‘Anything but the steak. Unless you have the rib-eye, and you need a big appetite for that.’

  Kris had barely spoken since she had joined them at the table, and she made eye contact with Tom rather than the deputy director. She kept sneaking glances at the senior officer, mostly when the older woman was brushing the hair out of her eyes. Here was an example for her – a woman who had risen through the ranks and achieved a senior position without being openly aggressive or loud. Except, of course, that Leonie was a white graduate from London, not a black football player from Earlsbury.

  When the manager brought the wine list, Leonie looked brightly at the other two and suggested a bottle of Australian Chardonnay. ‘Not for me, thanks,’ said Hayes, in something close to a mutter.

  ‘Me neither,’ said Tom. ‘I’m on enough drugs as it is.’ He wasn’t, but didn’t want Hayes to feel even more left out than she already was.

  ‘Okay,’ said Leonie. ‘Run it by me again. Who’s on your list of suspects, and why?’

  ‘It comes down to John Lake,’ said Tom. ‘He’s the security liaison officer who came to BCSS – it’s the big police station where we were based. Lake told us about Benedict Adaire and his Republican connections. The man in my car – the bomber – quoted verbatim from what Lake said. Therefore, the person we want must have been at both meetings. The phone call to Griffin was made from Victoria Hotel, and they must have heard Lake speak as well.’

  Leonie nodded, ate some of her food and then put the knife and fork aside. That was how she stayed so thin. Hayes looked nervously from her plate to the other woman’s. Tom carried on eating as heartily as he could manage.

  ‘There are other possibilities,’ said Leonie. ‘For example, one of the people at Lake’s briefing could have talked to someone else.’

  ‘That’s true. Given the serious nature of the information, I think there would have to be a very close working relationship between them, though.’

  ‘Or there could be two people. One who did for Griffin and one who tried to do for you.’

  ‘I hope not: it’s too implausible. One bad apple, yes – but two completely rotten ones? Don’t forget, the bomber is intimately connected with the counterfeiting. I agree with you about the possibility that someone talked, but I still think we should start with people who were in both meetings.’

  She nodded her agreement and turned to Hayes. ‘You’ve worked here longer than Tom. What’s your view of these people?’

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, I’m only a DC. We don’t have much contact with the senior officers.’

  Ouch. She shouldn’t have said that, and Leonie’s expression made it very clear. She
shifted her chair very slightly to focus even more on Tom.

  They finished their meal with speculation about how much the government was going to cut from police budgets, and Leonie stood up to go to the bar. ‘Join me for an orange juice, Tom?’

  ‘Yes. No ... I mean can you order a pot of tea?’

  Leonie’s expression said that it would be a very short drink in the bar if Tom was going to be drinking tea, but she nodded and left.

  When she had gone, Hayes gave a small smile. ‘Thanks for trying, sir. I appreciate that.’

  ‘Trying what?’

  ‘Trying not to make me feel even more left out of the evening than I already was.’

  ‘I’ll butter her up tomorrow. Don’t worry. Look, Kris, will your mother be at home when I pick you up tomorrow?’

  ‘Yeah. What on earth do you want to know for?’

  ‘Can I come ten minutes early? I need someone to put a new dressing on, so that I can wear a shirt. It wouldn’t do you any good to see me half naked.’

  She didn’t know what to make of that, but she nodded, and then – on an impulse – she reached up to peck him on the cheek. ‘Welcome back, Tom, and congratulations on your promotion. I hope Leonie hasn’t eaten you by the morning.’

  In the bar, his tea was steeping nicely, and Leonie was checking her phone. When he sat down, she put the phone away and leaned on the back of the booth next to him. ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ she said.

  ‘In Earlsbury Park? It’s quite good value, and there aren’t many alternatives.’

  ‘No. I meant that you shouldn’t be in CIPPS. I was on holiday when Sam Cohen recruited you, and there should have been a proper interview. It was naughty of the boss to let him get away with it.’

  The clip was back in her hair; the blue eyes were steady. Tom looked back at her. ‘There aren’t many good coppers wanting to join CIPPS, and you know that. Cohen is a mate, not a close friend, and I don’t owe any loyalty to him, only to the job. I won’t embarrass you, let you down or stab you in the back. That’s a promise.’