Chameleon

by Michael K Foster

  ‘Yes, but I––’

  ‘Good, I’ll be with you in twenty minutes.’

  ‘Wait on a minute, I didn’t mention anything about––’

  Mason pressed the end of call button and shouted over to where DC Carrington was standing. ‘We need to move the boy,’ he said in a tired but firm voice.

  ‘Where to, boss?’

  ‘I’ll talk to you about it later. . . follow me.’

  Carrington jumped into action as they took off together. His mind already made up, Mason was on a mission and nothing would stop him now.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  David Carlisle was eating breakfast cereal when the front doorbell rang. Still trying to get his head around Mason’s early morning wake up call, the private investigator had searched all the local TV news channels to see if anything of interest popped up. It hadn’t.

  He answered the door.

  ‘Can I come in?’ Mason said, his foot firmly over the threshold.

  ‘You already are,’ Carlisle replied sternly. ‘What the hell is going on, Jack?’

  Mason turned and signalled towards the unmarked police car now standing on Carlisle’s drive. Confused at first, the private investigator stood flabbergasted as DC Carrington and young Martin Kennedy slid from the back seats and hurriedly ran towards his front door.

  No words were spoken, only smiles.

  ‘I know this is short notice,’ Mason explained, ‘but we need to keep Martin off the streets for a couple of nights – somewhere safe!’

  ‘What’s wrong with a local B&B, there’s plenty of those in the area?’

  ‘Nah. Bed and breakfasts are not the ideal place under the current circumstances.’

  ‘And what circumstances are these?’

  Mason looked on apprehensively. ‘Yavlinsky’s gone to ground and I’m concerned for the boy’s safety.’

  ‘What about the safe house in Seaton Sluice, I thought you had it covered?’

  Mason nodded. ‘We did.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The boy’s cover has been blown so we’re closing that part of the operation down.’

  ‘Great.’ Carlisle shrugged. ‘So now you want to get me involved?’

  They were inside and sitting around his kitchen table now, drinking coffee and catching up on the latest developments.

  ‘I know it’s a big ask, but until social services can come up with an alternative plan Martin needs to be kept out of sight for a couple of days.’ Mason looked at Carlisle sympathetically. ‘Before you even think about going there, there’s no way I’m going to lock him up in police cell twenty-four-seven. It’s not going to happen!’

  Carlisle gave his friend a withering look. ‘I’m a Private Detective, not a bloody foster mother.’

  ‘It’s only temporary––’

  ‘I know you of old, Jack. A couple of days becomes a couple of weeks and before you know it the boy’s a permanent fixture here. Besides, you can’t just dump him in a house on his own all day.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that aspect too,’ Mason said thoughtfully. ‘I was planning on DCs Carrington and Richie looking after him until we can come up with something more permanent.’

  ‘Oh, yeah! And turn my place into a full-blown operations room. It’s not going to happen, Jack. And you know it. I’ve got a business to run; clients to meet, meetings to attend and––’

  Mason held his hand up as he stared into empty space. ‘Trust me, it’s only a couple of nights.’

  It was Carrington who spoke next. ‘We’re in a tight corner, David. Besides, Martin’s no trouble and I know he’ll fit in perfectly here.’

  Carlisle looked at her pensively. ‘So, you’re in on this too? What about my welfare?’

  ‘I can always cook you breakfast,’ Carrington replied.

  Carlisle slumped back. ‘You’re forgetting, young lady. I’ve known his father for years and know what mischief his son gets up to. Isn’t that how we got into this mess in the first place?’

  Martin was playing games with Benjamin the cat when he turned his head sharply towards them. This was all about trust, and the young boy had obviously overheard their conversation.

  ‘If I do stay here, can we visit Marsden Grotto, Sue? There’s thousands of sea birds around Marsden cliffs this time of year, and the beaches are full of fossils.’

  Mason turned to Carlisle. ‘See what I mean, the boy already feels at home here!’

  Carrington’s phone rang, but she let it ring out.

  Carlisle cradled his mug in his hands and blew onto his black coffee. He knew it made sense, knew it was their best option, but he was struggling to come to terms with it. The problem was, once he agreed to Mason’s terms his property would be turned into a mini-fortress. There again, Carlisle thought. There was no way that Martin could venture outside the house, not with a Russian assassin breathing down their necks. Security would be tight, and everyone involved in the operation would be on the highest alert. Guns everywhere, surveillance cameras on every street corner, Whitburn village would never be the same again.

  The more he thought about it, the more he turned his nose up at the idea. Perhaps a police cell wasn’t a bad place after all. Surrounded by doting police officers all day, five-star room service, and as much food as the boy could eat.

  No, Carlisle thought, he would need to put his foot down.

  Mason glared at him. ‘Well?’

  ‘Two nights. That’s all.’

  Mason grinned. ‘Good. I knew you’d see sense.’

  ‘And after that?’

  His old colleague sat quietly thinking for a moment, but Carlisle knew what he was up to. Mason was pig-headed and that was the crux of the matter. Once the Detective Chief Inspector got his teeth into a problem, he couldn’t care less whose toes he trod on – just that he got the job done.

  God forbid, Carlisle thought. What had he let himself in for?

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Jack Mason was studying their faces: raised eyebrows, twitches, and the regular throat-clearing. Words were being muttered, but he could not make them out. He knew they were listening, but minds were elsewhere. Directly over his shoulder was a crime board full of post-its and new possibilities. Nothing was black and white anymore, and Yavlinsky had completely vanished without trace. Having broken into an adjoining hotel room and stolen a set of car keys, the Russian had made good his escape barely hours before they’d arrived on the scene. There had been dozens of raids on properties in outlying districts, but nothing of interest had shown up. He was out the somewhere, but where was the question?

  Then, through a gap in the team, he observed Detective Constable Manley. He was fiddling with his mobile phone as if texting someone.

  Get a grip, Mason cursed.

  ‘Something more interesting, Harry?’

  All eyes turned to the Detective Constable.

  ‘No, boss,’ Manley replied, annoyingly sucking on another humbug sweet. ‘I was Googling cross contamination, particularly secondary exposure.’

  ‘Crikey, I never realised you were into chemistry.’

  Titters of laughter broke out.

  A family man who doted on his kids, nothing ever fazed Harry Manley. The joker in the pack, he could talk the hind leg off a donkey, and invariably did. He did have a serious side, though, and one that habitually threw up some useful nuggets of information at times. Today was one of them, it seemed.

  ‘It’s a pretty fair bet that it was Yavlinsky who poisoned Stephen Rice, and that’s what got me into thinking about cross contamination.’

  ‘If there is any, don’t you think Special Branch would have already picked up on it?’

  ‘They might well have done, boss. What if they’re keeping it under wraps?’

  DS Savage looked at Mason with interest. ‘Harry has a point. Anything’s possible where Special Branch are concerned.’

  ‘If we knew what we were looking for it would be, but we don’t.’ Mason shrugged.

&nbs
p; Manley’s face darkened. ‘Well, if there’s the slightest forensic trace of it around on any of Yavlinsky’s past movements, it could prove or disprove his involvement.’

  Mason made a note of it, as Manley’s words lingered almost menacingly.

  Earlier that morning, having spoken to Superintendent Gregory about the latest developments and concerns, Mason was beginning to have second thoughts. Not that he was expecting an immediate answer, but at least Gregory had given him some sound advice about the boy’s temporary new arrangements. Now high on Yavlinsky’s priority list, this recent incident had sort of backed that conversation up. No, Mason thought. He had every right to ask David Carlisle for his assistance in sheltering the boy.

  It was DS Miller who broke the Chief Inspector’s thoughts. A member of NARTs – Northumbria’s Armed Response Team – Vick Miller had a keen eye and a cool head for detail when it came to tight situations.

  ‘These additional CCTV monitoring cameras we found at the Seaton School,’ Miller said.

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘At first, we thought the Russians had installed them, but it turns out the culprit is a well-known local criminal called Colin Glover. He was identified from fingerprints found on one of the camera lenses and brought in for questioning late last night.’

  ‘Has he told us anything?’

  ‘Not a lot. Glover is adamant these were legitimate installations he carried out.’

  Mason shook his head in disbelief as he exchanged glances with Miller. ‘What’s Glover’s connection with the Russian?’

  ‘There isn’t one as far as we can gather,’ Miller replied. ‘Glover was contacted by an anonymous third party and swears he knew nothing about any Russian connection.’

  ‘We need to work on it,’ Mason sighed.

  ‘One thing for sure, now that Glover is locked up in a police cell there’s no way these people can get to him.’

  Mason stood for a moment, thinking. ‘What about Glover’s phone contact details, anything show up?’

  ‘No nothing. As everyone suspected, Yavlinsky is obviously using a pay-as-you-go phone as a hotline and changing the SIM card after every call and text message he makes.’

  ‘If we can get hold of this third party that Glover contacted, his phone could open up a Pandora’s Box.’

  ‘That’s never going to happen, boss. Especially when Yavlinsky is operating over such a wide area with contacts far and wide.’

  ‘No, I suppose not. But we still need to look into it, nevertheless.’

  DS Holt entered the room and raised his hand to speak. He was wearing a Hi-Vis jacket and carrying a clipboard in his hand, and his face bore a look of resignation.

  ‘Yes, George?’ Mason nodded.

  ‘We’ve just received reports of the BMW stolen from the Marriott Hotel. It’s been found at the Washington Services.’

  ‘What about Yavlinsky?’

  ‘There’s a search party out looking for him as we speak.’

  ‘Heading south, was he?’

  ‘Hard to say, boss.’

  Mason’s eyebrows rose a fraction. ‘Anything else we should know?’

  ‘Yes. The two Road Traffic Unit officers present at the scene say there’s a black holdall on the back seat of the stolen vehicle.’

  Time to get involved, Mason thought.

  ‘Get hold of Tom Hedley. . . tell him to meet me there in thirty minutes.’

  ‘Will do, boss.’

  His mind full of possibilities, Mason grabbed his jacket and dished out a few hurried instructions on keeping the boy safe. He then swung to face the rest of the team.

  ‘Okay, everyone. It’s time to jump into action again.’

  ◆◆◆

  After taking the slip road towards Washington Services, Jack Mason could see the Road Traffic Unit Audi S3 blocking one of the lanes. He stopped in front of it and made himself known. It was then he noticed a small knot of officers gathered around a blue BMW. Its doors had been flung open, and someone had his head stuck under the bonnet.

  ‘Any sign of the driver?’ Mason asked, pulling up alongside it.

  ‘Nothing yet, sir,’ the officer replied in a broad Geordie accent.

  Mason gave a shake of the head. ‘Was the engine cold or warm when you found it?’

  ‘It hadn’t long been driven here.’

  Curious, Mason sat for a moment and weighed things up. All they had to go on was circumstantial evidence – a telephone call to a headteacher claiming to be a police officer wasn’t enough to press charges. If Yavlinsky was attempting to snatch the boy from under their noses, they would need to catch him in the act. This was no ordinary criminal they were dealing with, this was a professional at the top of his game. And another thought had crossed his mind that morning: what if they’d blown the lid on the security services surveillance operations? What then?

  No Mason, thought. He just wanted Yavlinsky off his patch – but how was the question. The more he thought about it, the more complex his task was becoming. This wasn’t a simple matter of arresting someone on suspicion of murder, there was more to it than that. In many ways it was down to the Joint Intelligence Committee to weed out the ring leaders involved in the money laundering scam – not his. The difficulty was, neither the Spanish authorities nor the Metropolitan Police could determine where and who had poisoned Stephen Rice for definite. They had their suspicions, of course, but nothing was cast in stone. Manley was right. Even if Yavlinsky had left a toxic contamination trail behind, Special Branch were dead against taking him out as the Russian was their main source of intelligence gathering. It was a vicious circle, and he would need to curb his enthusiasm and let those in higher office deal with the decision making. There again, he argued, it wasn’t in his nature to sit back and do nothing.

  Still deep in thought, Mason watched as Tom Hedley pulled into the empty parking bay opposite. Dressed in a dark blue suit, white button shirt and silk tie, the senior forensic scientist slid from the driver’s seat and calmly ambled towards them.

  ‘Having fun?’ Hedley announced, as he slipped on a pair of rubber gloves and stuck his head in through the open BMW driver’s door.

  ‘Harassed more like.’ Mason groaned.

  Hedley turned to face him. ‘Looks like the occupant left in rather a hurry.’

  ‘Spooked, I’d say?’

  ‘Probably, by the look of things.’

  After a moment’s consideration, Hedley unzipped the holdall, sat on the backseat of the stolen BMW and casually peered inside. Apart from a change of clothing and an old Pittsburgh Stealers baseball cap, there was little to spark his interest.

  Mason pointed to it. ‘Not a lot to go on by the looks?’

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ Hedley smiled, holding up a USB memory stick concealed in one of the holdalls side pockets.

  Mason drew back. ‘Good lord, that could be useful, Tom.’

  Dropping the USB into a clear forensic bag, Hedley pointed to the vehicle’s ignition. ‘He must have had a set of keys by the looks.’

  ‘He did. He stole them from an adjoining hotel guest room.’

  ‘That would account for it as this model is fitted with an excellent anti-theft security device.’ He watched as Hedley reached inside the glove compartment still looking for clues. ‘Our friend is becoming complacent. Either his mind’s elsewhere, or something is seriously bugging him.’

  Mason looked at Hedley confused. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘It’s strange he should take off and leave the vehicle unattended with his possessions stuck on the back seat, unless––’

  ‘What made you open the holdall in the first place?’

  ‘Just curious.’

  ‘What if it had been booby trapped?’

  ‘You’ve been watching far too many James Bond movies, Jack. These people have more sophisticated ways of getting rid of us if they need to. Besides, car bombs are mainly for terrorists nowadays.’

  Mason stood with his hands in his
pockets as a couple of onlookers were stopped at the police cordon tape. One of them was frantically waving his arms in the air and kept pointing to the northbound services. Seconds later, the young constable guarding the crime scene moved purposefully towards them.

  ‘Can I have a word, sir?’

  ‘Yes, of course. What is it, Constable?’

  He was young, Mason thought, fresh out of police training school but he still came across as capable. The constable turned towards the group of onlookers now standing behind the police cordon tape. He pointed at them. ‘A few of these people saw the driver get out of his vehicle and cross over the skywalk. He was last seen heading towards the northbound motorway filling station, but quickly disappeared from view.’

  ‘What else did they tell you?’

  ‘Not a lot. When I informed them that this was now a crime scene, they asked me to find out what was happening about their vehicles.’

  ‘Did anyone mention what the driver looked like?’

  ‘He wasn’t a tall man, balding, with a round rubbery face, excusing the expression.’

  ‘Sounds like Uncle Arthur,’ Mason smiled, turning to Tom Hedley.

  ‘Sorry, sir!’

  ‘It’s nothing, Constable.’

  The officer looked at him somewhat confused. ‘What shall I tell these people in the meantime, sir? They’re obviously keen to get back to their vehicles.’

  Mason thought about it. ‘We need written statements from anyone present who saw anything. Tell them we’ll deal with their vehicles in due course.’

  ‘Will do, sir.’

  ‘And well done,’ Mason acknowledged.

  As the constable turned on his heel, the anxious group of onlookers surged towards him but were quickly held back by a determined second officer. Mason felt sorry for them. Not until their investigations were finished here could anything be touched or moved.

  Hedley swivelled to face Mason. ‘In all honesty there’s not a lot more we can do here. I’ve arranged for the stolen vehicle to be taken back to the compound for further forensic examination, and––’

  ‘And the USB memory stick?’ Mason asked.