‘I’ll get the Tech Crime Unit to fast track it through their system.’
‘That could be useful, Tom.’
Hedley shrugged. ‘Who knows?’
‘It must be of some use I would have thought.’
Hedley pointed to a familiar figure fast homing in them. ‘It would appear the vultures have already got a sniff of the dead carcass by the looks.’
‘Shit.’ Mason whispered under his breath. ‘Christopher Sykes. I wonder where that sleazebag got his information from?’
The newspaper reporter exchanged glances as if itching to say something. Not very well liked, an edge of irritation entered Sykes’ tone as he brushed the flecks of dandruff from his jacket. ‘Good morning, gentlemen. Care telling me what this is all about?’
Mason almost burst out laughing. ‘Run out of petrol, have we?’
Sykes eyes narrowed a fraction. ‘No, my tank’s completely full as it happens.’
‘How can I help?’ Mason asked.
‘Is this the BMW that was stolen from the Marriott Hotel?’
‘It could be. Why do you ask?’
‘Anything to do with this Russian agent that everyone is talking about?’
Mason’s heart sank. How could Sykes have possibly known all that?
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
The Cumberland Arms wasn’t open for business, but the side door was unlocked. Having managed a broken night’s sleep, Jack Mason had arrived there early that morning and was seated in a back room. Still with unfinished business to attend to, he was hoping his informant would show. He’d lost all track of the cases he’d worked, but this one was testing his patience. But sometimes new lines of enquiry emerged from nowhere, and the lucky breaks just happened.
The lounge door opened, and a short man appeared. He was holding out his hand, and Mason shook it.
‘How are you keeping, Inspector?’
‘Fine. And you?’
‘Had a few nasty scares lately, but I’m still managing to stay clear of the wooden box.’
The Chief Inspector smiled. There were two potential candidates on his “want to talk to list” and Ronnie Flanigan was one of them. Mason’s eyes narrowed as he checked his surroundings. For a moment he was back at David Carlisle’s house in Whitburn and thinking about the boy’s safety. Police work was all about contacts, people who lived on the edge who could tell you what you wanted to know.
‘How’s the missus nowadays?’
‘She’s fine,’ Flanigan replied chirpily, ‘she finally packed in her little part-time job at the local supermarket. It was her hands. . . full of arthritis. We’re still managing to make ends meet, but only just.’
‘Keeping out of trouble, are we?’
‘Trying my best, Inspector.’
Formalities over with, Mason reached into his pocket and pulled out a photograph of Yavlinsky taken at Heathrow Airport. He pointed to it. ‘I have a little job for you, Ronnie.’
Flanigan stared at the monochrome image and shrugged. ‘Never seen him before. Who is he?’
‘His name’s Grigori Yavlinsky, but he may go under a few different names.’
‘What’s he been up to then?’
‘It’s a long story and I’m tired of telling it. Besides, no one bothers to listen to me anymore.’
‘Try bending my ear, Inspector.’
Mason filled him in with the details. Not about the Russian banking scam, more on the barrister’s suspicious death. The press had been silent these past few weeks owing to a high court action taken out on reporting restrictions, so most of what he was telling him hadn’t reached the streets. Flanigan seemed keen, and Mason was encouraged by it. Besides, his informant was well connected, and valuable information could save him a lot of legwork and time. It was a fine balancing act but compared to policing overtime rates it was a quick and cost-effective method of intelligence gathering.
‘So,’ said Flanigan. ‘What is it you’re wanting me to do?’
Mason explained. ‘Yavlinsky travels light and pays good money for other people’s services.’
‘Better rates than you’re offering, no doubt?’
‘Sod off.’ Mason groaned. ‘It’s me who’s kept you out of trouble all these years. . . remember?’
‘Try telling that to the missus.’
Mason nodded. ‘You need to be mindful that Yavlinsky’s a dangerous individual to deal with and may have connections with the Russian mafia.’
‘Big fish in little ponds are easier to spot.’ Flanigan laughed. ‘What’s on your mind, Inspector?’
‘I need you to find him for me.’ Mason handed him an envelope stuffed with money. He took it and shoved it into a pocket – quick like. ‘When you do find him, you’re to ring that telephone number. Don’t get involved, leave that to us.’
Flanigan hunched his shoulders – a habitual stance that told Mason he was interested.
‘What’s this guy’s main interests?’
Mason pointed a finger at Flanigan as he played on the informant’s heartstrings. ‘This isn’t for general knowledge, but there’s a ten-year-old boy depending on you finding him for me.’
He told him more but chose not to elaborate.
‘This must be the kid who saw this barrister commit suicide, I take it?’
Mason nodded. ‘Yes, but that’s as far is it goes.’
‘I guess the kid’s a key witness?’
‘No more questions, Ronnie.’
In a way Flanigan was never a bad crook, just one of life’s losers. In and out of prison most of his life, he’d finally grown tired of the disruptions. He’d recently been diagnosed with terminal cancer and was desperately trying to put his house in order before the big day eventually arrived. He knew he could be trusted, and a little extra cash wouldn’t go amiss in the Flanigan household budget right now. It was a no brainer as far as Mason was concerned, and he was happy to oblige.
Flanigan rounded on him. ‘Give me a few days, but I can’t promise you anything.’
‘Stay safe, Ronnie. Don’t get too close to this man!’
‘It’s not my style, Inspector. And you know it.’ Flanigan cocked his head to one side as if to make a point. ‘Talking about staying safe, a little bird tells me you had a narrow escape yourself a couple of months back.’
It was Mason’s turn to laugh. ‘You know me, Ronnie, it’ll take more than a madman to put me down in a wooden box.’
Flanigan gave him a haunting look. ‘We all have to face up to it someday, Inspector. It’s one of life’s inevitabilities.’
Mason guessed what Flanigan was driving at and decided to level with him. ‘Stay out of trouble, Ronnie. Find Yavlinsky for me, and I promise to look after you and the missus when the going gets tough.’
Time was running out for Ronnie Flanigan, and the informant knew it. Not the best of situations to find yourself in, Mason thought. At least Flanigan now had a purpose in life, and a decent wodge of money in his pocket to enjoy a few extra luxuries. Life could be cruel at times, but some people had nothing but bad luck all their lives, and Flanigan was one of them.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Northumbria Police Headquarters, home to the sixth largest police force in England and Wales, was just a thirty-minute drive from Seaton Sluice. Located on the outskirts of Ponteland, a district north of Newcastle, it was one of Jack Mason’s old stomping grounds. He still had a strong affiliation with the place, although he was glad to see the back of it if the truth was known. But he was here for a reason. A sighting of Yavlinsky had been reported, and it could be of major interest.
Clearing security, DCI Mason and DS Holt were met at reception by Detective Inspector Swan. After brief introductions, together the three plain clothed police officers moved at pace towards the rear of the building. All kinds of emotions tugged Jack Mason as he walked along the long narrow corridor – both good and evil. He’d been in this kind of situation before, and inside this very building come to think of it.
The o
ld operations room looked exactly as he’d left it, and that was almost three years ago. He wondered where time had gone and realised just how short life really was. Close to the back wall he caught a glimpse of his old glass fronted office, and his emotions were running high. Except for the sign on the door which read: DETECTIVE INSPECTOR ARCHIE SWAN, very little else had changed. There were no smiley face stickers attached to windows like the good old days, though. Swan was ex-military, a disciplinarian who ran his team with an iron rod. Having spent several years on active counterterrorist operations out in Afghanistan, he even had the office desks meticulously lined in a neat and orderly military fashion.
The moment he stepped into his old office, Mason’s heart sank.
‘Same old furniture, Archie?’
‘It goes with the position, I’m afraid.’ Swan smiled.
‘Tight bastards, it’s the same old crap that I had.’
‘It may not look much, but I can assure you that the coffee has improved.’
Mason closed the door behind him and took up a seat opposite. His head full of memories, he stared at the crime board to the left of Swan’s desk. Faces he didn’t recognise, a case he knew nothing about. From what he could gather, another drugs gang was about to get its comeuppance, and he knew the area they were operating in. No longer in charge here, it wasn’t his case, but the past all came flooding back.
‘So, what’s the latest on this Sanderson Law Chambers break-in?’ Mason asked.
‘Twice in six months, only this time we’ve managed to arrest someone.’
‘Local, was he?’ asked Holt.
‘Sad case, not the sort of person we were hoping to catch.’
‘You can’t win them all, Archie,’ Mason smiled.
‘No, I suppose not.’
Mason recognised the disappointment. ‘How did you manage to nab him?’
‘It wasn’t exactly difficult. Apart from cutting his wrist on a broken window pane and leaving his DNA all over the watch repair workshops, he was caught on CCTV cameras.’
Mason burst out laughing. ‘He sounds like a real bungler?’
‘He is, and he admitted to it the moment we pressed charges.’
‘Well at least he wasn’t trying to steal case files.’
It was Swan’s turn to burst out laughing. ‘Adding to his own more likely.’
Coffee arrived, brought in on a tray by a young lad in his mid-teens. Too young to be a trainee, Mason thought. He was keen, and probably here on a work experience programme.
‘So,’ Swan began, easing back in his seat, ‘what’s the latest developments regarding this Russian fraud trial?’
Mason filled him in with the details, but he was more interested in hearing what Swan had to say about Yavlinsky than anything else.
‘Have you been watching the news bulletins lately?’ asked Swan.
‘No. Why?’
‘According to the former head of British Counter Terrorism, this hedge fund auditor, Stephen Rice, may have been poisoned at Bristol Airport.’
‘I’ve heard no mention of that. What else did they say?’
‘Not a lot. A spokesman for the Metropolitan Police said they believe it was a case of mistaken identity, which tells me it’s a cover up.’
Mason took a sip of his coffee. ‘Sensationalism gone mad, eh?’
‘The Commissioner of Police is to make a brief statement tonight about it, so that should put an end to the matter.’
‘Any mention of the Russians’ involvement?’ asked Holt.
‘No, nothing.’
Clever, Mason thought. Feed the press with false information, then stand back and light the blue touch paper. Nine times out of ten the media would interview some trumped-up self-opinionated political commentator to give their spin on events and stir up as much public opinion as was humanly possible. Fake news ran rife, it seemed. On both sides of the fence.
There was knock at the door, and a medium built man, early forties, dressed in a dark suit and carrying a pile of case files under his arm, entered the room.
Swan signalled him towards an empty seat.
‘I’d like you to meet DCI Jack Mason and DS George Holt from the Serious Crime Division over at Gateshead, Cyril. Can you fill them in about this recent Yavlinsky sighting?’
Sergeant Kent said nothing for a moment, then gave a brief jerky nod. ‘I’ll not bore you with the details, as you guys are far more familiar with the case than I am.’
Mason opened his hands expansively. ‘Just tell us what you know?’
‘Three days ago, I was working on a drugs bust over in the Walker district when I bumped into one of my regular informants.’ The Sergeant fidgeted uneasily. ‘One thing led to another and we both got around to talking about this fraud case that’s due at the Newcastle law courts.’
‘Which case is this?’ Holt asked, pen poised notebook at the ready.
‘The one involving the Russian banking scam.’
‘And what did your informant tell you?’
‘I know he likes to waffle on a bit,’ said Kent, ‘but he’s good at extracting information out of people. The thing is, he was approached by a man who bears a remarkable resemblance to this Russian guy you people are looking for.’
Mason felt a sudden adrenaline rush.
‘You mean Grigori Yavlinsky?’
‘Yes.’ The sergeant nodded.
‘And what was Yavlinsky wanting with your informant exactly?’
‘He was looking for a guy called Colin Glover.’
Christ, Mason thought, the very man who had installed the CCTV cameras at Seaton School.
DS Holt leaned forward. ‘What did Yavlinsky want with Colin Glover?’
‘He said he had a job for him and was willing to pay him good money.’
Mason looked at Holt and guessed what his companion was thinking. ‘So, what did your informant tell Yavlinsky?’
‘Not a lot.’
Mason drew back in his seat.
‘What do you think?’ asked DI Swan.
‘It sounds like Yavlinsky all right,’ Mason replied. ‘Glover’s been charged in connection with breaking and entering into Seaton School and installing a shit load of CCTV monitoring cameras. He claims he was working for a third party and denies all knowledge of any Russian connection.’
Swan eyed Mason with suspicion. ‘Do you think our informant could be lying?’
‘I doubt it, but it seems that Glover may have had a lucky escape by the sound of things.’ Mason swung sharply to face Sergeant Kent. ‘This informant of yours, will he talk if he’s brought in?’
‘He will if he’s paid,’ the sergeant said, rubbing his fingers together.
‘Good man.’ Mason smiled, still unsure where this was heading.
Swan turned to Sergeant Kent. ‘Let’s start with a written statement and we’ll arrange for your man to be picked up and taken across to Gateshead Police Station.’
Mason thought about it, and then said, ‘Send me a copy and any CCTV footage you can get hold of, and I’ll get the facial recognition experts involved. If we do have a “look- alike” on our hands, we need to eliminate him from our enquiries.’
The room fell silent.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Dressed in the clothes he’d picked up from a charity shop, Chameleon moved ill at ease through the streets of Newcastle. Convinced he was suffering from radiation poisoning, stomach cramps had kept him awake for most of the night. Still left with a bitter taste in his mouth, no matter how much liquid he drank, the back of his throat felt as though it was on fire. Poking his finger into the corner of his mouth, he checked to see if his gums were bleeding. Not that they were, but it was a sure sign of radiation sickness he’d read. Nothing normally fazed him, but this worried him stiff.
It was well after eleven o’clock when Chameleon sauntered into Grainger Street. Still clinging to thoughts of Stephen Rice’s painful death, he was now having reservations about his own health. Convinced his hair was dropping o
ut, he kept rubbing his head to see if it was. Not only was he sweating profusely, the fear of what toxic poisoning might do to him had finally taken hold.
Nobody paid him much attention as he slipped into Grey Street. Having found shelter from the rain in a pharmacy store, he was trawling the aisles for something to settle the stomach cramps. The pains had got worse, and more frequent by the hour. He’d thought about returning to London but getting there was the problem – the police were watching all the stations. The irony was, he was having concerns about the property developments at his Belgravia apartment. He knew how British builders liked to operate, and if you didn’t keep on top of them, they would rip you off as soon as look at you.
Worried sick the police would catch up with him before he could complete the operation, he entered the Newcastle City Library a nervous wreck. Despite all the frustration, on reaching the third floor his contact was sitting waiting for him and he heaved a sigh of relief. He was a plump man, with a large ginger beard and inquisitive goat-like eyes that danced in their sockets as though attached to elastic bands. Awash with excitement, he immediately homed in on him.
‘How are you doing?’ the man asked as he lifted his head.
Chameleon shot him a sideways glance whilst checking his surroundings. He needn’t have bothered. Nobody had paid much attention to him, and their heads were buried in books.
‘Have you got what I came for?’
‘It’s all there,’ the man said, pointing to the cool bag at his feet.
‘How much do I owe you?’
‘Not until I know what you’re intending to do with it.’
‘Exactly what it says on the tin.’ Chameleon grinned.
The man eyes sparkled with mischievous humour. ‘You do realise this is lethal stuff?’
‘That’s why I’m paying you good money for it.’
The man forced a smile, as though he had wind. ‘We agreed four hundred.’
Chameleon reached into his pocket and pulled out a wodge of used banknotes. He handed it to him. The man was standing now, checking the money as if his life depended on it. After he’d finished counting, he slid the cool bag towards him with the instep of his foot.
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