Pleased with his findings, he decided to call it a day.
‘It’s been a pleasure talking to you, Mrs Broadbent. If the builders do cause you any problems over the next couple of weeks, you’re to give me a call.’
‘And your number is?’
He pointed to the cottage next door. ‘As soon as I’m done here, I’ll pop one of my business cards through your letter box.’
Eyes full of suspicion, head full of uncertainty, she hurriedly closed the door behind her.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
The news back from Social Services wasn’t good, and David Carlisle had all but given up on Martin moving out of his property. Furious at having given in too hastily to Jack Mason’s appeal for help, he was trying to come to terms with it all. In many ways the house wasn’t his own any longer – even Benjamin the cat wasn’t happy with the arrangements. Apart from feeding time, his feline partner spent most of the day sleeping on top of the wardrobe nowadays.
‘I’m bored,’ Martin suddenly announced. ‘When can we visit Marsden Grotto?’
‘Not today,’ Carlisle replied.
‘But it’s only a couple of miles away.’
Carrington looked at the boy quizzically and smiled. ‘It’s not up to David. It’s up to DCI Mason to decide if you can go. Besides, he’s trying his best to find you a more permanent place to stay.’
‘What’s wrong with my Auntie Glenis’s house, why can’t I stay with her?’
Carrington spoke sympathetically. ‘You can’t keep moving around willy-nilly or you’re never going to make any new friends.’
‘But this place is boring, and there’s nothing to do here.’
‘Try reading a book, there’s plenty upstairs.’
‘I’ve looked at them, and they’re boring.’
Carlisle took a deep breath and thought about Martin’s predicament. There had to be something that could be done to improve the situation, surely the police could come up with a better solution. Cooped up inside his house all day wasn’t good for morale – no wonder the boy was turning rebellious. There again, he thought. Now that a would-be Russian assassin was on the loose, nowhere was safe it appeared.
Mason clearly had a plan up his sleeve and he wished he knew what it was. Something was going on behind the scenes, and he guessed it was coming from higher levels. Although not directly involved, Carlisle knew what government agents could get up to, as he’d worked with them often enough in the past. What if they were trying to lure Yavlinsky into a trap – using his house and the boy as bait? It was a frightening prospect, but it was a strong possibility, nevertheless. On the other hand, in the carnivorously competitive world of Russian politics, an assassin wouldn’t think twice about killing a ten-year-old child if it got in the way of their plans. The FSB’s cavalier attitude towards the niceties of political etiquette was non-existent when it came to the art of elimination. No, Carlisle thought. Something was afoot, and whatever it was he didn’t like the sound of it.
Thinking about this, he remembered his time spent serving as a criminal profiler with the Metropolitan Police. He was younger then, more passionate about his job. But life had moved on, and nowadays trained assassins at the very least were more articulate and smarter with their movements. Many would live in the UK, searching through local cemeteries to find a deceased child that had passed away young. Taking that identity, if the checks worked out, they would create a false myth – take up a foreign passport and blend into Western society with ease. There had to be a darker side to this, and one involving huge sums of dirty money.
This wasn’t the kind of operation that Carlisle would have felt comfortable working on – far from it. What with armed police officers lurking on every street corner, his life wasn’t the same anymore. Not only was Yavlinsky a threat to national security he was a threat to anyone he came in contact with – and that worried him.
The more he thought about it, the more the private investigator realised the urgency of the situation. Yavlinsky didn’t carry guns; his method of killing was silent and deadly. Finding him wouldn’t be easy either. Besides, what had the Russian to lose? An ex KGB officer, he would have been trained to defend his corner at any cost. That was the nature of the beast – that’s what made would-be assassins a cut above the rest.
Carrington’s brow corrugated. ‘I know Jack Mason has the boy at heart, so maybe we should have a word with him about a visit to Marsden Grotto?’
‘Don’t involve me,’ Carlisle replied, lifting his arms as in surrender. ‘I’m up to here with Jack Mason and his harebrained schemes.’
Carlisle’s phone rang, and he answered it.
‘David Carlisle––’
‘Good morning, Mr Carlisle. A colleague of mine tells me that you are a private investigator?’
‘Yes, I am. And you are?’
‘James Horniman.’
‘How can I help, Mr Horniman?’
‘My workmate has asked me to contact you on his behalf, it’s about his son.’
‘And what is your colleague’s name, may I ask?’
‘Phillip Kennedy.’
Carlisle trod cautiously. ‘And how do you know Phil?’
‘We are working on a construction site together here in Nottingham.’
‘I see. What can I do for you?’
The line went quiet for a moment.
‘Listen, Mr Carlisle. I’m travelling north this weekend and Phil has asked me to drop a birthday present off at your office. It’s for. . . Martin.’
‘Sure. Do you have my office address?’
‘Yes, I do.’ There was another long pause. ‘How is Martin keeping incidentally? I hear he’s moved away from his foster mother’s house in Seaton Sluice?’
‘He’s doing fine.’
‘Where is he now?’
Carlisle paused to consider the question. Strange, he thought.
‘I’ve absolutely no idea,’ he lied, ‘but I would have thought his father would have been able to tell you that.’
‘No. He’s never mentioned it to me. I’m just curious that’s all.’
‘Will that be all, Mr Horniman?’
‘Yes, for now.’
His phone went dead, and he noticed the caller’s number had been withheld and made a mental note of it.
Carlisle looked at the calendar pinned to the kitchen wall and checked his future arrangements. It was Friday, and he’d promised a weekend fishing trip away with his father. The way things were going there was little chance of that happening now. Besides, Jack Mason was stuck in his ways and rarely listened to other people’s point of view. No, Carlisle thought. There was no way his old workmate was going to relax his security arrangements – not in a million years. The boy was in grave danger, even he knew that. But how to get around the current stalemate was the problem.
Benjamin arrived on the scene to see what all the fuss was about. Licking his paws, he stared at the female detective and then warily across at the boy. The cat was hungry, but after making a bee-line for his food bowl he was working out his options. His life wasn’t his own anymore, and he was tired of all the attention he was getting.
Still thinking about Mr Horniman’s call, something didn’t sit right in Carlisle’s mind. Although the caller had most of his facts right, his story didn’t add up. Phil Kennedy had spent an awful lot of time in prison these past few years, and the emotional strain on the family had taken its toll. Separated from his wife, Martin had suffered unimaginable disruption because of it. No, he thought. If Phil had anything to give to his son, he would have delivered it personally. That’s how his friend rolled these days – nothing got swept under the carpet.
‘When is your next birthday, Martin?’ Carlisle asked casually.
The boy looked at him dumbfounded. ‘Not until December. Why?’
Shit, the private investigator cursed. Had Yavlinsky finally caught up with them?
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
In the early morning light, DS Holt peered down
on the street below and raised his eyebrows a fraction. It was five-thirty, and some idiot jogger had stopped to tie his shoelaces. What was it with these people, why couldn’t they get a life?
After filling in the log sheet, Holt checked his watch and took another sip of his coffee. Next, he stared at the tiny monitoring screen covering the rear lane of the private investigator’s house. Adjusting to the light, apart from a big fat ginger cat staring up at a flock of squawking seagulls in the hope that one of them might land, the street was relatively quiet. Time spent in the surveillance house wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, and long hours spent staring at the house opposite was slowly driving him mad.
Holt shook his head and sighed. It was all getting out of hand. Sometimes he wondered what all the fuss was about, as there seemed little chance of a Russian assassin turning up in Whitburn village. The man was probably in London or smuggled out of the country in the back of a private jet.
As the door to the bedroom swung open, the sergeant’s understudy appeared. Lean in stature with short cropped blond hair, Albert Blanch was one of the new up and coming stars on the force. Mid-twenties, with barely two years’ service under his belt, Blanch was as keen as mustard. In a few years from now he would probably think differently, Holt thought. Promotion was thin on the ground, government cutbacks having put paid to that. Not like the good old days when it was much easier to advance up the promotion ladder through natural retirement.
‘Anything to report?’ asked Blanch.
Holt shook his head. ‘Nah, same old, Albert.’
The sergeant folded his jacket over his arm as he prepared to leave. The room had a foist smell and stank of Chinese takeaway – the evidence left poking out of the waste bin. Holt paused at the door and pointed towards a small wooden table positioned at the back of the room. ‘A new list of stolen vehicle registration numbers has been sent over from Road Traffic, so you’ll need to keep an eye out. If you do happen to spot one, you’re to contact Central Control.’
‘Will do.’ Blanch sighed as he shifted his weight. ‘Any more news on the suspect’s whereabouts?’
‘Nothing yet. He’s probably back in Russia if the truth was known.’
‘Sounds about right,’ Blanch agreed with a nod.
Pleased it was over, Holt smiled as he moved towards the top of the landing stairs. He could still hear the constable’s mutterings, but the words were lost in the sound of his size twelve shoes hitting the bare foot treads at the end of another long shift.
◆◆◆
Meanwhile across the street, Chameleon stretched his legs, thinking. It was pure genius how he’d conned the boy’s previous foster mother into making her mouth go. And, unless he was mistaken, the boy was holed up inside the private investigator’s house. Now that he had a name to work on, his plans were falling into place. Finding the school’s photographer was genius – obtaining the boy’s photograph priceless. This would never have happened back in Russia, not in a zillion years. The moment you tried to obtain another person’s details, the FSB would be onto you like a flash.
Still feeling drained, the opportunity had come sooner than Chameleon had expected. It was Sunday, early morning, and most of the occupants in Whitburn village were fast asleep in bed. Having parked his stolen Fiat just a few streets from the private investigator’s house, he didn’t want to arouse suspicion. Stay calm, keep your eyes peeled and everything will fall into place, he told himself.
Chameleon knew how the British police system worked, and how they liked to cover each other’s backs on operations such as this. Besides, the private investigator’s house was probably bugged, so breaking into it would be risky. Now that he’d fitted electronic tracking devices to several unmarked police cars, it was much easier to keep tabs on their movements. And, if he ever did get into any kind of trouble with the law, he still had a few vials of snake venom at his disposal.
Eyes scanning the house opposite: the street was long and narrow. A few properties had driveways, but not all of them. Cars parked on either side of the road were a problem, as they made life difficult for manoeuvring around in. That’s why he preferred to jog here on foot. Much easier, and less complicated. The more he thought about it, the more he knew he’d made the right decision. This was the second time in as many hours he’d checked the property out, and he’d finally found the chink in the police’s armour.
Still undecided how to finish the job, he was hoping to finalise his plans. He would need a subtle distraction, something to flush the boy out of hiding without causing too much alarm. He could always set fire to the building in the middle of the night, of course, but would it guarantee success? Probably not. There again, he thought, if the kid played on his computer all day, then maybe he could deliver a pizza laced with deadly sea snake venom.
There was a thought!
As he made his way past the house with the large upstairs bay windows, he sensed preying eyes. It didn’t take much, but to a trained eye the slightest movement caused him to flinch. Mad as it was, the private investigator was a bit of a geek as far as Chameleon was concerned. Who in their rightful mind would want to drive a beaten-up old Rover around all day? Not that it worried him, but it did make him smile.
Then from an upstairs bedroom he caught movement. It wasn’t much – the slightest chink in the curtains. As he bent down to tie up his shoelaces, he noticed the man upstairs had moved to his left a few feet. Dressed in tracksuit bottoms, black T-shirt and carrying a newspaper tucked under his arm, he didn’t look out of the ordinary. Maybe he was overreacting, worrying about nothing. There again, this wasn’t the friendliest of places to hang around in either.
If he was being watched, it would be from an upstairs bedroom. Chameleon had his suspicions and knew how police covert operations worked. Stay clear of the windows, remove any mirrors in the room, as any sudden change in the light might draw people’s attention towards you. It wasn’t rocket science, and he knew that most British police offers were trained in the art of camouflage techniques.
He stared hard at the house again.
Tucked back on the driveway, he noticed a stationary silver Ford Focus and remained perfectly still for a moment. There were fumes coming from the exhaust, and he could hear the engine running. Adrenalin pumping, and knowing the police were out looking for him, Chameleon continued on down the street. Either these people were careless, or they were about to spring a trap.
He looked all around and behind him, but the street was silent and empty. He should have approached this differently, made alternative plans instead of waiting to see what unravelled.
Concentrating now, he doubled back on himself and approached the private investigator’s house with caution.
Why hadn’t the boy shown his face?
His mind running amok, Chameleon suddenly felt an urge to finish it. His was a simple plan. Slip in through the back door, climb the stairs, and inject the boy full of snake venom. Excellent idea! Executing it a different matter, of course.
Peering up at the bedroom window opposite, he distinctly caught movement this time. Unsettled, he jogged to the end of the street, turned right, and made his way back to the stolen Fiat. Nothing was ever easy – everything disorderly and confused. Narked at having to abort his plans a second time, he was keen to leave the area. Sooner or later he would need to finish the job, regardless of the dangers that surrounded him.
Next time, he thought.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Jack Mason wasn’t in the best of spirits after he’d taken the call from DS Savage. Not that he was expecting good news, but the moment the sergeant confirmed the cause of Ronnie Flanigan’s tragic death was due to snake poisoning, he breathed a sigh of relief. The sad thing was, even a powerful antidote wouldn’t have saved his informant according to the Home Office Pathologist’s report. Flanigan’s immune system was so low after chemotherapy treatment that he would probably have died of heart failure anyway.
The team had worked tirelessly in tracki
ng down the source of supply, which pleased him immensely. After a string of coordinated police raids in and around the city of Newcastle, five people were now under investigation. They did have a main suspect in mind, and Mason was keen to find out his connection with the Russian. But something was muddying the water, and as the Chief Inspector eased back in his seat, IR1fell uncannily silent.
‘Dendroaspis polylepis,’ Mason began. ‘One of the deadliest snakes in the world. I’ve never cared much for snakes myself. They’re sly bastards and have a nasty habit of jumping out at you when least expected. Tell me, apart from owning a pet shop, what’s your particular interest with Black Mamba snakes?’
Larry Hollins, a forty-six-year old local weirdo, swallowed hard. Interview Room 1 wasn’t the friendliest place to be in when the chips were down, especially when the room temperature had been turned up to thirty-six degrees. Known locally as Monty Python, Hollins owned a small pet shop close to the city centre of Newcastle and was well known for his dodgy dealings in exotic reptiles and amphibians – especially amongst teenagers and a bunch of individuals who just happened to like snakes.
The problem was, international law decreed these creatures be bred in captivity, and not plucked from forests and rivers in some far-off foreign land. Even so, the European Union had allowed the import of over 20 million of these creatures in a ten-year period between 2004-2014, and in the US alone, millions of households owned at least one reptile. Popularity, it seemed, had spawned an enormous illegal trade, and Hollins was at the top of his game. In and out of the court rooms at least once a month, his criminal record was beginning to read like a zoologist’s journal in Mason’s judgement. Most of it involving the illegal trade of exotic species, and the abuse of CITES – a treaty which prohibit species threatened with extinction from being commercially traded across borders unless bred in captivity.
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