Chameleon

by Michael K Foster

  Hollins laughed as he rubbed a heavily tattooed arm. ‘Snakes are fun, Inspector. You should try keeping one yourself.’

  Mason shuddered at the thought. ‘What happens to you if you get bitten by one?’

  ‘It depends on what type of snake it is.’

  ‘What about Black Mambas?’

  ‘Now you’re talking.’

  ‘Just two drops of the potent black mamba venom can kill a person, I’m told.’

  Hollins chuckled through blackened teeth. ‘That’s what makes them such an exciting species to breed.’

  ‘So, you do deal in the deadly species?’ Mason frowned.

  Hollins turned sharply. ‘Who said I did?’

  ‘You just did,’ Mason replied, staring down at his notes.

  ‘They have been known to come into my pet shop from time to time.’ Hollins shook his head despondently. ‘Sub-Saharan African black mambas are incredibly fast and can outrun most men. They’re aggressive, territorial, and their poison is neurotoxic.’

  Hollins was extremely knowledgeable with regards to deadly snakes, and Mason had picked up on it. The Chief Inspector lifted his head from his notebook, and then said, ‘What do you mean by neurotoxic exactly?’

  ‘Unlike most poisonous snakes, black mamba venom attacks the central nervous system, shutting down the major organs. Twenty minutes after a bite, you lose the ability to talk. After an hour you’re probably comatose, and after six, without an antidote you’re dead.’

  ‘You seem to know an awful lot about snake bites,’ Mason glowered. He slid a photograph of Grigori Yavlinsky towards Hollins and watched for a reaction. ‘What do you know about this man?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Have you ever sold him a black mamba snake?’

  ‘Can’t say that I have. Who is he?’

  Mason muttered under his breath. Not a good start, he thought. Hollins stank of pet shop food and something a little stronger – stale sweat. The more he levelled with the man, the more he despised him. But he was fighting a losing battle and didn’t know which way to turn. One thing for sure, if Hollings was in bed with Yavlinsky he was about to throw the book at him.

  ‘Now here’s my problem,’ Mason said, producing a photograph of the vial that Yavlinsky had dropped during his escape from a rented property in Walker. ‘Your fingerprints are all over this container. What’s more, the contents have been forensically analysed and identified as black mamba venom. Now I’m not a gambling man, but I’d say you’re currently facing up to two years imprisonment for dealing with endangered exotic species, even more once we’ve taken your pet shop apart.’ Mason paused for effect. ‘Do you see where I’m coming from?’

  Hollins turned to his legal advisor and muttered something inaudible as he held his hand in front of his mouth.

  ‘Where did you find this vial?’ asked Hollins’ solicitor.

  ‘Let’s just say the man who last handled it is now of major interest to us.’

  ‘The venom was stolen,’ Hollins suddenly announced.

  ‘In which case how come this man’s and your fingerprints were all over the container?’ Mason tapped the picture of Yavlinsky with an index finger, and the pet shop owner drew back in his seat.

  ‘It was stolen.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No shit,’ Hollins replied.

  ‘When?’

  Hollins was angry, and the words couldn’t come out of his mouth fast enough. ‘Ten days ago, my pet shop was broken into. The only thing that was stolen was my stockpile of snake venom from the freezer.’

  ‘And you reported it to the police, no doubt?’

  ‘No. Why would I?’

  Mason looked at him hard. ‘Tell me, what were you intending to do with this so called – stockpile?’

  ‘It was to be used as an antidote.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘I regularly donate it to a local laboratory.’

  Mason was suddenly on the backfoot again. ‘Which one?’

  Hollins gave him the details and told him more.

  Bollocks, Mason cursed. Just when he thought he had the answers in the palm of his hand, the truth was slipping away from him. But failure to report the theft of a deadly poison was still a serious crime, nevertheless.

  ‘Okay,’ Mason said, letting out a long drawn out exasperated sigh. ‘How many vials of snake venom were actually stolen?’

  ‘A dozen, maybe more.’

  ‘And what types of venom were they exactly?’

  Hollins stared at him annoyed as he reeled off a list of deadly snakes.

  ‘This Inland Taipan,’ the Chief Inspector questioned. ‘I’ve never heard of it before. Where do they come from?’

  ‘Australia.’

  ‘Another deadly species, is it?’

  ‘A single bite from one can kill a man in less than an hour.’

  ‘What is it with you people, are you on some sort of a death wish or something? Is that why you collect dangerous reptiles?’

  ‘It’s the buzz you get from handling them, it’s like being on a rollercoaster ride.’

  ‘What else can you tell me about Inland Tiger snakes?’

  ‘They’re generally shy reptiles and prefer to avoid conflict. If cornered they will hiss loudly and inflate their bodies.’ Hollins collected his thoughts, then turned to Mason and laughed. ‘They hate being disturbed. If provoked further, they will lash out at you and bite with their deadly fangs.’

  Charming, Mason thought. If what Hollins was telling him was true, then Yavlinsky had obviously turned his attentions towards another deadly method of poisoning. What lengths some individuals would go to kill another human being beggared belief. And, if the Russian was intending to kill the boy using deadly snake venom, then he now had a lot of thinking to do.

  Mason pushed back his seat as he began to recognise the scale of the problem he was faced with. Carlisle was right, Yavlinsky was a lone wolf who preferred to kill his victims by stealth rather than force. Guns were a no-no, knives too physical, as neither could guarantee certain death. Not all poisons were lethal, though, but deadly snake venom had to be far easier to handle than radioactive toxins. The only issue now, was what to do with Monty Python.

  Hollins’ knowledge of reptiles was invaluable, and Mason was already working on a dozen ways to approach the problem. If the Russian was intending to inject the boy with reptile venom, he would need to make a list of all the stolen vials. It wasn’t that simple, though, as there were deadlines to consider, known antidotes to trace, and where to keep a stockpile in the event of an attack. He closed his notebook, leaned over and switched off the interview tape.

  ‘What will happen to my client’s pet shop now?’ Hollins’ legal advisor asked.

  ‘He needs to fit better door locks to his premises and install a decent CCTV system. If not, he could find himself in a whole load of serious trouble.’

  Hollins looked at Mason gobsmacked, whilst his legal advisor sighed with relief.

  ‘And who pays for this shit?’ Hollins asked.

  Mason smiled. ‘That’s not my problem, I don’t keep dangerous snakes.’

  Still unable to come up with a plausible explanation as to why the Russian had targeted this particular pet shop, Mason still required the owners help. And if he refused, he swore he would tear his shop apart and close it down indefinitely.

  Not all was unwelcome news, though. He now had a future plan of action and a string of new leads. As for Hollins’ possible connection with the Russian, he would need to sleep on it and force the issue at a later date.

  Pleased with his findings, it was time to contact Special Branch – find out what else was going on in the world of money laundering. No doubt he would be put under the spotlight again and he wasn’t looking forward to it one little iota.

  God loves a trier, Mason groaned.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Just after 2.00 pm, DC Carrington slipped the key into the unmarked pool car’s ignition and heav
ed a sigh of relief. Recognition at last. At least Jack Mason had finally agreed to young Martin visiting Marsden Grotto, which in itself was a monumental breakthrough. The plan, in as much as she had been able to understand it, was to keep a watchful eye on the boy whilst allowing him to let off steam.

  Still no news from Social Services. Carlisle’s frustrations were evident. It was never meant to happen, and Mason’s thin promises of finding Martin a permanent residence had fallen on deaf ears. Although everyone in the house got on well together, it wasn’t the ideal environment to be caught up in. They worked in teams, around the clock, and were cooped up like chickens in a pen. Changes were needed, and fast, before their frustrations spilled over.

  Carrington waited for Martin to fasten his seat belt before moving off.

  ‘Okay, young man, we have two hours. No more.’

  ‘Is it okay if I bring David’s binoculars with me?’ Martin asked excitedly.

  ‘It seems you already have.’ The detective smiled. ‘As long as you look after them, everything should be fine.’

  No sooner had she turned into Poplar Drive when she spotted DS Holt’s unmarked pool car following in her wake. Relieved that two-armed detectives were close at hand was always a welcome sight on close protection operations. It was a bright, sunny day, and after passing Souter Lighthouse the coastline began to open up in front of them. She knew the area well, and always enjoyed long walks along the sea front.

  Ten minutes later, Carrington pulled into an empty parking bay. Known locally as “the Grotto”, Marsden Grotto was a public house located at the base of the cliffs and close to the shoreline. One of a very few remaining cave bars in Europe, it could be accessed by a lift at the top of the cliffs, or via a steep staircase attached to the rock face. The irony was, the Grotto was said to be haunted by a smuggler nicknamed John the jibber who was supposedly lowered down the lift shaft in a bucket and left to starve to death. His crime, according to the fable, was for ratting on his smuggler friends to HM Customs.

  The beach was full of holidaymakers as DS Holt led the way down the steep cliff stairs. With DC Manley guarding the car park, there seemed little chance of anyone snatching the boy from under their noses. Following the somewhat precarious decent, the moment they reached the little beach, Martin excitedly ran towards Marsden Rock.

  ‘Stay close,’ Carrington insisted.

  ‘Will do, Sue.’

  Now half its size – after the famous archway collapsed back in the 90s – Marsden Rock was home to thousands of sea birds. On Carrington nearing the rock face, hundreds of kittiwakes swooped low overhead. It was a wonderful sight, and with the sea lapping the shoreline it made for a welcome break after days spent cooped up inside the private investigator’s house.

  Carrington’s headset crackled into life.

  Manley had spotted someone acting suspiciously close to the clifftop stair head. His face hidden from view, he was described as wearing grey tracksuit bottoms, white T-shirt, and a bright orange baseball cap. To make matters worse, having run an automatic number plate recognition check on the suspect’s vehicle, it was coming up as stolen.

  Alarms bells ringing, it was DS Holt who reacted first.

  ‘Stay close,’ he commanded.

  Not fifty yards away, in a mixture of horror and curiosity, Holt pointed to a man matching the suspect’s description. Something wasn’t right, and whatever it was the detective’s face had suddenly hardened.

  ‘There!’ Holt shouted out aloud. ‘Thirty feet from the bottom of the cliff staircase.’

  Carrington froze.

  ‘I see him,’ she replied.

  Grabbing hold of Martin’s arm, she instinctively pulled the boy close to her side. Not normally one for panicking, she called out to the sergeant to watch his front. There was concern in her voice, unnerving, and the boy still hadn’t fully responded to it.

  Reaching the shoreline, the suspect now ran at speed towards them. There was determination in his posture, threatening, as if he meant business. Then slowing in his stride, from a brown paper bag he pulled out a long hypodermic syringe and he pointed it at them.

  Carrington’s heart sank.

  ‘Stay back,’ DS Holt demanded, reaching for his Glock service pistol.

  Stooping down low, the suspect grabbed a handful of sand and threw it into the sergeant’s face. It happened so quickly, and all Carrington could do was watch in horror as the sergeant fell to his knees as though temporarily blinded. As a man in his late sixties rushed to the sergeant’s aid, he too was knocked to the ground.

  Now panting from his sprint, the suspect scooped up another huge fistful of sand and threw himself towards her at speed. He was quick, but not fast enough. Arm fully extended, body perfectly still, she aimed her Glock 26 pistol directly at the centre of Yavlinsky’s chest. As she drew back the safety catch, she shouted out to him at the top of her voice.

  ‘Armed police! Get down on the ground, or I’ll shoot!’

  In what seemed to take an eternity, the Russian hesitated, dropped the hypodermic syringe from his grasp and slumped to the sand on one knee. At first, she thought he’d given up on her, but the look of determination on his face told her otherwise.

  ‘Keep your hands where I can see them,’ she commanded.

  Anxious, she would need to hold her nerve – and distance.

  Arms extended like a priest in prayer, she could see the Russian assassin wasn’t armed. Then in the blink of an eye, he scooped up another huge fistful of sand and threw it towards her direction. Eyes firmly shut, still protecting the boy, she ducked and prayed he hadn’t picked up the hypodermic syringe.

  She opened her eyes again and adjusted to the light.

  In those few vital seconds Yavlinsky had sprang to his feet and taken off at speed towards the rocks. He was making his getaway and she knew what he was intending to do.

  Extending her pistol arm, Carrington took careful aim.

  Then, just as she was about to pull the trigger, an innocent bystander came into her sights. Shit, she cursed, as she quickly applied the safety catch and altered her position to take a better shot. Still running in a zig-zag pattern across wet golden sands, the Russian was getting away from them.

  Moments later she heard sirens wailing and knew that backup was close at hand. Her mind all over place, she knew that Martin was safe and that’s all that mattered to her. Fifty metres away she could see where the Russian was heading, but it was impossible to give chase.

  Then she felt her shirtsleeve being tugged.

  ‘Over there,’ Martin said, pointing to the glistening hypodermic syringe.

  ‘Don’t touch it whatever you do.’

  Now joined by DC Manley, she could see that Holt was badly in need of help.

  ‘You okay?’ the Detective Constable asked.

  ‘We’re both fine, but I think George could do with some assistance.’

  Now operating in close protection mode, Manley pointed towards the general direction of the cliff face. ‘Which way is he heading?’

  ‘Towards the cove, but I doubt he’ll get far.’

  It was Martin who spoke next. ‘He didn’t look at all well to me, Harry. His face was as white as a ghost’s, and his shirt was soaked in sweat.’

  Carrington’s immediate thoughts turned to radioactive poisoning. And yes, their suspect looked decidedly ill. It wasn’t over yet, not by a long chalk and the Russian was still capable of inflicting terrible damage. Seconds later, as dozens of uniformed armed police officers appeared at intervals along the clifftops the realisation suddenly hit home. Yavlinsky had been barely inches away from killing the boy.

  Then Jack Mason’s voice boomed out over headsets demanding an immediate update. Within minutes of Manley confirming their position and findings, the beach was swarming with police officers.

  ‘There!’ young Martin pointed out.

  As the constable bent down to pick up the hypodermic syringe with his handkerchief, his hand hovered warily over the top of
it. From what Carrington could see, it was huge. It had a long silver shaft and plunger, and whatever substance the opaque barrel contained inside, she knew it would be deadly.

  ‘What if it’s full of radioactive chemicals?’ Manley said, sounding uncharacteristically nervous after Martin’s thought-provoking comments.

  Carrington looked at Manley in panic. ‘Don’t touch it. Best leave it to the experts.’

  ‘Are there no limits to this bastard’s armoury?’

  Carrington held her nerve.

  ‘We need to get the boy off the beach, but I doubt we can take him back to Carlisle’s house.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so,’ Manley said, pointing towards the cliff staircase. ‘Talking of the devil, Jack Mason is already on his way down here.’

  ‘Bugger!’ Carrington cursed.

  ‘I know. Let’s hope they capture the Russian before the Chief Inspector goes into one of his rants.’

  Martin tugged on Carrington’s sleeve again, as if to draw her attention to something else. ‘There!’ the boy suddenly announced.

  ‘What is it?’ she gulped, sounding clearly on edge.

  ‘Over there!’

  ‘Where?’ Manley demanded.

  ‘It’s a cormorant and it’s just caught a massive fish in its mouth.’

  Her brain in bits, Carrington stared at Manley in disbelief. As the boy lifted the binoculars to his face and began scanning the rockface, she almost let out a scream.

  ‘Unbelievable!’ Manley said, despairingly shaking his head.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  Batabatabata.

  The minute the helicopter came into sight, all eyes strained skywards. It was a wonderful sight, and a welcome addition to the team’s search ability. Now on the front foot, Jack Mason was pleased with the way his operation was going. Nothing could move in and out of Marsden according to him. As hundreds of highly trained police officers set about their task, the whole village was in lockdown. Even the surrounding area at the base of Marsden cliffs was now being clawed over by river police, and it was only a matter of time before the Russian’s position was finally uncovered.