Taking a deep breath to compose himself, he glanced at his watch. What the bloody hell was going on? He’d been at the agreed rendezvous point for almost thirty minutes and apart from the odd passing car it was a complete no show. A sudden feeling of impending doom crept over him. He picked up his mobile and speed dialled DS Murphy for support.
‘Tom, what’s happening?’
‘Complete no-show, what should I do now?’
‘Call them?’
‘Tried that, there’s no answer. They make all the running.’
‘Just sit tight for another ten minutes. Then we can refocus.’
‘I’m going out of my head waiting. Izzy is the only thing I have left. If they harm her, I’ll blow their bastard heads off with that pistol of yours.’
‘Tom, try and remain calm.’
‘Gotta go. There’s an incoming call; it could be them.’
The voice of the East European delivered heart-wrenching news. ‘Listen, there’s been an accident, your daughter got hurt. It wasn’t meant to happen. The people responsible will be dealt with,’ Ibrahim said, almost apologising.
Wiping back tears, Blake screamed at him. ‘You’d better pray my daughter’s OK or I’ll personally hunt you down and make sure every last one of you gets banged up for the next twenty years, you evil bastards.’ His rant was in vain: the line was dead.
Blake frantically scanned through his contacts before speed dialling Royal Stoke A&E admissions desk. All he got was the engaged tone.
His mouth became dry. Shaking, he took another deep breath and stayed on the line.
After an anxious minute the receptionist put him on hold while she checked if his daughter had been admitted.
The deadly silence only increased his fear.
She confirmed Isabel was involved in a hit-and-run and was on her way via ambulance. Distraught, he ended the call, hit the gas and sped off to the Royal Stoke University Hospital.
CHAPTER 58
Yusuf Benzar stood on the deck of the fifty-two foot 1968 refurbished Danish trawler, gazing out over the stern at the disappearing Liverpool dockland skyline as the boat ploughed a steady seven knots through the choppy Mersey Estuary, heading into the sunset towards the Irish Sea.
His brother paid the captain a hefty five grand for the charter of his impromptu escape from the UK. Yusuf being a wanted man had meant legal exit routes were off limits.
Charlie Bullard had arranged it. He’d struck up a friendship with a Bristol fisherman who’d spent time in the same prison wing as him in 1980.
The retired captain’s boat was registered in a false name with the Liverpool dock authorities. He topped up his pension with day fishing charters acquiring casual crew members when needed. On this covert trip to Port De Pêche Lorient, a six-foot three, dark-haired second mate Simon Platt assisted him. The experienced deckhand could be relied on implicitly to keep his mouth shut. Besides, fourteen hundred quid for a seven-day trip couldn’t be sneered at.
It’d been a covert operation from bike to van all the way up the M6 motorway to Liverpool where he’d checked into The Steam Liner Hotel on the Albert docks under an alias.
Below deck Yusuf glanced around his new home for the next few days. The mid-ship living area was lined with unvarnished marine ply, making it look like the inside of a cheap builders’ hut. The log burner, tatty three-piece sofa in brown velvet and small flat screen TV huddled under a porthole in the centre, did little for its ambiance.
In the privacy of his room, he unzipped the leather holdall Ibrahim supplied for the journey and laid its contents out on his bunk mattress. Apart from a toiletries bag, and some essential clothes, there were two important-looking bubble-wrap envelopes. ‘Personal use’ was typed in bold text on one and the other had ‘Payment’ on it.
Opening the first revealed two wads of cash separated by pale-blue sheaths. In the second envelope were two folded sheets of A4 stapled together, an untraceable mobile phone, a slimline digital camera loaded with hundreds of images of the Staffordshire Hoard, flight tickets from Rennes–Saint Jacques Airport in France to India and a fake passport.
Yusuf knew this was the last chance to redeem himself with his brother. Although the circumstances weren’t ideal, even he could see it was a good opportunity to get clean and start a new life somewhere else. Sibling jealousy aside, deep down he knew his brother would not cut him adrift altogether.
He unfolded the paper and read the list of chronologically typed instructions.
1. The boat will arrive in Port De Pêche Lorient, France on the 15th. Take the train to - Rennes Saint Jacques Airport, then Air France Flight no: AF 8125 to India.
2. Once in India (Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport Mumbai) call this number +918436408888. Our contact will pick you up, take you to your accommodation and arrange an evening meeting with the Jeweller.
3. We have already negotiated a price. Do not try haggling; stick to the thirty-grand deal agreed: fifteen upfront and fifteen on completion. Do not give them all of it up front!
4. The Indian will contact you and bring everything to your hotel.
5. Call this number 0789 5532210 to contact me when everything is ready for export to the UK.
Keep the phone fully charged and by your side at all times. I’ll call you later. Any problems, call on the number above. During any phone conversation do not mention details. Keep a low profile, and stay off drugs and alcohol.
I know you can do this.
Yours,
Ibrahim.
CHAPTER 59
Mickey Connor was in over his head to the tune of thirteen thousand on his credit cards. Most of the debt, and even more disturbing crippling interest rates, were down to his brain-dead ex-missus. Over a twenty-four-month period, the jobless, lazy slapper had waded into his plastic big time. The spree began when she purchased a fifty inch state-of-the-art TV, gallivanted on a hen week to Benidorm, which ended up being more like ten days and fifteen hundred quid on account of her buying endless rounds for a minibus of fatties from Lancashire she barely knew. The only thing he’d knowingly been party to was a first-class trip to Disneyland Florida with her and his little girl.
The baggage handler sat in the Silk Wheel pub on Selkirk Road, staring at his pint as if it were a magic lantern. He etched a pound sign in the condensation on the side of the glass whilst contemplating the bizarre phone conversation he’d had with his dad last week, offering him a lifeline.
He’d not seen him for around two years, and it had been even longer since they'd spoke on the phone. Considering his current financial predicament the call couldn't have come at a better time. Micky had gone off the rails when Connor Senior was sent down for beating up a bloke who was having an affair with his mother. With his dad inside he headed off to Manchester to live with a mate and start a new life, after five years of struggling with crap jobs around the city he landed a position at the airport.
He glanced at his watch. It was nearly 7.30 p.m. and his dad was about to introduce him to a dodgy bloke who was offering to pay off his debt for a favour. Reading between the lines the whole thing sounded highly illegal; not something he’d normally touch with a barge pole. But he was desperate and, as the saying goes, ‘beggars can’t be choosers’. So, there’d be no harm in listening to the proposal, he thought.
At 7.45 p.m. he considered going home to sink his sorrows with a few bottles of Suede Head when his old man entered, accompanied by a well-dressed foreign-looking bloke, putting paid to that idea.
‘Pint, son?’ Darryl asked him, cupping an imaginary glass.
‘Suede Head, please.’
Five minutes later the three of them sat in a private corner away from the bar. Darryl Connor introduced his companion as a businessman from Stoke named Kareem. Knowing full well his real name was Ibrahim, and he was a serious player.
‘What’s this all about then, dad?’
‘Since it’s Kareem’s gig, I’ll let him explain it.’
Ibrahim Ben
zar took a shifty glance around the pub before asking, ‘You’re a baggage handler at the airport?’
‘Yeah!’
He laid the bait. ‘Your dad tells me you’re having money problems?’
Mickey blushed. ‘What’s that got to do with the job?’ he asked, unimpressed his own father had betrayed his confidence.
‘We can help you with that in return for a favour.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘In a few days’ time we have a suitcase coming through Manchester Airport and need it picking up before it goes through customs. If you know what I mean.’ Ibrahim gave him a cocky wink.
‘If it’s drugs, or arms, you can count me out! No way I’m getting involved in that shit. Big-time prison sentence.’
‘Chill, it’s not drugs or guns,’ Ibrahim reassured him.
‘Don’t mean to be rude but what are you smuggling?’ Mickey asked.
Ibrahim paused, knowing Mickey wouldn’t get involved if he didn’t reveal the cargo, ‘Replica jewellery.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Why do you need me then? Surely you could just declare that through customs no bother. Just pay the tax, job done.’
‘Look, I can’t go into details,’ Ibrahim said ‘but we can’t do it that way. That’s all you need to know.’
‘How much we talking?’ Mickey asked.
‘If you pull it off without problems, seven up front, seven on delivery.’
‘Seven hundred quid?’
‘Thousand.’
Mickey’s eyes widened. ‘Fucking hell! Fourteen grand just to bring a suitcase full of fake jewellery through the back door!’
‘That’s the job. I’m going to the gents. You can talk it over with your dad? When I get back I need to know if you’re in or out.’
Ibrahim stood up and made his way over to the men’s, leaving Mickey limited time to objectively ponder his dodgy proposition.
‘Is this guy for real?’ Mickey asked, his voice changing pitch.
‘Yep, deadly serious. You’ve got about five minutes to make your mind up. He doesn’t mess about. He’ll just find somebody else. Thought you wanted the banks off your back?’
‘I do. The weekly interest is bastard killing me.’
‘It’s what they call a no-brainer then, innit?’ His dad said like an annoying second-hand car dealer.
‘What’s in it for you?’
‘Finder’s fee.’
He shot him a disapproving stare. ‘Sodding fiddler’s fee!’
‘Unfortunately, I’ve got some money troubles of my own son.’
Ibrahim returned from the gents and pressed for an answer. ‘Do we have a deal?’
Squirming in his chair, ill at ease Mickey, agreed, lured by the prospect of squaring up with the bank in one payment.
‘Great, now we celebrate.’ Ibrahim ordered three single-malt whiskys from the passing barmaid. With a warm whisky glow inside, Mickey sat there listening to the details of what his role was, which in principle sounded easy enough, although the rational part of his brain was telling him if caught he’d be sacked with the possibility of a custodial sentence. He knew full well those anal twats at customs operated a stringent no mercy policy.
‘OK, here’s how we’re playing this. You keep this mobile charged and with you all the time. It’s untraceable,’ Ibrahim said, passing it over.
‘OK.’
‘I’ll text you forty-eight hours before the plane lands with the flight numbers and information about which case it is. Don’t use the phone to call anybody else.’
CHAPTER 60
It was ten hours since the Danish trawler left Liverpool docks Yusuf slowly opened his eyes and looked around the unfamiliar surroundings of the tiny cabin, which would serve as his makeshift bedroom for the next few days. Having been in a prison cell most of the day before and then travelling for a further twelve hours, without regular meals, fatigue and tiredness were starting to drain him of mental clarity. Climbing off the bunk he felt the boat rise and fall under his feet. Steadying himself with an outstretched arm on the handrail, he flung open the cabin door and went in search of food.
Up in the control room, the captain was perched on a high seat carefully rolling himself a smoke. The balding 58-year-old’s face had more lines than an ordnance survey map. A real lived-in sailor’s complexion, which had probably weathered more storms than a lighthouse.
‘Looking rough, boy,’ he said in a distinctly Bristol dialect.
Too tired to respond, Yusuf asked, ‘Where’s the food?’
‘You’ll be wanting to see Simon for that.’
‘Who?’
‘My man over aft there.’
Not fully comprehending the captain’s strange accent, Yusuf nodded in agreement, then ambled out of his domain, clinging onto the side of the boat. Cool sea water sprayed his hands and face lightly as the boat ploughed through the choppy summer waves. The second mate’s pale-blue gill trousers mirrored the sky as he rocked back and forth on the deck in the morning sun. Yusuf cautiously approached him, still trying to get used to the boat’s movement.
‘Captain says you’ll show me where the food is?’
Nodding in acknowledgement, the seaman stopped what he was doing and made his way over to the hungry Turk. ‘This way,’ he said, passing him without so much as a wobble before disappearing through the door below deck. Almost losing his footing on the near-vertical stairs Yusuf eventually made it to the tiny kitchen, which consisted of a Formica worktop displaying several pan burn rings, an ancient cream microwave, a kettle, two electric rings and a lopsided cupboard stacked full of tinned and dried food goods.
Pointing inside the cupboard the second mate guided Yusuf through the supplies. Best bet, if you’re looking for quick meal, is one of these packet pasta meals. Slap it in a pan of boiling water, job done! Tea and coffee are in the jars. Milk’s in here,’ he said, knocking on the rust-spattered fridge door located under the worktop.
Being useless in the kitchen, Yusuf took his advice and opted for the packet pasta. Within ten minutes he sat at the tatty breakfast counter on a high stool, scoffing like a starving street urchin.
The captain informed him that his passage to the France would take almost four days, barring freak weather. Being only ten hours into the arduous trip, the thought of swaying constantly with bugger all to do except listen to the radio or read, made him feel nauseous. Moving over into the mid-ship lounge, he dropped onto the sofa, picked up a dog-eared two-day-old copy of a UK national newspaper and skimmed the headlines.
Not been a regular newspaper reader, he couldn’t believe how much bad news there was. Everything from child abduction to major terrorist plots being foiled. He’d soon seen enough of this so-called news to last a lifetime, so ambled back to his bunk for a long overdue rest.
CHAPTER 61
Upon arrival at Stoke Royal University Hospital, Blake discovered the car park was chock-full, so he abandoned his car on a grass embankment, disinterested in the consequences. He dashed over to the reception desk and barged his way to the front, to the displeasure of the other queuing visitors.
The receptionist directed him towards the Critical Care Unit. On the second floor he buzzed himself through and was greeted by a young male doctor wearing large-framed eighties-style specs, who looked fresh out of med school.
Blake followed him to Isabel’s bedside. Seeing his only child lying prostrate on a ventilator with tubes in her mouth and arms flooded his mind with distressing images of his deceased wife and son. Fighting back tears he bit his lip in anguish.
‘I… is she going to live, doctor?’ he murmured painfully.
‘She’s taken a nasty blow to the head from ground impact. Apart from that her other injuries are superficial: cuts and scratches. There’s no broken bones or spinal injury, which is unusual. Normally there’s multiple fractures when a vehicle hits a pedestrian. Your daughter’s on a ventilator because the head trauma has made h
er breathing erratic. The next forty-eight hours are critical. If she pulls through that, then hopefully she’ll improve. But there’s no guarantee; the brain is very complex. Fortunately, the CT scan revealed nothing to be concerned about. I’m afraid all we can do is wait.’
Like a sniper shot taking him down, Blake dropped into a high-back visitors’ chair next to the bed. Bringing a shaky hand to his forehead, he sighed deeply, wondering if he’d been singled out to receive triple his share of devastation by some divine power.
‘I want to stay with her.’
‘Of course, I’d expect nothing less. This ward is designed for twenty-four-hour visitors. I know it’s a very distressing time, but I can assure you Isabel will receive the best possible care we can provide. We’ll be checking on her around the clock. If you have any further questions, or need to speak to me any time regarding your daughter, here’s my number.’ The young doctor passed over his card.
Blake nodded a polite gesture of thanks but the shock rendered him mute of any meaningful reply. He just sat there looking at the myriad of medical devices hooked up to his precious girl. Two that he recognised instantly were the heart monitor and the ventilator. The other hi-tech screens and devices, although obviously designed to assist bodily functions, scared the hell out of him. It all looked so serious.
He was no stranger to an ICU unit, but questioning a victim’s family, although sad, didn’t engage the kind of emotions he was experiencing; it didn’t even come close. Empathy was endearing but lacked the heart-wrenching intensity of blood ties.
Blake spent a few hours pacing around Isabel’s bed before the tension became just too much, so he decided to go into the station to see if there were any developments in the Barry Gibson murder case. He desperately needed a distraction.
The Killer Shadow Thieves (DI Tom Blake, #1) Page 20
