by Matt Johnson
Without being defensive, Nina explained that the witness protection programme had declined to fund a re-location, so the Hampstead flat had been a compromise. She had worked out a schedule of regular visits with Relia and given her specific instructions about leaving the flat, and making contact with friends, either from her home country or in London.
As the organisation charged with protecting Relia, we all felt some guilt. As DCI Bowler continued with his briefing he made it quite clear that he wanted us to find out if Relia had been out and about – where she had gone and at what times.
As the meeting ended, Bowler called me and Nina into his office. The small room smelt of percolated coffee. Documents littered a bulky desk and on the rear wall, there was a large white board with what looked like a flattened spider drawn on it. Bowler noticed me staring at it.
‘It’s a mind map. It’s not much at the moment but, believe me, it will soon be filled as you guys start the information flow.’
As I sat down next to Nina, still puzzling at the spider drawing, Bowler’s tone quickly changed. ‘Right, first things first: where were you two yesterday?’
Nina answered before I had time to think. ‘I was sick, finding Relia like that affected me more than I expected. DI Finlay was with MI5 all day due to his recent problems. I assume you’ve been apprised of them?’
The DCI snorted. ‘Yes … we’re well aware. And, as I’m sure you both know, the first twenty-four hours in a murder enquiry can be crucial. So far, we’ve got nowhere. I’ve not long come off the phone with your Superintendent. He’s OK’d it that, for the next few days, at least, you will be on AMIT with me. Nina, I’m going to ask you to work here with the Office Manager and I will need a statement from you, usual stuff from the scene but also cover everything you know about Relia Stanga – her history, where she hails from, how we came across her … anything really.’
Nina nodded. ‘I’ll get on it straight away. But I think we should be visiting the brothel where she was picked up.’
‘Already on it. And later on I want you to tell me more about this Cristea syndicate,’ said Bowler. He turned to me.
‘Bob, no disrespect, but in view of your lack of CID experience I’ve partnered you with DC Bonner on one of the investigation teams. He’s a good lad, you’ll like him – bright spark with a great sense of humour. I’ve asked him to wait for you in the canteen. He’ll show you the ropes, how to use HOLMES, that kind of thing.’
‘HOLMES?’ I asked, doing my best not to look too puzzled.
‘Our computer system. We’ve just switched to the new version – HOLMES TWO. It makes sure that people like me can process the tons of information that people like you will be bringing in so that we don’t overlook any clues.’
Nina and I left our new boss making telephone calls. The main enquiry room was already buzzing with activity. In some ways it resembled a small call centre, with operators busy on telephones in front of computer screens. All those present, however, were focussed on one task: finding Relia’s killers.
‘Thanks for covering for me,’ I said to Nina quietly as we entered the main enquiry office.
‘No problem. Do the same for me one day.’
Before heading off to the canteen, Nina introduced me to another Detective Sergeant, Naomi Young, who had been appointed as the Office Manager. Determined to strike while the iron was hot, the two of them patiently attempted to explain to me how HOLMES worked. But, almost instantly, my eyes began to glaze over and the detective saw it.
‘Bit technical?’
‘Yes … computers really aren’t my thing. I’ve only just discovered the internet.’
‘OK … sorry. I’ll keep it simple.’ Naomi turned to her desk, tapped a few keys on the keyboard and indicated a complex looking screen that appeared on the visual display unit.
‘This is HOLMES TWO. Stands for Home Office Large and Major Enquiry System. HOLMES ONE was OK but it couldn’t link between different police forces or even between different enquiries. The updated version can, so if, for example, we have a serial killer operating in Yorkshire, Devon and the Met, we ought to be able to see the common factors.’
‘Sounds good,’ I replied.
‘Oh, it is good. But it’s only as good as you guys on the ground. The better the information you give us to put into it, the more valuable the data it can produce. Conversely, shit data produces shit intelligence, so to speak.’
‘I think I get the idea.’
‘My best advice to you is not to think like a layman. For example, something that may seem to be a simple coincidence could actually be a thread of information. Weave a few threads together and they start to form a picture. Our job, as detectives, is to recognise those threads and to create that picture. HOLMES helps us do that.’
‘Does it actually solve cases?’ I asked.
Naomi chuckled. ‘Not exactly. Think of a crime as being like a mirror that’s been smashed into fragments and all those parts have been spread to the four winds. HOLMES helps us piece things together so the image is revealed. It might not tell us the whole story but it can fill in detail – timings, where people say they were, comparing one person’s statement against another, that kind of thing.’
‘But more complicated?’
‘Of course. And often we don’t need the whole mirror image to be able to solve the crime. Most of all, HOLMES helps if we’re struggling with the biggie, what is arguably the single most important clue in any investigation.’
‘Which is?’
‘The motive.’ She patted the top of her screen as if it were a favourite pet. ‘Find why someone was murdered and you’re halfway to finding who. But remember, although it’s a good system, it will never replace a copper’s gut instinct. So … if you simply follow what the computer says, you might catch villains, but you’ll do nothing that coppers haven’t been doing for years using their brains.’
I smiled. Despite being a techie, our Office Manager was still a detective.
My introduction to the electronic side to a major investigation over, Nina led the way to the station canteen. As soon as we were alone in the corridor, I asked her a question that had been nagging at me all morning. Did she think her plan had worked?
‘I think so,’ she replied, somewhat nonchalantly.
‘You think so?’
‘OK … I’m pretty sure. The DCI has the Cristeas on his radar. It was my idea that he employ you on the enquiry team and put you on door-to-door.’
‘Teaching me the ropes?’
‘Something like that. Just remember: you’re an eye witness to a suspect. You remember what Naomi said?’
‘Which bit?’ I asked.
‘About coincidence being a clue. You chasing down that gunman and finding he was the same bloke you met in Romania was what Naomi referred to as a layman’s coincidence. To a detective, it’s a line of enquiry … and it will help with building up a picture of what exactly happened to Relia and why. It was chance that you clocked him, pure luck, maybe … but you made that luck by being determined to check for the killer’s escape route.’
‘So why put me out knocking on doors?’
‘Because you know exactly who we’re looking for, Finlay. If you see him or his friends, or any clue as to their whereabouts, then you are going to recognise it when others might miss it. They were here, in this very area, on these very streets and people saw them. Those are the same people that you are going to be talking to … and one of them might hold the clue we need to put a name to the face you recognised.’
‘Sounds good. So … what am I going to do about my other problem?’
‘Toni Fellowes, you mean?’
‘Yes. I called her and she apologised. But I’m not entirely sure she took it on board.’
Nina leaned toward me, her left hand moving to gently adjust the lapel of my jacket. ‘You leave her to me.’
A few moments later, we located Josh Bonner, my working partner for the day. He was in the canteen, sat with hi
s back to the door, talking to two of the other members of the team. The group were just finishing chatting as I walked up. Nina left us to get acquainted.
Josh stood up, his chair dragging noisily on the linoleum floor. As I reached out a hand in greeting, the two other detectives stood. For a moment, it seemed they were also about to extend a welcome. Then, without uttering a word, they both turned and strode quickly to the door.
‘Something I said?’ I asked my new companion, as soon as we were alone.
‘Bit awkward guv,’ Josh replied, as we sat down. He took a deep breath.
I sensed what was coming.
‘You see … we know about you. It’s gone round the job like wildfire. It’s not every day the IRA start targeting coppers, and everyone knows they earmarked you for some special attention.’
I thought carefully before replying, recalling how the assembled detectives had fallen silent as Nina and I entered the briefing room. I had considered it a fairly normal response to the arrival of strangers. Now, what Josh was saying cast the reaction in a new light. ‘So, are they OK with me being around?’ I asked.
‘Most of them don’t give a toss, but a few – like those two – think you might … well … be a bit of a bullet magnet.’
I sighed. It seemed that, for a while, this was a situation that was going to follow me wherever I went in the police. Until people started to forget about what had happened, I would have the shadow of it hanging over me.
‘Listen Josh,’ I scowled. ‘It wasn’t the IRA; just some idiots with a grievance. The combined efforts of SO19 and the Anti-Terrorist Squad managed to take care of them. I’m just trying to get on with my life.’
‘Sounds like a helluva story. Any truth in the rumour that you were SAS?’
I took a deep breath. ‘Yes … a very long time ago. You were probably still wearing shorts.’
‘Guess so … sorry. Just that you guys are heroes of mine. That’s why I agreed to be posted with you when we were all asked.’
‘You were all asked?’
‘Yeah, everyone knows, DCI included. You can’t keep things secret for long in this job. We were all given a choice about working with you.’
‘OK, Josh.’ I stood up, realising that I needed to get out in the fresh air before I lost my temper. ‘It’s time you started teaching me how to be a detective.’
Chapter 52
Wearing out shoe leather is a basic necessity of being a detective.
Josh Bonner and I we were tasked with visiting shops on the east side of the main Hampstead High Street and showing Relia’s photo to anyone we met. There were dozens of potential sources of information: boutiques, mini-markets and several estate agents stood side by side with solicitors, banks and even an internet café. They all had to be visited, and all the occupants interviewed.
We were expected. Word had spread of the murder and I was relieved to discover that, in the main, people were more than helpful. It differed from times when, as a PC, I had been drafted onto similar squads to do the legwork. There were all too many areas in London where cooperation was not at all guaranteed. Hampstead was an exception, rather than the rule.
Many people were curious. They wanted to know who Relia was, where the murder had occurred and what had happened. Josh did most of the talking but kept it brief. The DCI had given instructions that any shops with Eastern European employees were to be noted, especially if they shared the language of Relia’s home country, Romania. He was of the opinion that Relia may well have given away her location to the traffickers by talking in her native tongue to somebody local. It was a reasonable starting point in our effort to establish a trail to the killers.
Every location we visited was logged, each person present was spoken to and their details recorded. Everyone absent was listed for a follow-up visit. The HOLMES demand for data input was thorough and colossal.
Before long, we were becoming hungry, so Josh suggested a diversion to the nearest petrol station. It had a small sandwich shop and was on the list for us to check, so we were killing two birds with one stone.
The pay desk at the petrol station was manned by a single, not very helpful, Asian lad. Fortunately, his mother was sitting in the office at the rear and she proved to be the antithesis of her son. Neither of them recognised Relia from the rather worn photograph. But they did have a CCTV system and they were willing to allow us to sit and watch it from the comfort of the back office.
The CCTV was modern, using a digital recording system that stored several weeks’ worth of images. The owners of the petrol station used it to deter shoplifting and to record the registration numbers of the cars when the drivers made off without paying. As we sat watching the screen, paper cups of tea and packs of sandwiches to hand, I asked about Eastern European customers, on the off chance they might remember something.
As Josh had told me, ‘The more questions you ask, the luckier you get.’ And we were in luck: what the lady owner remembered was vital.
She recalled two foreign men, the previous Sunday evening, asking for directions to Redhill Flats after buying petrol. It had stuck in her memory because her sister also lived in the block. The men had paid cash, using a crisp, new fifty-pound note. It was still in the safe. The owner knew it was the same one as they rarely saw them. Most people paid by card and traders generally avoided large notes, for fear they could be counterfeit.
Josh immediately asked to review the CCTV for the Sunday evening. With the review set to double speed, we focussed on the counter camera, looking for the moment that the two foreigners would appear.
As the clock reached 8.22 pm on the CCTV recording, I leapt up and stopped the player. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes I would not have believed it.
There, on the small screen before me, was the gunman from the Cristea wedding. The same man who escaped from me and Nina two days previously. Also on the monitor, just behind the gunman, stood a well-built and very familiar figure.
It was Petre, Marica’s bodyguard.
Chapter 53
As Toni entered through the security door, it was immediately clear Nell was finding it hard to contain herself. The speed at which her researcher typed seemed to reflect her mood. Angry or excited, her fingers were a blur of activity.
Nell pointed at the PC screen. ‘Read,’ she said.
‘What’s so urgent, Nell?’ Toni replied as she dropped her handbag and pre-packed sandwich on the desk and pulled up a chair.
‘I did what you asked. You’ll need to follow my report to understand it fully, but I established an unlikely connection between the author you were looking for and the Operation Hastings murders.’
‘Seriously? What kind of connection?’
‘Just read.’
On the face of it, Toni had given her assistant two completely unconnected lines of enquiry: Operation Hastings and Cristea Publishing. Hastings to tie up loose-ends, and Cristea to try and help Finlay. As Nell had continued to dig, the more she had looked, the more she had found. As they sat together reading through Nell’s report, Toni learned why her researcher was so excited.
MI6 files from the 70s and 80s had only recently been transferred into digital form but Nell reported the job had been completed conscientiously. Toni had no doubt that some poorly paid clerk had been given the rather tedious scanning task, spending many hours going through hundreds of handwritten and typed reports, in case, one day, someone should need to see the information they contained. On this particular day, Toni was that someone.
Nell’s report was detailed and comprehensive. It began by describing how the Cristeas were originally a farming family who had grown in stature since the mid-80s, when the senior member of the family, Gheorghe Cristea, had expanded his honey production business. Using established trade routes through Afghanistan and Pakistan, Gheorghe had started importing opium. He had first come to the notice of MI6 in 1983, when information had reached the ears of the FIA, the Federal Investigation Agency at Islamabad in Pakistan. The Cristeas
then used those same routes to transport arms to Ahmad Shah Massoud, a military leader from the Panjshir valley in northern Afghanistan. An MI6 PF had been created for Gheorghe Cristea.
‘Cristea has a personal file?’ she enquired.
‘You’d better believe it,’ said Nell.
Toni read on. The family had continued to expand their interests. Honey routes became regular opium trails, which also started to see the movement of precious stones, such as emeralds and lapis lazuli, which were mined and exported through northern Afghanistan. These were then exchanged for what were becoming the most valuable and sought after commodities in the area: weapons and armaments.
With burgeoning income streams, the Cristea empire grew. However, when the demand for weapons diminished, a switch had been made to what was fast becoming a highly lucrative trade. The trafficking of sex workers. The Cristeas had even been mentioned in a United Nations report on links between UN-appointed contractors and the organised slave trade. In 1996, Anton Cristea, the eldest son of Gheorghe, had been killed in a shoot-out with local police in Georgia. Anton had been transporting women who had been abducted and were destined for the sex-slave trade.
Toni stopped reading. ‘Sex trafficking? You’re telling me Cristea Publishing is a front for drugs and people trafficking?’
‘Hard to believe, isn’t it?’
‘This is really interesting, Nell. But what does it have to do with Chas Collins or Finlay and the Hastings report?’
‘There’s more, trust me. It’s what was missing from the FIA reports that gives it away.’
As Toni read on, she began to get the picture. Nell’s eye for detail was incredible, particularly when it came to documents and reports. She assimilated information at a phenomenal rate and her memory never failed to amaze. These skills meant Nell had noticed one report was absent from the 1983 weekly FIA reports from Pakistan.
