by Iain Cameron
The house would be put on the market after it was redecorated and a few things repaired, but for a host of reasons, she couldn’t summon up the energy.
For an hour or two she surfed the net, not to read about the arrest of Jay Thomas or the Richards brothers, but looking to buy something to cheer herself up. Was her shaking hand, not as bad now as it had been, a sign to suggest she wasn’t cut out for this type of work? It was the first time such a thought had entered her head, and it scared her. She had spent her entire career in law enforcement and wouldn’t have a clue what to do in its stead.
Perhaps it was a delayed reaction to the departure of Andrew. While she had never regretted her decision, it was hard letting go of all the memories they had shared together. When they were good, they were bloody good. With Andrew working in the airline business, they had been on more holidays than most, and had been to more exotic places than people on her salary could afford to visit.
She felt tearful, but rather than let the emotion spill out and ruin her evening, she walked to the fridge and took out all the ingredients she needed for her dinner. She had always enjoyed cooking, but never found the time to do it regularly, and Andrew leaving made no real difference, except most of her recipes were for two people.
Rosie’s phone rang. She was tempted to leave it, especially if it was HR sending her for a psychological assessment after her traumatic afternoon. Glancing down at the screen, she saw it was Matt, and answered.
‘Hi Rosie. How are you? I heard what went on at the gym.’
‘Not so good.’
‘I’m not surprised. It sounded like a near-riot and must have been really frightening. With angry crowds, people egg one another on, and with tensions rising it’s impossible to predict what will happen next. I know if it happened to me, I would have been crapping myself.’
‘Thanks for your support, Matt, I need it.’
‘Don’t think I don’t mean it. I’ve never been in a similar situation, but I’ve talked to cops who have. They say being chased through a housing estate by a baying mob is the scariest thing you’ll ever face, worse than a druggie with a knife, or an angry big bastard who’s just knocked his missus senseless.’
‘It was the unpredictability of it all. None of us knew if they wanted to free Thomas, or give us a severe beating, or both.’
‘Talking of Thomas, he’s been interviewed.’
Rosie was tempted to say, ‘What, without me?’ but she knew she couldn’t have done it, not today. ‘What did he have to say?’
‘He said a lot less than his mate, Tamplin. Claimed he was only hired to drive the car. Clammed up when I accused him of going to the house and nabbing David Burke.’
‘Liar.’
‘Filling in the blanks, I reckon only Tamplin knocked on the door. When David saw him on the camera, it would have tied with the picture of the guy who was coming to view the house.’
‘I agree.’
‘Once inside, and when David turned his back, Tamplin must have done something like whack him on the head, or stick a needle into his arm, disabling him. Thomas must have reversed the car up the drive and helped to lift him inside.’
‘What do forensics tell us?’
‘They’ve now finished with the car. Several strands of hair belonging to David were found on the back seat.’
‘Bingo! Our theory holds water.’
‘It does. I think they’ve told us all they will, so we’ve handed them over to the cops for charging.’
‘Good’.
‘We’ve also interviewed the Richards brothers.’
‘Good God, you guys have been busy. I take it you’re not going anywhere tonight?’
‘No, Suzy’s working. Time is money in the movie business, so I’m told.’
‘What did you find out?’
‘As you know, Vince and his brother Don run an engineering company. They had all the equipment commonly found in a typical engineering factory: drills, cutting machines, boring machines; the works.’
‘Okay.’
‘It’s all fake. On their website and company blurb, they make engineered parts for the oil industry. Do they hell. What they do is manufacture weapons and, for a change of scenery, import replicas from Eastern Europe and convert them to fire live ammunition.’
‘Amazing. They’ve probably been operating for years, and have put hundreds of guns on the street.’
‘For sure, but the Richards have been good to us in other ways. When we searched the office, we found their customer list: gun dealers who sell these things in pubs. Not only will we be able to take a load of illegal weaponry off the streets and charge a lot of scumbags with firearm offences, the Met are confident of nabbing ten or twenty of their buyers. The hope is they’ll solve a number of cold cases as a result.’
‘Great news. Where does all this leave us with our kidnap victim?’
Matt sighed. ‘We still don’t know who’s holding him, but I think we know the next link up the chain.’
‘Brilliant! Did you have to give away much to extract it?’
‘Not one day of jail time.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Byron Locke.’
‘How do you know it’s him?’
‘His details were on the phone we took from Vince. All it took was me threatening to tell Byron, and Vince gave him up. He then filled in a bit more of the picture, but not much.’
‘His name means nothing to me.’
‘I know him, and he should remember me. He made his first fortune by selling a tract of land he owned in Docklands to a property developer. He now owns a string of businesses: a chain of pubs, four hotels, several booze warehouses, and, last I heard, a construction business.’
‘He sounds quite the businessman.’
‘He does, doesn’t he? Rumours have been circulating for years that he’s been laundering money made through illegal gambling, people trafficking, and drugs, through his legit businesses. It’s believed he owns a share in a large lab in China involved in making NPS, Novel Psychoactive Substances, otherwise known as legal highs. When one version is outlawed in the west, they change its chemical formula and call it something else. That activity alone is reckoned to pull in half-a-million a month.’
‘If he was for real with a record of expansion like that, every month he would feature in the business pages of The Sunday Times.’
‘He’s certainly one of a new breed who has the appearance of a legitimate businessman, but underneath they’re as dirty and dangerous as their predecessors. From what I know of him and what he does, I can’t think of a reason why he would be interested in someone like David Burke.’
‘Why don’t we bring him in and ask him?’
‘It’s not so easy. He employs loads of people and never soils his own hands doing the mucky work. Plus, at the first whiff of trouble, he’ll wheel in top London lawyer, Colin Griffiths.’
‘The guy who takes on the government and big businesses with human rights cases and more often than not wins?’
‘The same. He’ll work for anyone who he thinks is being oppressed by big business, government, government agencies, or the EU.’
‘But he’s not averse to defending known scumbags?’
‘In Griffiths’ mind, he would be safeguarding the rights of an individual being oppressed by large, bullying organisations, such as the police.’
‘You’ve obviously had dealings with this guy in the past.’
‘Oh, yes. The team I used to work for arrested Locke for the murder of a flamboyant youth club leader, who had a sideline selling drugs to some of his charges. The judge threw the case out, calling it a campaign of harassment against the defendant by the Met. He later sued, and the Met was forced to pay him two hundred thousand in compensation. A couple of good detectives lost their jobs over it.’
‘He sounds like a difficult man to get on the wrong side of.’
‘For that reason, I don’t think Gill would sanction bringing Locke in for questioning, or
putting his house under surveillance.’
‘So, what do we do?’
‘We need to think of a way to get at him without him running to his lawyer. I don’t think he’s holding David, but I strongly suspect he’ll know the person who is. In my opinion, Locke is probably the second-last link in the chain.’
TWELVE
They turned off the M2 and drove in the direction of Chatham. Matt had left Rosie in the office to give her a break from operational duties. This time, he was accompanied by Joseph Teller.
Joseph had joined the organisation around the same time as he had, and like Matt, he was a former murder squad detective. He was a good-looking bloke, a year younger than Matt, with styled black hair and strong features deployed to their full potential to woo a succession of girlfriends. So far, his late-night antics hadn’t impacted on his HSA work; the job didn’t allow it, and Matt and his colleagues wouldn’t put up with it.
‘Gill doesn’t sound too enamoured with the progress we’ve been making,’ Joseph said. ‘We’ve only pulled in some little fish, he said. We need bigger bait if we’re hunting a shark.’
‘That’s the first time I’ve heard of him using a fishing analogy. He once told me he’d spent so much time on the water with the Marines, he would never step into a boat again.’
‘He doesn’t seem to notice, or care about, the serious scumbags we’ve taken off the streets.’
‘I suppose he’s under pressure from the Cabinet Office and members of Cobra, as they only have eyes for the big prize; they want their Assistant Director of MI5 back. The accolades for reducing the gun supply and nabbing sods like Dom and Vince Richards won’t be handed out until if, or when, we get him back.’
‘How well do you know him? David Burke, I mean, not Gill.’
‘We go out for a drink a couple of times a month, and now and again go out for a meal. I’ve met his wife and daughters.’
‘Pretty well, then.’
‘I would say so.’
‘If he’s Assistant Director at MI5, it makes him an important guy. God help him if he’s been taken by terrorists.’
‘Yeah, and with successive governments meddling in the affairs of the Middle East, there’s enough of them about.’
Matt pulled out to overtake a truck. He needed to put his foot down; the car coming towards him wasn’t for slowing down. He veered back to his side of the road without eliciting a blast of the other car’s horn. Thank goodness, he wasn’t in the mood for dealing with spikey motorists.
‘So,’ Joseph said, ‘what’s your take on what happened at the gym? It seems to have shaken Rosie up a bit.’
‘I think she’ll be fine. She just needs some time to get it out of her system.’
‘You think it’ll be that easy?’
‘You don’t?’
‘I don’t want to be facing a difficult situation, someone pointing a gun at me and finding my partner’s bailed.’
‘You know Rosie wouldn’t do that.’
‘You think? It was a scary thing to be faced with an angry mob. The next serious incident could finish her. I’ve seen it happen to seasoned detectives.’
‘It’s something we need to keep a close eye on. At the moment, she says she’s fit enough for operational duties and we have to respect that. The couple of days she’s taking off should do her some good.’
Matt turned the car into an out-of-town retail park, and parked in sight of a large outlet with a gigantic sign proclaiming: Booze Bargains. It was around eleven in the morning and to his surprise, the car park was busy.
They walked towards it. Posters proclaimed the store offered better prices than were available on booze cruises to France or Holland. From what Matt knew about UK alcohol duty and VAT, it was a bold claim.
They headed inside and bold was definitely the word to describe it. None of the subtle promotions found at the likes of Majestic, or on supermarket shelves. Here, huge signs hung from the ceiling a few metres above the bottle racks proclaiming: Buy Two, Get Two Free!, Buy Six Get 15% Off!, and so on throughout the store.
Plenty of staff were around, most of whom were giving the hard sell to curious customers, a sizeable number given the early hour. It was an interesting business technique: put little information about the product on the shelves, and encourage the customers to engage with sales staff. It was a more expensive operation to run than a warehouse with only a couple of people behind the tills, but Matt reckoned the consequent sale would be higher than the customer intended to spend.
The business was owned by Byron Locke, and despite having other Booze Bargains outlets, and other unrelated businesses, this was the head office of his empire. Matt suspected the decision was based on practicality with a little sentimentality thrown in for good measure. Booze Bargains was the first business Locke had started after receiving the land sale windfall, the Chatham branch being the first and most successful. In addition, he lived less than five miles from the site.
They spotted a guy wearing a ‘Manager’ badge and walked towards him. On closer inspection the badge also included his name: ‘Darren’. They waited while he talked to one of his staff. It sounded more like a telling off, perhaps for losing his last sale, or exhorting him to engage more with the customers already in the store.
‘Good morning, gentlemen, how can I help you? Are you looking to buy beer, or wine, or maybe some cigarettes? We’ve got some great wine from the Dordogne and it’s flying off the shelves faster than we can fill them. Can I interest you–’
‘Sorry Darren, we’re not here to buy anything. We’d like to speak to Byron Locke.’
‘Why do you want to speak to Mr Locke? Who are you?’
‘I’m Matt Flynn and this is Joseph Teller from HSA,’ Matt said. He handed him his ID.
‘Matt Flynn and Joseph Teller,’ he muttered. ‘Got it. Please wait here and I’ll check to see if he’s coming in today. He hasn’t been around for over a week.’
Despite wearing a headset which presumably could be used to communicate with anyone in the store, he rushed away towards the long counter with six tills, and disappeared through a door at the back.
‘Saying Locke’s name had a magic effect,’ Joseph said. ‘He stopped talking about wine and scurried away as if he’d been shot in the arse with an airgun.’
Matt laughed. ‘You conjure up such a picturesque image.’
It was the middle of the week but the tills were ringing continually. Matt imagined that what they sold would change depending on what day it was. Close to a weekend, it would be beer for those planning to watch football, and wine for those anticipating a quiet night in, or having a few friends around for dinner. Midweek, spirits would be much in demand from those with a serious drinking habit that needed to be topped up.
The manager came scurrying back, but the expression on his face didn’t look promising.
‘I’m sorry, I’m told Mr Locke is out of the country at the moment. I have no idea where he is or when he’s coming back. I apologise for not being more helpful.’
‘You wouldn’t be telling us porkies, would you, Darren?’ Joseph said ‘So that we’ll bugger off out of your hair?’
‘What do you mean? No, no, I’m not, it’s the truth. He’s not here.’
‘Our information led us to believe he would be here.’
‘He often goes away on business at short notice, and he owns a property abroad. He might have gone there for a few days.’
‘Where is this property?’
‘I have no idea. Would you like to leave a message? I’ve told you all I can.’
‘No, we won’t. Thanks for your help. If we don’t find him, we’ll be back.’
‘What a liar,’ Joseph said as they walked towards the exit. ‘The holiday house story just seemed to have popped into his head.’
‘Who knows, but if he is overseas, my guess is it wouldn’t be for work. I accept my information is a few years old, but none of his businesses are what you might call international.’
&
nbsp; ‘It’s not as if we’re here to give Locke a hard time, we only want to talk to him.’
They walked outside. It was a relief for the eyes and brain not to be assailed by all the Day-Glo sales stickers. Matt imagined when members of staff went home, they would still see the huge stars proclaiming 10% Off! when they closed their eyes.
They made their way through a maze of cars. When they had first arrived, there were plenty of spaces. Now, newcomers would have no choice but to park at the back.
Up ahead, Matt spotted two men walking fast and across the lines of cars. It wasn’t an unusual sight in a large car park, someone had left their wallet in the car, or were rushing home after receiving a terse phone call about a burst pipe, but something about their manner made him look closer. They were both stocky, one bald and the other with long straggly hair, tied in a pony-tail, both with dogged determination in their faces and in their walk. Matt nudged Joseph, but he had noticed them too.
The HSA agents slowed their pace, as if looking at an interesting car, allowing the men to walk past if this was their intention. Instead, they turned and headed straight down the line of cars in their direction. They could see both men carried something in their right hands. It looked like a small weapon, not bladed, but wooden, like a club or cosh.
The HSA agents took a few steps back into a more open area, a car thoroughfare, and waited. From a few metres away, the two men ran towards them, clubs raised. Seconds before impact, Matt stepped forward. He reached the bald guy as the club was at the top of its arc, and punched his assailant in the gut. A weakened blow struck Matt’s arm and the weapon fell to the ground with a clatter. Matt followed up with a punch to the face. As the guy staggered back clutching his gushing nose, Matt kicked him hard in the balls. The guy dropped to his knees, moaning. Using his foot, Matt pushed his assailant face-down into the tarmac. With luck a car would come along and run him over.
He looked over at Joseph. He was doing much the same to his attacker, the younger-looking guy with a ponytail, who was now sporting the same bloody nose as his companion. Joseph dumped him on the tarmac, flicked him over, and shoved his arm up his back until he heard something snap.
