‘He texted me the day before we planned to meet in Paris. I got the train from London and waited at the Hilton hotel. I had booked a room and waited there all day. He didn’t arrive, and I immediately knew something was wrong. That’s when I let my editor know. The next thing I knew, Jane arrived at the hotel and took me straight here. I knew something had happened to Alfie straight away and he hasn’t texted me since.’
Sean surmised that Alfie would have been careful with his texting activity, and that he would have ensured at that late stage of his operation that he had driven far away from his bolt-hole in Collioure to text Melissa and not give away his safe location. Alfie would have known the capability of state agencies to triangulate his position from any texts that may have been hacked from Melissa’s phone. Sean was also very sure that people had monitored Melissa’s movements and phone activity. It all looked to him like state agencies were involved, but which ones?
‘Did he ever text or email you explaining which route he was taking to meet you in Paris?’
‘No. He never told me where he was, and I never asked. He knew that I wouldn’t ask so he never told me how he was getting to any of our meeting places. He simply gave me a time, date and venue.’
‘And did you ever know what date he was going to start leaking all these secrets and what his escape plan was?’
‘Listen, Sean. That part of the plan was all his and his alone. He told me that I’d know the point at which I would never see him again, probably at the point the first of my articles would be released. But again, the editor didn’t tell me when he would break the story. I wrote the leaders and Alfie told me he would be in touch to drip-feed the next stories through the editor and I’d be asked to create the stories with another journalist – that was the deal.’
Sean knew that it had probably been state actors using electronic surveillance on Melissa that had eventually led them to tracking Alfie’s movements, and that they had clearly picked their time to close in on him and take him out of the game. Was it the Russians after the list of moles? He sensed Melissa was getting agitated and decided to change tack.
‘I told you that you wouldn’t get your life back for a while and the problem is I don’t know how long that while will be. You’re certainly in danger and we need to move quickly, so we’ll be moving out of here tomorrow to a place where we can begin to piece Alfie’s last movements together.’
‘Good. Because if you’re going to search for Alfie, I’m damned well coming with you, whether you like it or not,’ she snapped.
Sean watched her scrunch her face. ‘The time will come when we will get you back home, Melissa – and I’ll determine that time. These are brutal people and we don’t quite know who else may be involved in trying to find him.’
‘But you still haven’t told me who the hell you are. I’m not just going to disappear, and don’t forget I’ve got some bloody good contacts in my world who might be able to help me.’
‘You mean us?’
‘I do, but only if you agree it’s us and not just you. I’m going be part of this whether you like it or not, Sean.’ Melissa had an edge to her and was letting Sean know it. ‘So, are you any good at this stuff?’ she said. ‘I don’t know if I should trust you or get the hell out of here. Have you ever killed to protect, or made crap situations like this go away?’ Sean knew Melissa was agitating. He stayed quiet, turned slightly and briefly thought of the adversaries he had blown away at point-blank range and in cold blood.
‘Yes, I’ve made things like this get better and, sure enough, you’ve been plunged deep into something people like me exist to make right – it’s not a good business at all.’
He left the temptation to push back at Melissa’s stubbornness any further – yet.
Chapter 16
Collioure, France, 15 April 2016
Sean arrived at the cottage in a white Peugeot van and parked next to a small blue gate giving access to the garden. He stepped out of the van, catching a gust of the stiff ocean breeze that forced him to grab his cap quickly. He opened the rear doors and carried a couple of large paint pots through the gate, placed them on the expansive sloping lawn and returned for two small ladders. The garden was suitably enclosed with high hedges, allowing him perfect cover from being viewed by any prying neighbours in the small French commune.
Sean was dressed in paint-spattered white overalls and was anxious to get on with the job in hand: breaking into Alfie’s bolt-hole.
He checked the grounds first. The views across the lawn towards the small fishing village of Collioure were stunning. He gazed for a moment down the hill so as to make out the architecture of the quaint seaside town, which was located just north of the border with Spain on the Vermeille coast. It was a picturesque area that attracted the artistic community, with the castle and church creating an impressive backdrop and the beach and harbour being amongst the most scenic in southern France.
Sean liked the place. He could see why this was the perfect retreat for Alfie. It was invigorating, quiet and very discreet, with no prying neighbours. The garden was strewn with the remnants of Alfie’s outdoor life. Two seagoing canoes could be seen in the far corner, next to a pink rhododendron bush, and he spotted two mountain bikes under the veranda. The centre of the garden had a sundial and a couple of deckchairs, with a bin and a table between them. Strange, he thought. Two bikes, two deckchairs. Why hadn’t these been locked away in the large shed? It looked exactly as if someone was at home having just returned from a bike ride or a foray on the sea. Sean knew that wasn’t the case and was eager to crack on with searching the house.
He began to break into the cottage. He used a couple of screwdrivers to shake the locking arm on a small high-level kitchen window, which took him only five minutes to crack. They were old frames allowing easy access and he climbed onto the short five-inch window ledge. He then stood on his toes, reached through and over with his left arm and juggled the latch to open the larger window below. He crouched and steadied himself before jumping through the aperture to the tiled kitchen floor below. The room smelt musty from damp. He looked at a small noticeboard in the kitchen with a couple of blue notes on it. Just shopping lists and a small map of the village. On another board were a few photos. Two were of Alfie in the canoe from the garden, and the third was a photo of the cottage from the air.
He walked around the cottage to familiarise himself with the building’s layout. There were two smallish bedrooms upstairs that were built into the attic space of the small cottage and a tiny square living room below. The main space being lived in seemed to be a quaint dining and breakfast space adjoining the kitchen and hall. The cottage had a maritime feel to it – pictures and paintings of the local harbour and coastline adorned the whitewashed walls. It had an old but charming feel to it and Sean imagined how Alfie had probably adored the solitude and peace of his small, neat little bolt-hole.
He could see how Alfie would have enjoyed planning his operation here, probably in between cycling, walking and sea canoeing to keep him fresh and invigorated. There were no signs of any struggle or break-in. No signs of anyone having disturbed furniture or ornaments while searching the place. Sean ran his finger over the waist-high oak dresser in the hall. No dust. The place was immaculately clean, and he smelt the faint whiff of chlorine. Had there been a clean-up operation?
He sat in the leather armchair in the corner of the dining room with a bookshelf to his right, which was built into the wall, and some chairs and a small round table to his left, with a couple of books and a coaster on it. He sat and imagined what Alfie would have done here. No doubt he would have relaxed in his chair, mulled over his options and created his plan to succeed in his mission. Sean reasoned that Alfie would have planned to escape the country from here. He also felt that no one had beaten him to find this location, other than whoever had lifted, and possibly killed, Alfie. How and where had they done that, he wondered?
He sat awaiting the arrival of Mike and Billy Phish to conduct the next stages
of the search. Sean had arranged to meet them at the cottage a few hours after he had made sure that Jane and Melissa were safely ensconced in the hotel at Port-Vendres, a few kilometres to the south of the village. It was the right decision to take Melissa and Jane to France and he had ensured Jack had made all the necessary arrangements for them all.
He had a thought. He stood up and started to look around for the electricity master switch and the water stopcock. He found it odd that the taps weren’t working (there was no water running) and that there was no power to the cottage. He put his forensic gloves on, looked in the outhouse and switched the power and water on. He then looked for any sign of a washing basket in the small utility room bolted onto the kitchen. There were no clothes in the tumble dryer, but a full load of unwashed T-shirts and underwear was in the washing machine. He then carefully put a white T-shirt and pair of socks from the washing basket into a large forensic plastic bag and then placed that into a second larger plastic bag, before sealing it. He placed that on the kitchen bench for later.
He spent the next two hours searching the cottage and found nothing that gave him any suspicions or suggestions as to where Alfie may have secreted his files or any other information he may have hidden.
Sean reckoned that whoever had got to Alfie had done so without any need to break in and that he may even have simply opened the front door to his attackers. He needed some kind of forensic evidence to provide clues as to where Alfie had been taken or disposed of. He still didn’t know whether Alfie was alive or dead.
*
Sean heard a vehicle brake outside the cottage. He walked into the garden and stood at the gate to see Billy Phish getting out of a black pickup truck. He watched as Billy Phish pulled his jeans up, threw his cigarette to the floor, stamped it out and turned to see Sean. ‘Watcha,’ he said. ‘Fucking long way to come for a cup of tea, mate. None of that French shit either, I’m parched and need a big bowl of English please.’
‘Kettle’s on, old man,’ Sean said, smirking. He watched Billy Phish give him the finger and move to the rear of the vehicle to open the tailgate.
As Billy Phish opened the tailgate, Mike, his nine-year-old cocker spaniel, leapt out first – closely followed by a much younger spaniel called Foz. Sean watched both dogs go crazy with excitement. It had been many years since he had seen them all, Billy Phish included, and he had a soft spot for Mike in particular. In his spare time, Billy Phish was a forensic cyber-detective, hence his nickname ‘Phish’. But his real talent was training dogs – forensic dogs.
‘Great to see you Billy, you’re all as mad as you ever were,’ Sean said, patting him on the back as the dogs scuttled around frantically in circles before jumping up at Sean. He stroked the dogs, watching Billy Phish place a big bowl of water on the ground before the spaniels darted off to slurp away in contentment, relishing their new-found setting.
‘Well, this is a right turn up for the books, mate!’ Billy Phish said, giving Sean a big handshake and a rare smile. ‘I’m guessing it’s going to be fun, whatever it is.’
‘It’ll be better than the rest,’ Sean said.
Billy Phish laughed, pulled a sarcastic face and continued in his strong Yorkshire accent.
‘Well, whatever happens it will beat the hell out of sitting on my arse in Langley trying to be a CIA cyber intellect,’ he joked.
Billy Phish was a gregarious, full-blooded ex-soldier turned canine specialist, and now a part-time cyber trader and cyber-forensics sleuth. His gruff manner and ‘say it as you see it’ philosophy shrouded a more intellectual and broad-thinking mind.
Sean led the way to the garden chairs, explaining the story to Billy Phish. The dogs started to relax on the grass, basking in the early morning sun.
‘I’m really interested to see what we find in the cottage with the dogs,’ Sean said. ‘I’ll bring the rest of the team in if we get any forensic clues here. You brought the vapour-trail dogs too, right?’
‘In the back of the pickup mate. I’m not getting them out too – they’ll all go nuts together and it’ll be a fight fest.’
‘Great, I’ll get the tea on. Cup and saucer, squire?’
Billy Phish flicked a V-sign at Sean, rammed a breakfast-cereal bar into his mouth and then started patting little Foz, who had scuttled over to his side to get some attention. Mike remained chilled out, lying on the grass scratching his head with his paw and gnawing on a plastic bone.
Mike was the world’s leading crime scene investigation cadaver dog, trained to find dead bodies. He had over 200 cases to his name and had never failed in any murder or missing-person case. Mike never gave false alerts and had only ever indicated where a dead body lay – with an incredible success rate. Billy Phish, on the other hand, was probably the best forensic dog trainer in the world, despite his part-time cyber-sleuth work in America.
Sean led Billy Phish into the cottage to have his mammoth-sized mug of tea with four sugars, and then showed him around the place. He wanted Billy Phish to see the layout before getting the dogs in. Mike would be first up and Sean stood to one side, quietly watching Billy Phish go through his routine with the unleashed but excitable spaniel.
Sean loved watching the double act at work. ‘Bloody impressive sight,’ he thought, as Mike set to work in his usual frenzied manner. He scooted around the kitchen with his head held low, sniffing for the scent that would give him the reward from his ‘dad’, as Billy Phish was known to him. Sean watched him move rapidly from corner to corner, under shelves and tables and nosing up to little cupboards around the kitchen. If he didn’t pick up a scent, Billy Phish would channel Mike to other areas of the room with a wave of his hand and a short, sharp call of ‘Move on, boy’.
Mike was Billy Phish’s pride and joy and the sole love of his life. He was irreplaceable. Sean recalled how he had worked with Billy Phish on countless covert cases to find the buried bodies of kidnapped diplomats in the Middle East. Sean had become a lifelong friend of Billy Phish. They had bonded, he remembered, after he had saved Mike’s life when he had found him suddenly drowning in a swollen hillside river in Wales many years ago. Sean had dived in and pulled Mike out of the river by the scruff of his neck before landing him on the bank next to a distraught Billy Phish. Mike had nearly died that day on the riverbank during an incessant day of rain on the hills and Billy Phish cuddled him for nearly an hour under a poncho in the driving rain before Mike recovered. Billy Phish remained indebted to Sean for having saved Mike’s life. Mike was his lifeblood.
Sean followed them both around the cottage and it wasn’t long before Mike was in the hall leading to the stairs. He got an early waft of vapour and headed straight to the far corner, close to some golf clubs by the staircase recess.
Mike went wild.
He stood rigid, barking incessantly, arching and turning his neck to look for his ‘dad’. His tail wagged like a flag whipping in the wind. He had found his reward and had smelt the scent of death. Billy Phish had a chest-mounted video camera to capture all of Mike’s moves, indications and postures. Sean had seen Mike react this way many times before – it was an unequivocal hit.
Sean felt a chill run up his spine, followed by goosebumps. He grasped its significance – a dead body had lain there. He watched Billy Phish move Mike around a bit just to try and fix the exact spot. Mike was indicating that it was on the carpeted floor next to the stairs and by the alcove. Sean knew that this was proof that a dead body was either under the floor or had lain in that position at some time. He also knew that the body decomposition compounds that had seeped out of the dead body would have done so within less than an hour and that Mike was trained to hit on that scent. Mike had been fully trained on dead bodies in the US and invariably he could track and trace where in a building the body had lain, or had subsequently been moved to. The putrescine and cadaverine would leave a scent trace for many months.
Sean followed Billy Phish as he took Mike round the rest of the house just to check for any other cadaver-deposition
signs or evidence of potential movement of a body from place to place.
‘I’m not so sure there’s a body under there, Billy,’ Sean said. ‘It’s rock-solid flooring and no one would have gone to the trouble of excavating a hole through concrete to stick a body in it.’
‘You’re right mate. Very unlikely,’ Billy Phish replied in a throaty voice. ‘Now don’t be touching fuck all – I’ll bring Foz in now.’
Sean knelt on the floor to take a moment to think. He heard Foz scuttle around as Billy Phish came back and started the search in the same place where Mike had begun. Foz was smaller and was trained in such a way so as to be more precise about finding any tiny spots of blood. He was moving more slowly, although still a little frantically, and he scurried around in what appeared to be a stir-crazy way. Nonetheless, he was trying to find a scent trail and moved his nose around quickly – but much lower to the ground than Mike had. His nose was virtually stuck to the carpet. He didn’t indicate in the kitchen or dining room, and so Billy Phish moved him into the hall.
Foz made his way to the staircase alcove but, before he got there, midway across the hall from the kitchen to the stairs, he hit.
Foz stood utterly rigid, totally still – like a statue.
His nose was stuck to the ground millimetres above the carpet, and his head fully inclined. He didn’t flinch or bat an eyelid. Only his tail was moving avidly. He had smelt blood. Unlike Mike, he remained there in that position, totally still, until Billy Phish gave him a reward. On this occasion it was a few pieces of dog pellet.
Foz was one of the best blood detection dogs in the world. Sean knew from his previous jobs that he could detect the vapour of the most minuscule traces of blood, well beyond the capability of the human eye.
Foz was ready to go again after his first hit in the hall. Billy Phish gave him his reward and he gobbled up the lot in one go. He then moved him on and he hit again. He stood rigid by the golf clubs. Sean looked at the carpet where the first hit was and couldn’t see anything at all. No distinguishing bloodstains or anything untoward. The carpet was not wet from cleaning and no obvious stains were present. Foz indicated the precise places where blood remained in five separate spots all around the alcove. There was not a sign to the human eye that there was blood anywhere.
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