by JJ Marsh
“Exactly. So I think we keep the surveillance pairs, and make some, if not all of them, common knowledge. He knows where they are, and will therefore avoid them. That way we can keep certain routes safe. But the Harrison honey trap stays confidential.”
Virginia took a swig of coffee. “Mmm. Good thinking. And if Harrison’s route is well away from the surveillance pairs, it will encourage him to ...”
“... to target her. I have a feeling we’re closing in. I also have a feeling this is skimmed milk. You didn’t ask for skinny cappuccinos, did you?”
“Says the woman with a mouthful of double chocolate muffin. Yes, I did. I also order a Diet Coke with my Big Mac and fries. Don’t you?”
Beatrice scowled. “I’m happy to say I have never eaten any such thing. Yes, he’s bound to go for Harrison. We must ensure top quality personnel are stationed at Finsbury Park Control Centre. Who’s there now?”
Virginia wrapped the uneaten half of her muffin in a tissue and popped it back in the bag. “Ty Grant. I know you’re not his greatest fan, but he’s actually very sharp. I’d prefer to leave him in place.”
“If you have faith in the man, so shall I. But our problem lies in the control room. Can we plant a presence without arousing suspicion? Can we watch the watchers?”
“I’m not sure, but I doubt it. Would you stalk while someone’s watching? We need to liaise with senior officers there. This is going to be even more complicated because Finsbury Park is literally on the junction of three policing boroughs. But Hackney is the place to start. That’s where most of the incidents have occurred. I’ll organise a briefing for key personnel this afternoon.”
“Right. And then we should head to Hackney. I’d better make some calls. Thank you for breakfast. But next time, proper milk, please.”
Virginia shot her a sidelong look. “Next time, you can get it. Just remember, I cut calories wherever I can.”
“Killjoy.” Beatrice dialled Finsbury Park Underground Station.
With five BTP staff and one Met officer, including Beatrice and Virginia, personal space became an issue in the London Underground Surveillance Centre. Inspector Kalpana Joshi sat in front of the bank of images, a touch screen at her fingertips. The first BTP officer worked with a headset, answering calls; the other operated the replay suite, reviewing footage. Ty stood behind him, asking occasional questions. Beatrice and Virginia devoted their attention to the Inspector’s brusque presentation.
“Right then, from this room, we observe the borough via a hundred and seventy cameras. As you can see, we have five control joystick panels to monitor the Petard cameras. We’ve also three control panels for fixed views, known as Molynx. The supervisor operates everything via this touch screen, pulling whichever image they need from any one of these forty-four monitors onto the main viewer.” She demonstrated by scanning the plethora of images, selecting an angle of the underpass, and dragging it to the enormous display. The clarity startled Beatrice; the size and level of detail was impressive.
“If there’s cause for concern, we’ve got a variety of options. In circumstances such as graffiti artists and wilful damage, reckless behaviour, smoking or mild harassment, we mostly use a ‘message from God’ – the customer service intercom. Alternatively, we might deploy station staff, especially for drunks or vagrants.”
Beatrice asked the obvious question. “What if it’s something worse?”
“If we see the incident as more serious, we can deploy officers instantly, or for something such as suspected terrorist activity, we share these images immediately with MICC.”
Beatrice glanced at Virginia. “Management Information Control Centre – in our building. These places are the eyes and ears, MICC is the brain.”
Beatrice nodded. “Thank you. Do you share your recordings with anyone else, Inspector Joshi?”
She twisted in her seat to face Beatrice, nut-brown eyes raised under dark lashes. “Kalpana, please. Yeah, we got two dedicated computers for communication with other agencies. For example, in an accident scenario, we can share our live footage directly with the emergency services, or traffic management. Law enforcement takes precedence, so if a camera’s being used to monitor traffic transgressions, we override that to follow a suspect.”
Beatrice leant her head to one side. “I’d like to go back. You mention you have moveable cameras?”
“Correct. Petards.”
“Wonderful name. Pétard is French for ‘joint’, but I expect you already know that.”
“As in knees and elbows?” asked Virginia.
Beatrice and Kalpana spoke simultaneously. “No, spliffs.”
The inspector met Beatrice’s eyes and exhaled a sharp snort of laughter. “You ever think you’ve been in the job too long?”
“Daily. But in my case, it’s probably true. Now these Petards are presumably in and just outside the station itself?
“Yeah. Mostly on the concourse and platforms, they can pan right and left, tilt up and down, rotate three hundred and sixty degrees and, crucially, zoom in on detail, such as passing of packages.”
“So you have an officer watching these, and another on the fixed cameras?”
“Depends on the time of day. During peak periods, we got one on each. But from two a.m. to six a.m., there’s only one. Four people in here during rush hour. Two on these cameras, one on replay, and one on calls.”
Virginia looked at the bank of monitors to their right, where Ty bent over the desk. “This replay function – checking for activity around the time of an incident?”
“Amongst other things. Sometimes we need to check footage for Data Protection reasons before releasing it. But much of it is surveillance – who was where at a certain time. We also use it to monitor patterns, especially on football Saturdays. Comes in handy.”
“I can imagine,” Beatrice said. “And this other chap is taking calls from where?”
“He’s operating the hotline. People calling to report incidents, passengers having problems and pressing the help buttons on the platform, not to mention plenty of lazy gits asking for the next bus to Crouch End. A great deal of patience is needed for this task.”
“And I bet you get lots of emergency calls which are in fact requests for help?”
Virginia’s question made Kalpana smile. “Yeah, course. Dealing with the public. Drives you to tears, doesn’t it?”
Beatrice laughed. “Both of desperation and admiration. But it’s always bloody hard work. Do you have a quiet room somewhere so the three of us might discuss how best to proceed?”
“Sure. My office. Would your sergeant like to see how this works? Jacek, show the Met sergeant how to use it, would you?”
“Ty, you want to take over now?” Virginia asked.
He nodded and took Kalpana’s place at the observation monitors, as the three women made for the door.
Ty grinned. “Mmm, you warmed the seat for me.”
Kalpana replied without looking back. “Don’t speak to me like that, Sergeant. I find it disrespectful.”
Beatrice followed the slight figure from the room, biting her lip and memorising both line and tone.
Chapter 18
Adrian had only popped out to buy stamps, but somehow, he’d purchased a pair of African violets. As he was walking home, deliberating where best to display them, his mobile rang.
“Hello Beatrice. I’m just coming past the Co-op. Do you need something?”
“Actually, Adrian, this is Matthew. I’m calling you on your mobile phone due to the fact that I got no response when knocking at your door.”
Adrian dropped his voice. “Matthew! I was wondering when you’d make contact. Has she gone to work?”
“I can barely hear you. What is all that noise?”
“Old Street on a Saturday morning. I’ll be back in five minutes. Tea or coffee?”
“Tea, please. I’ve drunk far too much coffee and feel a little nervous.”
“Tea it is. Me too, I can’t wait! See you i
n a bitch.”
Hugs seemed inappropriate, so Adrian chose the strong handshake and pat on shoulder routine. Matthew wore his own version of casual. A faded denim shirt, which had the air of real as opposed to faux-faded, paired with downmarket chinos. Fortunately, he’d opted for espadrilles. Adrian approved. Ill-kempt feet were one of summer’s horrors, along with flies and cycling shorts.
“Come in! I’ve made tea and taken it into the office. We may as well get down to business. I thought we’d start by showing you the progress I’ve made.”
“Sounds good to me. When you say progress ...?”
“Come this way and all will be revealed. You’ll be surprised by what a knack I have for this sort of thing.”
Matthew’s fingers drummed on the desk as he studied the screen with a frown.
“One hesitates to jump to the obvious assumption, but does this strike you as possible drug-dealing?”
“Exactly my thoughts.” Adrian pulled out a folder with printouts of the two enlarged photographs. “Two men, I’d say, carrying bags. The first is older and you can see his face. That means he was looking in your direction. The second, with the ponytail, is side-on, looking up the beach. The person waiting to meet them is female, you can tell by her clothes. But there’s no chance of seeing her face, her hair’s hiding it.”
Matthew left the screen with reluctance. But his eyes widened when he saw the photographs. “The ponytail man! That’s the burglar, no doubt about it. His hair was unforgettable. This picture is quite startling, I have to say. Much clearer than on the computer. Well done!”
“Well, this level of magnification is down to my knowing the right people. I happen to be friendly with a graphic designer who has sophisticated technology and infinite patience. I’m lucky to have Jared.” Adrian sighed. “Now look over here.”
He indicated the top left of the picture. The shapes remained in shadow, with an oblique shaft of light hitting the sand in front. Lower, a small rectangle stood out as lighter than the background. Adrian willed him to see the combination for what it was.
“Ever tried the 3D picture books, Matthew? Let your eyes unfocus and then tell me what you see.”
“Ah yes. The arrangement of shapes suggests some sort of vehicle. And this must be the number plate. Impossible to identify it, of course, but it’s large, like an off-road vehicle, and obviously black. No wonder we can barely see it. So these two come off a boat, carrying two bags, and meet the driver. We’re taking pictures, they spot us and try to get the camera back. Whatever is in those bags, they certainly didn’t want it on film.”
“Drugs.” Adrian poured them both a refill from the pot. “What else would it be?”
“Let me see the second photograph.”
Adrian handed it over, trying not to show off. All three heads had turned toward the lens and the woman’s hand was raised, as if to shield her eyes, or hold back her flailing hair. Whatever the reason, her gesture made her features indistinguishable. Ponytail’s rodent expression and the older man’s suspicion were visible. Imperceptibly better light threw a clearer perspective on the trio, their boat and their looming vehicle.
Matthew sat back with a satisfied sigh. “Bravo! That is excellent work, Adrian. We can now connect the man who took Beatrice’s bag and the camera thief to this figure on the beach.”
“But we still have no proof he was the one who stole her laptop.”
“Sorry? Did you say ‘stole her laptop’?”
Adrian should have known. Being a double agent meant remembering exactly who knew what. And he’d already forgotten.
Matthew accepted the news without fuss. “My only challenge now is acting surprised when she tells me. One can only hope she’s too distracted by her serial flasher to notice my lack of concern.”
“The only reason she didn’t mention it was out of worry for you. I’ll vouch for that. I nagged her. Really. We almost rowed.”
“Adrian, it may sound sarcastic, as we’re going behind her back, but I do believe she has a genuine friend in you. As for the pictures, I’m most impressed! Congratulations on some very astute detective work.”
“Thank you! Although the compliment is due more to my persistence and contacts, but what the hell. Grab glory where you can. And after all, what more is there to detective work than dogged opportunism?”
Matthew inclined his head, as if considering the truth of that statement. Adrian fidgeted. Always save the best till last. He rubbed his hands together and smiled.
“There’s more?” asked Matthew.
“There is. With a combination of Jared’s skill and my creativity, we have a partial ID of the number plate.” Tucking his leg beneath him, Adrian passed Matthew a cropped version of the second photograph. In the centre, seven figures or letters were discernible, but rendering them comprehensible could only be guesswork.
“Now, I know it looks hopeless and I just about gave up. But as I left his studio, Jared said the only other thing he could suggest was trying out templates. Imposing letters and numbers over this image and seeing which came closest. Yesterday, I spent the entire afternoon doing just that, when I should have been doing a stock take of European beers. And through a process of trial and error, I think I have it.”
He flipped open the file to reveal a sheet of A4, with one typed line in the centre.
CMG287M
Matthew examined it and shook his head. “I have to commend your persistence, but this car is relatively new. It’s not possible that it would have such a plate.”
“What do you mean?”
“New cars have two letters, denoting region; two numbers, denoting year; and three random letters. So ...”
“Maybe it’s a personalised number plate?”
“Would you pay for a plate which read see-em-gee-two-eight-seven ... hang on.”
Matthew bent forward, hands forming a triangular screen over his brow. Adrian gave him a moment and took another sip of tea.
“You may just have something here. CM, if that is correct, is the area code for Cardiff. Possible, given the location. G2, or more likely, 62, to identify its age. This car was registered after the first of September 2012. The final three elements should be letters. 87M could be BZM, or N.”
Adrian’s pride returned. “So I did get it, after all?”
“You did. Or at least, you’ve given us something to go on. I wonder how we can find out who owns it?”
“Ask Beatrice.”
“Beatrice?”
“Of course. Tell her what I’ve got so far and see if she can trace it. Play it casual, sound a bit bored by my puppyish enthusiasm, but tell her it’s worth a try. You don’t need to tell her we’re actively working this case.”
“That’s actually a rather good idea. And I have noted the stage directions. What if she finds it?”
“Perhaps, unless you have plans for next weekend, we could sneak off to Wales?”
Matthew’s eyes widened and he flashed a most impressive set of teeth. “Certainly possible. I have a seminar in Rome the end of next week, so may just tell her I’m staying on a few days. She’s likely to be so busy, she’ll barely notice.”
Matthew glanced at the photographs once more and his eyes narrowed.
“What is it?” Adrian leant forward.
Matthew jumped to his feet, looking around Adrian’s tiny, but perfectly neat office.
“Something I said?” Adrian followed him into the lounge, watching him pace up and down with the pictures.
“The bags they’re carrying. Why would you carry something that way? Would you happen to have a holdall? Anything with a handle?”
Adrian considered a moment and retrieved his Tod’s leather sports bag from the hall. Matthew took it, with a nod.
“So here I am, leaping off a boat at dawn, with my bag.” He jumped onto the cowskin rug. “Now, most folk would carry it thus, arm straight, bag hanging from their hand. However, these two,” he jabbed a finger at the pictures, “have their elbows bent, holding t
he bags higher off the ground. Why is that?”
Recumbent, arms folded, Adrian was unimpressed. “Drugs, yo. Can’t afford to get that shit wet, know what I’m saying?”
Matthew eyed him with some bemusement. “Hmm. On the beach? It could be, I suppose. It reminds me of cricketers, or tennis players. How they hold their kitbags, as if they are precious.”
“Several kilos of heroin would be pretty precious. And disastrous to get it wet. It’s drugs, Matthew. Stop looking for the obscure explanation when the obvious is biting you on the buttock.”
“You’re right. I wonder where they’re coming from? A larger boat out in the bay, perhaps?”
“Bound to be. And with any luck, we’ll soon have the details of their dealer. What are your plans for the day?”
“Nothing particular. Pottering over to Persephone’s for a browse, organise something for dinner ...”
“Do that first. Then come back here and I’ll take you to one of my favourites in old Spitalfields market for lunch. It’s my treat and the wine list is an absolute joy. You won’t feel like shopping afterwards, I warn you.”
“That’s an offer I cannot refuse. But is it wise to indulge when you have to be on optimum form for this evening’s performance?”
“Believe me, Matthew, a glass or two of Chateau Plince has only ever improved my rendition of The Surrey with the Fringe on Top.”
“I trust your judgement. Very well. Meet you back here at twelve?” Matthew made his way to the door.
“Perfect. And I’ll start packing for next weekend.”
Matthew turned. “Adrian, you have a full week ahead of you. Why would you start packing already?”
“The sooner the better. I need to plan the perfect capsule wardrobe, with all the appropriate accessories. Now I’ve done Roman Holiday, Death in Venice and Leaving Las Vegas, but I have never done Detecting Drug Dealers in Devon. So it will require some thought.”
“It’s Wales, not Devon.”
“Even better. I’ll need to buy a phrasebook and everything. See you later.”
