Crash Course

by Derek Fee

“I didn’t know you were a fight fan.” Kane spat his gumshield into his right glove and nodded at the bottle of water at Davenport’s feet. “How did you know I was here?”

  Davenport lifted the bottle and handed it to Kane who pulled great gulps of water into his waiting mouth. “I know everything about your pathetic life.” He rarely had the opportunity to see Kane sporting only a pair of boxing trunks. While he was a comfortable twenty kilos overweight, Kane didn’t have an ounce of excess fat on his lithe body. The perfect pecs and the washboard stomach were the product of hours spent in the gym.

  “Only two more rounds to go.” Kane savoured the taste of the water. “That is if the bastard doesn’t kill me first.” He turned towards his dancing opponent who hadn’t required a drink during the inter-round respite.

  “That won’t happen,” Davenport said. “Because the fight’s over for today. I need you to come with me right this minute.”

  Kane’s first reaction was relief. He knew that no matter how easy his opponent went on him he would be hurting after two more rounds of punishment. Then his ego kicked in. He normally didn’t pull out for any reason.

  “Say what,” Kane raised his eyebrows as he looked at his chief. “On my time I decide what I can do and what I can’t.”

  Davenport looked at his watch. “Since we must be in Heathrow in less than an hour, I suggest that you use the available ten minutes before our car arrives to have a shower and dress. Or you may continue having your head beaten in and go as you are. But I assure you we will be in Heathrow in time to catch our plane.”

  As they flew over the Channel, Kane sipped the watered-down coffee which was one of the hallmarks of the World’s Favourite Airline. He had queried Davenport on the purpose of their trip to Amsterdam but as soon as they sat in the car to the airport, Davenport had buried himself in the contents of his briefcase. It had to be something good if the Met were footing the bill for the two of them to visit the continent. But what the hell was it? Kane finally gave up trying to figure out what was ahead and gave himself over to the in-flight magazine. It was always nice to learn what celeb had been landed with a freebie this month. It amazed him that the people who didn’t need to have their holidays paid for them were the ones who inevitably got one free. What he wouldn’t give to write a two-page article about his visit to the Seychelles courtesy of some airline and hotel group.

  They were met as they stepped off the plane. Kane wondered about formalities, passports and the like but he knew that Davenport would have that angle covered. There was no customs and no passport control. They simply climbed into the rear seat of a police car and were driven directly through a private exit at the side of the airport.

  “Where are we going?” Kane asked.

  “The Hague,” Davenport replied and buried his nose in his papers again.

  Kane knew that The Hague was something like a suburb of Amsterdam. On the map, it was hard to see when one city in Southern Holland ended and the next one began. The trip was pleasantly short and the scenery between the cities, what there was of it, was unremarkable. The one thing that could be said about the area they drove through was that the Dutch appeared to live moderately well. The district of The Hague was about as far removed from Kane’s usual South London beat as it possibly could be. Their destination appeared to be the centre of the city. Curiouser and curiouser, Kane thought. The police car eventually stopped in front of an imposing six-storey modern all-white building whose entrance was festooned with the various flags of the twenty-seven members of the European Union.

  “We’re here,” Davenport said as they passed through the tank trap and pulled up before the front door of the building.

  “Where exactly is here?” Kane asked, trying to sound as bored as possible but intrigued by the array of flags bedecking the building.

  “Didn’t I tell you?” Davenport said opening the door of the car and climbing out. “We’re having a meeting with our friends at Europol.”

  “Europol!” Kane had never worked with the European police operation. He’d read about them but he hadn’t bothered to retain anything. He’d dealt with Interpol in the past and had found them to be good guys. As far as he could remember, Europol was another Euro-quango set up to satisfy some bureaucratic arsehole’s need to see his name up in lights.

  As soon as Davenport opened the car door, a young man dressed like a city banker approached them. “Superintendent Davenport?” he asked.

  “Pleased to meet you.” Davenport stuffed his papers into a battered leather briefcase.

  “Ah yes, so pleased to meet you, sir.” The young man extended his hand. “Luc de Vries. I’ve been sent to escort you to my director’s office. And this would be Detective Sergeant Kane?”

  “Right on, Luc,” Kane said without offering his hand. De Vries was slim, blue-eyed, and good looking with a shock of curly blond hair. A very civil servant if Kane had read his man. Very civil and very servile. De Vries was an example of ‘new copper’. A university graduate in a pinstripe suit who believes you catch villains with computers and who views the detecting business as a PlayStation game. He reminded Kane of the young Robert Redford. He had a habit of thinking of people in terms of movie actors. He always reckoned Davenport to resemble a six-foot-four version of Charles Laughton playing Quasimodo. He glanced up at the office of the famed pan-European police force. “Nice building.”

  “Very modern,” de Vries said leading them up some steps to the entrance. He slipped easily into lecture mode. “We moved here in 2011. Our original office was in the suburbs. It was very pretty and was initially a Jesuit convent. During the war, the Gestapo made it their headquarters and before we took it over it was the seat of the Dutch criminal police. Our current home was purpose-built here in the International Quarter of the Hague.” He stopped and looked at his two charges the way a teacher regards his pupils. “We are very security conscious so please stay with me until we reach the director’s office. The entrance is a revolving steel affair and most of the inside doors are magnetically activated.” He pushed a magnetic card into a slot beside the door and the outer steel casing began to revolve.

  Kane followed de Vries and Davenport into the main hall of the building. More like the offices of an investment bank than a nick. The corporate surroundings suited de Vries who looked more like a young investment banker. Although he spoke English like a native, Kane assumed that he was either Dutch or Belgian but he would never have guessed it from listening to him speak. He wondered what these intellectual besuited coppers would be like in a tight corner. Chances were that they might ruin their nice silk suits by voiding the contents of their bowels into them. De Vries was right about the security. Kane had never seen anything quite like the number of locked doors they passed on their progress to their destination.

  “Otto Strofeld.” The director of operations stuck out his hand and shook first Davenport’s hand and then Kane’s. “Welcome to Europol, gentlemen. Some refreshments. Coffee, tea?”

  “Tea would be nice,” Davenport said.

  Always the perfect bloody gentleman, Kane thought and didn’t bother to reply. His role was to keep his mouth shut and let his superior do all the talking. The rule was when in the presence of a senior officer ‘speak when spoken to’. Strofeld spoke English with a correct but heavy Teutonic accent. Kane shuffled from one foot to another as he watched his chief and the director play the getting-to-know-you game. All the hierarchy were the same, British or continental. Maybe they learned the rituals at their local lodge. This kind of diplomatic bullshit always gave him a pain in the arse. Tea and crumpets were alright for the brass but when you spent your life living on the edge you tended to dispense with the lace doilies and the crooked little finger on the teacup. You could be bloody sure that the opposition team didn’t sit around all day offering each other cups of tea and playing footsie. The other team were hustling from morning to night turning merchandise into money. If the cops were going to get to grips with the drug barons, they would h
ave to give up the niceties and learn how to fight fire with fire.

  Strofeld nodded at de Vries and the young policeman disappeared.

  The world is full of sycophants, Kane thought as he watched de Vries’ pin-striped back disappear from the room. He looked around Strofeld’s office. It was very much executive chic from the soothing grey carpet which muffled their footsteps to the modern paintings that were carefully selected to set off the Scandinavian furniture. A large collection of personal memorabilia was carefully displayed on Strofeld’s desk to add a friendly personal touch. To become the director of Europol you had to be half copper half diplomat and probably all pile-sucker.

  “Superintendent Davenport, as you are aware our cooperation is a trifle problematic. The United Kingdom is no longer a member of Europol but since we began this investigation before your departure, our management has agreed with your management that we can work together on this enquiry. After all drugs are a common problem. Personally, I am pleased that we have the possibility to complete our work together. We have always had a good relationship with Scotland Yard and I very much regret that this may be the last time we work with SO10. We have a lot to offer each other. You have had centuries of experience while our organisation is relatively recent.” He moved towards the door to the office. “I’m having the tea served in the conference room. I understand that you want to get back to London as soon as possible so perhaps you would be so kind as to follow me.” He held the door open. “We’re in quite a phase of expansion here. We will soon have our full complement of three hundred staff although as I am sure you are aware it will be simply a drop in the ocean compared with the job we have been given. I sometimes think that our politicians live in a fantasy world where ordinary mortals can accomplish the impossible with the minimum of resources. The analysis and distribution of information on the drug business in Europe is an enormous task, especially when you consider the maze of Europe’s crime-fighting agencies.” He pushed open a door and they entered a large conference room dominated by an oak table which ran the length of the room.

  “Gentlemen, make yourself at home.” Strofeld took a seat at the head of the table.

  “Do we get down to business soon?” Kane asked a little too loudly.

  “Ah, Detective Sergeant Kane.” Strofeld smiled. “Ever the man of action. I enjoyed reading your dossier. Like many of our operational colleagues, I am sure that you have a healthy disdain for the kind of police work we do here. We are, of course, not an operational force. Our purpose is to ensure that our colleagues in the police forces of the Member States of the European Union have access to the most up-to-date information. I’m sure you noticed that we are very heavily computerised. In fact, the only problem we face is that many civil liberties groups feel that we collect too much information. I am sure Superintendent Davenport has briefed you on the project in hand.” Strofeld looked at Davenport who had settled himself in one of the boardroom chairs.

  “I’m afraid I didn’t have time.” Davenport smiled thinly. “Detective Sergeant Kane will have to hear the entire story from the horse’s mouth as it were.”

  “I see.” Strofeld pushed a button on the intercom which sat on the table directly in front of him. “Please send in Mr Bell. And is Detective Sergeant Watson with us yet?” Strofeld paused while the voice on the other end of the line answered in the affirmative. “Send them in please.”

  Strofeld turned to face Kane. “Please sit, Detective Sergeant. I had assumed that Superintendent Davenport had filled you in on what we had in mind. Now we must begin at the beginning.”

  “It’s a very good place to start,” Kane said in a singsong voice.

  Davenport shot him a look.

  The door opened and two men were ushered in.

  “Mr Bell.” Strofeld stood and advanced towards a short stocky man with a face whose redness extended from his neck to the top of his bald head. “My pleasure to have your company again.”

  “I’m right grateful that you invited me,” Bell replied.

  Yorkshire, Kane said to himself. The accent was unmistakable. If he was pushed on an exact location, Kane would have guessed somewhere around Leeds. Kane stared at Bell. He reckoned the Yorkshireman to be in his fifties but he looked older. He had a careworn expression, his eyes were sunken and lifeless, and the skin was sagging on his cheeks. The whites of his eyes were red-rimmed. Mr Bell wasn’t exactly enjoying the embrace of Morpheus. The suit he wore was expensive and well cut but hung from his round shoulders. He’d lost weight recently and Kane would guess that he had lost a lot of weight. He’d seen the look before. He’d had it himself. Bell was a haunted man. And whatever was haunting him was probably the reason they were collected in the room. The man had victim written all over him. Kane sometimes thought that he dwelt in a world where there were only three categories of people: victims, villains, and coppers. He was adept at recognising all three. There were not many civilians in his life. His mother and father were victims, his wife had been a victim, and his children certainly had been victims. That had made him one also. There were too many bloody victims and too few civilians.

  “Detective Sergeant Watson.” Strofeld approached the second man who was as short as Bell but built like a whippet. “A pleasure to meet you. May I introduce our other two guests, Superintendent Davenport and Detective Sergeant Kane of Scotland Yard.” Kane and his boss nodded towards the other two men. “Please, gentlemen, let us all be seated.”

  Kane looked at the short wiry character taking his place at the table. If Strofeld hadn’t introduced Watson by giving his rank, Kane would have placed him as a copper straight away. Like the victims, he had an instant recognition for his own kind. Watson might be small and skinny but Kane was willing to bet that he punched more than double his weight. Watson’s face was heavily lined. It looked more like a carving on Mount Rushmore than a human face. There was a story behind that face, Kane thought as he watched Watson.

  “Approximately one year ago,” Strofeld began while de Vries distributed tea and handed each man a bound dossier. “Mr Bell’s daughter, Monica, was murdered on a stretch of coastline near the Gulf of Morbihan in Brittany. She was struck quite deliberately by a speedboat we suspect was carrying a very sizeable quantity of drugs, probably cocaine. The speedboat was being pursued by a French coastal patrol vessel which gave up the chase to save Miss Bell. The perpetrators of the crime were never found. We suspect that they were part of a major drug smuggling ring which has been operating in Europe over the past two years. The first picture in the dossier shows the condition of Miss Bell when she was taken from the water.”

  Bingo, Kane thought as he looked at the picture. His assessment of Bell had been right on the button. His daughter might once have been a pretty girl but there was no way to tell from the likeness staring back at him. The top of her head had been completely stoved in by the impact. What had been captured by the photographer was not a pretty sight. Kane shot a glance at Bell whose face registered nothing. You had to lose a child to know the extreme pain felt by the parent. He assumed that Bell had seen the photo of his daughter’s body many times. The only saving grace was that she would have died instantly. Whoever was responsible for this was a miserable piece of shit and no mistake. Kane’s brain went into overdrive and a series of images flashed into his mind. Other black-and-white photos whose images impacted on him the way the glossies he held in his hands must impact on Bell. He tore his eyes away from the photos and looked around the room.

  “The French police followed whatever leads they could develop,” Strofeld continued. “But the investigation petered out. I make no criticism of our French colleagues. They made every effort to apprehend the culprits but the trail had been covered expertly. Mr Bell then hired a private detective, Henri Lamont, who managed to penetrate the gang, or so we believe. Lamont’s final message to Mr Bell was that the man who had killed his daughter was a driver on the international powerboat racing circuit. If you turn to the second page of your dossier, you
will see what happened to Monsieur Lamont.”

  Kane looked at the photograph. Lamont’s body had been cut to ribbons. He had been tortured before his throat had been slit from ear to ear. Whoever had wielded the knife knew his trade. Lamont had died the hard way. The detective obviously hadn’t played it too smart. It was a bad ploy to get too close to violent men. That was Kane’s game and he knew the risks that Lamont had run. The smallest slip of the tongue could cost you your life. There was also the issue that nobody would ever know what Lamont had spilt in his last moments on earth but it was a safe bet that he told his tormentors everything they wanted to know. Kane was becoming more interested in the story but he couldn’t see where he or Davenport fitted in.

  “It’s called a Columbian necktie,” Strofeld continued. “The cutting of the throat I mean. Apparently, it is the trademark of the cocaine cartel. I am afraid that we have no idea whether Lamont had discovered the identity of the man who murdered Miss Bell. In any case, he didn’t live long enough to contact his employer a second time. We came across Mr Bell during our investigation of the smugglers. It was difficult to miss him. He has been a thorn in the side of the French Examining Magistrate ever since the poor man was appointed. Mr Bell has been rather single-minded in his pursuit of his daughter’s murderers. However, as far as we can ascertain, it appears that they have moved their base of operations. For the moment, we have no idea where they might have moved to.”

  “This is all very interesting,” Kane said. “But where exactly is it leading us?”

  Strofeld shot an admonishing glance at Davenport.

  “I want the bastard that killed my daughter,” Bell cut in. “And I’m willing to pay every penny I have to get him.” A tear crept out of the corner of his eye. “I’ve spent forty years building up a business and now I ask myself why did I bother? My wife is dead and my daughter was taken away from me by some evil killer. I’d give everything I own to nail the bastard or bastards that killed her.”