If Looks Could Kill

by Gary Kittle

  ‘We haven’t.’

  ‘Those two geezers with the caps are almost certainly not the people we’re looking for,’ explained the second.

  ‘Then why show me?’

  ‘It wasn’t for your benefit,’ said the first.

  ‘No. We’ve been watching those two for past three weeks.’

  ‘They’re running counterfeit cigarettes.’

  ‘Sorry, you’ve lost me,’ Dan said a little too loudly.

  ‘Not much cop at surveillance, then, are we?’

  ‘There’s a lot of pressure from above on this one,’ number one explained.

  ‘Not that anyone’s telling us the whole story,’ number two scowled.

  ‘But it’s something big.’

  ‘So we threw our superiors a bone we were already chewing.’

  ‘Which keeps the wolves from our door.’

  Dan closed his eyes and wished he were somewhere else. The last thing he needed now was a double act. But he was stuck. They were only minutes away from the pickup point.

  The bag on the floor of the van was filled with telephone directories. This would be left in a park bin for someone on their side to collect. Eventually, some do-gooder or light-fingered teenager might examine the mystery bag or even scarper with it; but with a bit of luck they would collar at least one of the gang on his way out of the park gates before someone else had got there first. Everyone’s money was on the kidnappers being overconfident amateurs.

  ‘Who uses a telephone directory these days anyway?’ asked number one, giving the bag a good kick.

  ‘We’ll have to use newspapers in future.’

  ‘Who reads newspapers these days?’ Number two grinned as the van pulled to a stop.

  ‘Give me strength,’ Dan thought to himself.

  Half an hour later Dan was trying to stretch out his legs to avoid cramp. Given the softness of the ground, it irritated him how uncomfortable it was to lie on. There were small pine cones everywhere and whenever he shifted position to escape one he found himself resting on another. The park was quiet, the only excitement being two kite fliers getting their kites twisted together and nearly coming to blows over whose fault it was.

  A voice squeaked in his ear, making him jump.

  ‘Anything?’

  Dan pushes his zoom monocular between the leaves of his hiding place. The Promenade Park in Maldon was a very public space, with multiple exits. Did that mean they were familiar with the area? Not necessarily, though the gang would surely have reconnoitered the area in advance.

  The end of the bag was still poking out from the top of the bin like a duck’s arse in a frozen pond. Apart from half a dozen kids there was no one else about. Dan was about two hundred metres away from the bin, but the sun was behind him and the cover very dense.

  ‘Please tell me this isn’t normal,’ Dan pleaded. ‘When can we give up?’

  ‘Sit tight,’ the voice hissed. ‘If nothing happens after two hours we’ll start thinking they’re not going to show. Till then, stay sharp.’

  ‘Sit tight. Stay sharp,’ Dan growled under his breath. ‘Who do you think you are, Dizzy Rascal?’

  He heard a voice laugh over the still open line. It was all right for them, seated in their nice warm van drinking coffee from a glass bottle and eating BLT sandwiches.

  A squirrel scampered past, stopped and gave him a ‘what the hell are you doing here?’ look, before shimmying up the nearest tree trunk. In the distance Dan heard footsteps.

  ‘Hey, up.’

  No response in his earpiece, a sure sign that a game of cards had started in the van.

  The footsteps became louder. Dan’s heart rate increased. He heard whistling and the sound of something wiry scraping against the winding path.

  ‘Damn it!’ Dan cursed to himself. ‘Come on, boys. Pick up.’ But he realised the footsteps were too close for him to speak now anyway. He was on his own.

  A pair of dark blue trousers sauntered into view, the brush head hovering a few inches above the ground. When their owner stopped, Dan knew he must have had spotted the bag. He was surprised there even was a park keeper, what with all the cutbacks in council budgets. Dan held his breath. He knew that by parting the foliage above his head he would get a clear view of the man’s face, but the risk of blowing his cover was too great. Resisting the temptation was like holding back a sneeze in a pepper pot.

  ‘I think we’re in business, boys,’ Dan thought to himself. The only response was more static. ‘Too busy dealing from the pack and squirting ketchup.’

  Whether this was a real park keeper or one of the gang, any second now he would wander casually over in the direction of the bin.

  But Dan’s assumption was wrong. The trousered legs resumed their journey along the path and a few seconds later he could hear more sweeping. Dan was confused. Surely a genuine park employee wouldn’t just leave the bag stuffed in the bin like that? The casual sweeping persisted. Could this be one of the targets after all, maybe taking a good look around to make sure he wasn’t being watched before making his move? Or maybe he’s smelled a rat?

  Dan lowered his mouth to the microphone but held his tongue. If he called for back-up he risked blowing the whole operation. And worse than that, his targets might be watching the whole fiasco through a high-powered lens. Next time they might send them the girl’s hand.

  ‘If you think we’re bringing you a coffee, boy, you’re having a latte!’ the radio crackled.

  The sweeping stopped and all was still.

  ‘Shit!’ Dan swore under his breath. He heard movement, and struggling to his knees, peeked out from his hiding place just in time to catch sight of the park keeper disappearing behind the miniature golf hut.

  ‘Damn and shit!’

  ‘Is that with milk and sugar?’

  ‘Very funny,’ Dan muttered. ‘Look out for someone leaving the park dressed as a park keeper.’

  ‘You mean like a park keeper?’ the radio voice replied. He was glad someone was enjoying this.

  A sudden movement attracted his attention. On the far edge of the park the keeper had re-emerged from the shrubbery, minus his broom - and something else had changed, too. He must have run to get over to where he was now.

  ‘Guys, I think this is it,’ Dan said, not knowing if anyone was listening or not.

  As Dan watched, the park keeper changed direction and headed straight for the bin. Had someone ordered him to make his move after all? The keeper’s eyes were firmly fixed on the end of the bag. ‘At least something’s happening,’ Dan muttered.

  ‘Report?’ A new, more serious voice whispered in his ear.

  ‘Someone’s making a move for the bag,’ Dan hissed. ‘But something’s wrong.’ And in the back of his mind he already knew what.

  ‘Repeat that, please.’

  Dan voiced his frustrated thoughts: ‘It’s staring me in the face.’

  ‘Say again?’

  The keeper had reached the bin and was trying to wiggle the bag free. Something was wrong, all right, and it had nothing to do with missing brooms or second thoughts. Dan lowered his face into the brown earth and let out a low, frustrated moan.

  This park keeper was shorter and at least twenty kilos heavier.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘But are you sure they were watching you?’ Richard frowned.

  ‘There was at least one of them hiding in the bushes,’ Jamie confirmed. ‘They weren’t exactly discrete.’

  ‘You spotted a van, too?’

  ‘It was parked on double yellows. A traffic warden walked by without blinking.’

  ‘Were you followed?’

  ‘Of course. But they were easy to shake.’ Jamie’s face was still flushed with excitement.

  ‘Good man.’ Richard rubbed his hands together, smirking. ‘This is going to be a breeze.’

  Gareth put his hands on his hips. ‘Aren’t you being a bit too overconfident?’

  ‘So next time we can go for it, right?’ asked Jamie.<
br />
  ‘Oh, no,’ Richard responded with patience. ‘There isn’t going to be a next time.’

  ‘What? So how do we get the money?’

  ‘And why did I just risk my neck?’ Jamie added gruffly.

  ‘It was a test.’

  ‘Did I pass?’

  ‘Not of you, Jamie. I was testing them.’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ Gareth grinned. ‘Bank transfer, right?’

  ‘Bit more to it than that,’ Richard smiled back. ‘But that’s the gist of it, yes. Remember Star Trek?’

  ‘Next Generation or Dr. Spock?’

  ‘Actually it was Mr. Spock. But I was thinking about the transporter beam.’

  Jamie’s face had gone blank. ‘We’re going to beam the money up?’

  ‘After a fashion, yes,’ Richard laughed. ‘The transporter beam broke up the human - or Vulcan - body into billions of atoms and shot them through space to a location where they were perfectly reconstructed. Remember?’ Richard paused. ‘Well, we use the same principle for the ransom. As soon as the money arrives at the allocated bank account it will be redirected to a dozen foreign bank accounts where we can withdraw it at leisure. In a couple of days the full amount will be sitting in our wallets.’

  ‘I’m not sure it’s a very good analogy, Richard, but I get the drift.’

  ‘Can’t they still trace it?’ Jamie demanded.

  ‘Some of it, maybe. But most will end up in legitimate bank accounts as clean money. We might lose a toe or eyebrow along the way.’

  ‘Or a patch of skin,’ Jamie interjected.

  ‘But overall we stand to become very rich men.’

  ‘And you know how to do all this?’ Gareth stared.

  ‘Exactly,’ Jamie frowned. ‘Sounds technical to me.’

  Richard let out a sigh. ‘To be honest, boys: I haven’t got a clue.’

  ‘Then how the hell are you going to pull it off?’ Gareth glared at him. ‘Not another YouTube video?’

  ‘Because I know someone who can do it for us.’

  ‘And who might that be?’ Gareth’s hands clenched into fists.

  ‘Leighton.’

  ‘Who’s Leighton?’ asked Jamie.

  ‘Someone Harris recommended.’

  ‘You’re working with someone you don’t know?’ said Gareth. ‘How can you trust him?’

  ‘I’d trust Harris with my life. And I know you both feel the same way, too.’

  ‘I thought Harris had retired, anyway?’

  ‘He has,’ Richard replied. ‘But he owed me one last favour.’

  Jamie cut in: ‘Hang on, how much of the cake does he want?’

  ‘Two hundred grand. Believe me, it’s worth it.’

  ‘So we’re nearly a quarter of a million down already,’ Jamie cursed.

  ‘No,’ Richard smiled. ‘Because after today’s bungled arrest I’ve upped our ransom demand to cover the extra cost.’

  Gareth narrowed his eyes. ‘If I didn’t know better I’d guess you’d planned it this way, all along.’

  ‘Is that a compliment?’

  ‘And how does Fiona feel about this Leighton guy?’ asked Jamie, still on edge.

  ‘Not a lot.’

  Gareth laughed out loud. ‘You haven’t told her, have you?’

  Richard shook his head. ‘You know what she’s like. It’s just easier this way.’

  ‘You know what this means?’ Gareth smirked.

  The other two stared at him, sensing a joke in the air.

  ‘We’re drawing a veil over it.’

  Chapter Eight

  ‘Dan. Dan. There’s no need to look so crestfallen,’ Jenkins tried to reassure him.

  ‘There isn’t?’

  ‘No money was lost and the kidnappers probably think we’re either soft or inept. Either way we’ve lulled them into something of a false sense of security.’

  Dan thought back to the attitude of his colleagues in the van and concluded that the term inept was too kind.

  ‘It’s just that I was so close to one of them.’

  ‘But it’s not them we want, is it?’

  ‘I still feel a bit of a dick.’

  ‘Seriously, Dan, you’re beating yourself up for nothing. If their man hadn’t returned they would have upped sticks a long time before our specialists could have extricated an address from our mysterious park-keeper impersonator.’ Jenkins’ posture was relaxed, or seemed to be. ‘Mind you, I’m not too pleased that he gave us the slip afterwards.’

  So maybe someone else was getting the brunt of Jenkins’ wrath this time. Or maybe Jenkins was cutting Dan some slack because he was still the rookie. Either way, reassurance was something Dan didn’t experience.

  ‘So what happens next?’

  ‘It’s already happened.’ Jenkins waved a piece of paper. ‘We got this about an hour ago.’

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘They’re enjoying putting one over us, of course. And they’ve asked for more money. Very predictable.’

  ‘That false sense of security?’

  ‘Exactly. They still think they’re in control, you see. More so, in fact.’

  Jenkins dropped the paper back on his desk, and for a split second Dan was convinced it was blank. He dismissed the thought as absurd. ‘What now?’

  ‘They’ve had to “reschedule their arrangements”, apparently. They’ll be in touch soon.’

  ‘Is the girl in any danger?’

  ‘No more than before,’ Jenkins replied. ‘Personally, I doubt very much they were ever going to pick the money up directly. Too many risks.’ The phone to the right of his desk started to purr. He picked up. ‘I do hope this is important, Jake.’

  A second later he put the receiver back down.

  ‘They must have bugged my office,’ Jenkins laughed. ‘Give me a second.’

  Jenkins turned to his laptop and scanned the screen. When his roaming eyes stopped, it was his turn to frown.

  ‘Bad news?’

  Jenkins stroked his chin. ‘Like I said, they were unlikely to pick the ransom up in person.’

  Dan was quick to put two and two together. ‘Electronic transfer?’

  ‘Yes. Always trickier to trace laundered money, but recently someone’s devised a very sophisticated transfer system and if these chaps are using it they’ll be laughing all the way to a bank we can’t trace. Tricky, tricky, tricky,’ Jenkins added, tapping his teeth with a pen.

  ‘So you won’t pay? What about the girl?’ Dan felt a knot tightening in his stomach.

  ‘Oh, that’s your job now, Dan.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘They’ve given us until noon tomorrow to complete the transaction. We can stretch that out one way and another, give you an extra couple of hours if we’re lucky. But basically you have less than twenty-four hours to find the gang and save the girl!’

  ‘You are joking?’

  ‘What’s the matter, haven’t you always wanted to be a hero?’

  Again Dan was tempted to believe his reputation had preceded him from Immigration.

  ‘But you said the target shook off the tail. Where am I supposed to look?’

  Jenkins sat back in his chair, his expression neutral. ‘God knows,’ he said. ‘But I’m sure you’ll think of something.’

  ‘Something? Like what?’

  Jenkins raised his eyebrows at Dan’s raised voice. ‘You’ll just have to use that wonderful initiative of yours, won’t you.’

  Dan thought for a moment, remembering what the surveillance team in the van had said about their cigarette smugglers. ‘Is this some kind of paper exercise, Trevor?’

  ‘Unless you’re referring to those telephone directories in the bag, no,’ Jenkins replied flatly. He leaned forward. ‘I want you to find that girl, Dan. And I wouldn’t send you out there to try if I didn’t think you had a sporting chance of pulling it off.’

  ‘Will I have the same team?’

  ‘No,’ Jenkins said, breaking eye contact. ‘You’ll be o
n your own this time.’

  Dan felt the blood drop from his face. There were worse scenarios than paper exercises, he realised.

  ‘And just supposing I do find her; you’ll send in a SWAT team, right?’

  ‘With the timeframe we’re working in, there may not be time.’

  ‘But I must have some sort of backup, surely?’

  Jenkins looked up, his face filled with genuine regret. ‘I’m sorry, Dan, but as of now I’m promoting you.’

  ‘Promoting me?’ Dan exclaimed. ‘To what, a Kamikaze pilot?’

  There was a stirring in his guts that told him he wasn’t going to be doing a lot of lying under bushes in the hours to come.

  Jenkins opened his desk drawer and stared into it for several seconds.

  ‘I mean you’ve moved on from surveillance, Dan.’

  He reached down in the drawer and lifted out a 9mm pistol; laid it carefully on the desk between them. A second later he added a box of shells.

  ‘If it makes it any easier, you can call me ‘M’.’

  Chapter Nine

  Whose idea had been to make pavements grey? Dan thought as he walked out into the rain. Jenkins had given him cash, a phone, and ID in the name of Cracknel; but at least there were no cyanide capsules.

  Jenkins was right. The events in the park really weren’t as much of a fiasco as Dan had assumed. The man masquerading as a park keeper had rashly made a brief telephone call during his escape, which had been traced to another mobile signal in Colchester.

  ‘But that doesn’t mean they’re still in Colchester,’ Dan had remarked.

  ‘Yes it does,’ Jenkins replied, ‘because the same number made a couple more calls locally overnight; and all within two kilometers of Colchester Town Hall.’

  ‘But they won’t stay there, surely?’ asked Dan.

  ‘I’ve had other information,’ Jenkins elaborated. ‘That’s exactly what they are doing.’

  What the source of this ‘other information’ might be Dan knew was none of his business. But the more important question was why the gang had decided to stay put.

  Had the girl got sick or been injured? And if she was sick, was it the infection finally emerging from some cellular hiding place to fill every inch of her skin with oozing, bloody sores? She would be worth nothing to the blackmailers that way; worse still, it would make her a liability.