by Matt Johnson
Kevin expressed our thanks as Cochran stripped the weapon into its component parts and then threw them into a steel container behind the armoury counter. ‘I’ll give the rounds to the goons, they can use them up on the range. Fancy a wee dram?’
Cochran reached into the lower drawer of a desk that faced the opposite wall. When his hand emerged it was holding a half bottle of whisky. It was early in the day but, before we could refuse, the top was off and a large slug had been poured into each of our tea mugs.
‘You see the BBC interview with Beaky Collins over the weekend?’ Kevin asked.
Cochran lifted a levered section of the counter. ‘Come in and have a seat … you could make a squadron out of the number of blokes that wanted to out Beaky over that book. Fuckin’ Cyclone. I’ll give him Cyclone. There are some good blokes that have been trying to make a few quid out of their memoirs, real blades, not some fuckin’ Walter Mitty like Beaky.’ There was venom in his words.
‘We heard he laid out a cameraman.’ I said.
‘We all saw it. The mess was packed. Beaky was sunk. Wanker even tried to pretend that he was just a stand-in for the real author. He always did have a temper did Beaky … Terry knew it wouldn’t be hard to wind him up.’
‘I read the book. It wasn’t bad, if he’d stuck to the truth he might have done well with it.’
‘He might yet,’ Cochran laughed. ‘Since all the fuss over it, I heard it’s been selling like hot cakes.’
‘Did Terry find out if any of it was real?’ asked Kevin.
I glared across at him, willing him to drop what I thought was a fairly pointless subject. But Kevin was like a terrier with a bone, he wanted more.
‘Oh, it was real, alright. It’s just that Beaky was nae there. Most of the stories in the book were pure fantasy. Beaky bought a few beers, learned a few tales and then passed them off as his own. But most of the stuff the blokes fed him was complete bollocks.’
‘Was he ever out in Afghan at all?’
‘Yeah, well OK, he was there a bit, I guess. In the book he talks about getting recruited to do a recce for the spooks. That’s all dead gen’. He worked the mule trains in and out of Peshawar Valley. That’s where he met some of our blokes who were doing Increment for MI6. I’m surprised you two never saw him at the base in Pakistan. He was there a few times.’
‘The lads exposed him … told Terry, I s’pose?’
Cochran paused. ‘No, Terry worked it out himself. We don’t have any contact with any of the blokes that went on Increment. There were only about a dozen of them, anyway. Two of them were the Met lads that got killed a few weeks ago.’
‘You mean Bridges and Skinner?’ The surprise in Kevin’s voice echoed my own feelings. Having just learned that Bob Bridges was on the covert operations in Afghan, it was a disturbing coincidence to hear that Skinner was connected with the op too.
A doubt, recently healed, started to reappear. I second-guessed Kevin’s follow-up question. ‘Do you recall any others that went to Increment?’ he asked.
‘Like who?’
‘Mac Blackwood for one.’
‘Yeah, he was there.’
My stomach felt hollow. I’d had no idea there was a connection between the dead lads that we’d never considered.
Cochran continued. ‘There were a couple of others from ‘A’ squadron as well. “Teacup” and “Treacle”, we called them. “Teacup” – his name was McNeil, I think. You could ask at the weekend if you’re interested. You’re coming to the wedding, I presume?’
‘What wedding?’ I asked.
‘Billy, the Fijian. He’s marrying a girl from the town. Party Saturday night, church do the next day.’ He turned to face Kevin. ‘You turning up would be a great surprise for him, Taff.’
‘OK,’ he replied. ‘Count me in. Can you sort me a bed on the base?’
‘Nae worries, but sorry Mr Finlay, no Ruperts invited.’
I didn’t reply, but I wasn’t surprised.
‘Why the questions about the Increment lads anyway?’ Cochran continued.
‘Nothing, really. Just something that Bob Bridges’ wife asked us to check out,’ said Kevin.
‘Something interesting … or something valuable?’ Cochrane looked us both in the eye as he asked.
‘I don’t follow.’
‘You should,’ Cochran answered. ‘There were stories that those lads brought back something very valuable from Afghan; something they planned to sell when the time was right. It’s said that a man with the right contacts could make a lot of money from it.’
‘What … gold or something?’ Kevin asked.
‘Nobody knows; like I said, there were just stories. Maybe it was treasure or an artefact … or some kind of weapon. Who knows? But if you’re onto something, I know where to find a buyer.’
As we headed home, I had cause to think deeply. Confirmation that Mac Blackwood was in Afghan was enough to drive a cold shaft through my heart. The causal factors we had been searching for before Monaghan was killed had apparently been answered when rumours of the affairs with the CO’s wife had surfaced. But that hadn’t answered the question over Rod Skinner’s murder. Rod had the kind of face that only a mother could love and was the least likely of blokes to have chased married women. I had accepted the affair theory as gospel, particularly when the attacks stopped after Monaghan’s death. Now, though, Cochran had cast doubt upon that assumption. And Increment had just thrown another factor into the puzzle.
Chapter 49
MI5 offices, New Scotland Yard
Toni was falling behind and a prolonged telephone conversation with Finlay’s wife hadn’t helped. Jenny had called for a chat, something she was perfectly entitled to do and which, as her liaison officer, Toni had encouraged. And, in routine circumstances, she would have been happy to oblige, but these weren’t normal times.
Toni had listened with limited interest as Jenny reported her husband having had a number of recent conversations with Kevin Jones. She’d confronted him about it the previous evening and Finlay had, apparently, reassured her that nothing out of the ordinary was going on. But Jenny wasn’t convinced; she thought the two men were up to something. Toni did her best to sound sympathetic, assuring her that it was most likely nothing to worry about.
There was some good news as well. Robert Finlay’s sleep problems seemed to have eased. He had returned from the dive trip happier and more relaxed. However, Jenny was still struggling to come to terms with the fact that her husband had secrets and had expressed her fear she and Robert might drift apart. Toni reminded her that the police counsellor had warned that Robert’s behaviour might sometimes appear odd and that she needed to give him time.
‘Odd is right,’ said Jenny. ‘While we were in Romania, I saw some handcuffs and heel marks in one of the Cristea cars. I pointed them out to Robert, but he didn’t seemed to have noticed them. He still seems pre-occupied, in a world of his own. Sometimes I speak to him and he doesn’t even hear me.’
But then, perhaps in an attempt to demonstrate the conflicting sides to her husband, she described an incident at the wedding in which he had disarmed a gunman, showing, quite clearly, he could think and act clearly in a crisis.
‘He seems to have a bit of an Achilles heel when it comes to recognising danger,’ Toni had suggested, all the time thinking that her faith in Robert Finlay to handle problems had been endorsed.
With Jenny wanting to continue to chat about her husband, Toni needed to be patient as she tried to move the conversation on to the trip – the Cristeas and what Jenny had seen and heard.
She managed to learn that Jenny had met Collins and that he was planning to stay with Cristea Publishing if they could agree a deal. But, otherwise, there was very little about Collins himself. The conversation ended with some news. Jenny had been house hunting … and she had found somewhere. At least this part of her current workload was going well, Toni thought.
For the remainder of the morning, Toni knuckled down to wo
rk, only pausing to refresh her coffee mug. Then, just at the point where it looked like she had caught up with things, Nell remembered she’d promised to deliver a message. Finlay had called. He’d apparently had a run-in with one of the Cristea men near the scene of a murder and had recognised the man from the wedding.
‘He was asking why he hadn’t been warned about the Cristeas,’ Nell said, in a pointed tone. ‘He wants to talk to you … and he sounded angry.’
Chapter 50
It was getting late. The list Dave Batey had asked Toni to compile was taking a long time to finish. The daily duty state helped to jog her memory, as did her diary, but there were several gaps. Lapses in memory might be perfectly acceptable in routine circumstances, but in this case, Batey would be expecting a complete record, no exceptions … no gaps.
She had set Nell to work on the Cristeas, wanting to know more about them before she returned Finlay’s call. It wasn’t long before her researcher had dug up enough to make it perfectly clear that Finlay should never have been allowed to travel to the wedding. The new material also explained what Jenny had said about handcuffs and heel marks in the Cristea car.
That had resulted in an awkward phone call. But the policeman had taken her apology surprisingly well and, in what had turned out to be a much easier conversation than she expected, she ended up increasingly angry at herself. She’d let her enthusiasm cloud her judgement and, in her ambition to secure a departmental coup by locating Chas Collins, she’d made a careless mistake. She thanked God that nothing worse had resulted.
Her offer to have Nell research information on the Cristeas that only the Security Service might have access to was well received; and she accepted that, in the circumstances, it was the least she could do. Finlay even thanked her, and a potential row was averted.
Another idea Nell was working on was one from Stuart – a rather crazy notion that Monaghan might have faked his own death. It seemed a bit far-fetched, but, to keep her assistants quiet, Toni had requested a hurry-up on the DNA tests for the body found in Monaghan’s bombedout car in order to cross-match them with some hair samples Stuart had found in the former officer’s flat.
Recalling the Director’s wish to be kept informed, she typed a brief synopsis of developments into an email. She decided to include the notion of Monaghan having staged his own death and the steps she was taking to check the idea. It was a fanciful hypothesis, but it was the kind of thing the Director had specifically asked to know about.
Finally, at a little before midnight, she reached the point of a final run-through of her diary report to Dave Batey. She was just about to sign her report when a sudden, horrible thought crossed her mind. There was just one time – one fleeting moment – when her pass had been out of her sight.
It wasn’t something that she dare put in writing.
For several moments she sat mulling over the idea that had occurred to her. Right or wrong, the implications were considerable. It might even be better to forget about it. But the more she thought, the more feasible the notion became.
Hands shaking, she flicked through the department directory for Dave Batey’s home number. But as she picked up the telephone to dial, her innate caution stopped her. It was quite possible that her department telephone was being monitored. She replaced the receiver and went to find an empty office.
It wasn’t difficult. Within a few minutes, she found an unlocked door to a secretary’s office, and a safe telephone. Checking the corridor was clear, she dialled Batey’s number. For several moments there was no answer. As she waited, her heart began to accelerate.
Where was he, she wondered? Perhaps he wasn’t at home?
She was just about to give up when the call connected.
Chapter 51
Murder squad office, Hampstead Police Station
DCI James Bowler was just finishing a summary of the interim forensic report when Nina pushed open the door to the squad office. A projector was displaying an enlarged picture of the bloody scene that we had walked in on at Relia’s flat.
The room fell silent. As all eyes turned towards the door, Nina introduced the two of us. One or two nodded their heads in greeting, most simply turned back to face the DCI.
Bowler beckoned Nina to join him in front of the assembled AMIT – the Area Major Investigation Team. ‘Perfect timing,’ he said. ‘You know more about our victim and the trafficking world than any of us.’
For the next ten minutes Nina summarised what she knew of Relia, the circumstances of her being in a police-provided flat and what had happened when we had turned up to show her some mugshots. None of the detectives present had any previous experience of the sex-trafficking trade and even fewer had any grasp as to the scale.
Considering the fact that she was caught on the hop, I thought Nina did a pretty good job. A lot of questions were asked and it was clear that some were critical of the poor level of protection that had been given to Relia. As a victim of trafficking and a key witness to a hugely lucrative criminal activity, most present expressed the opinion that Relia ought to have been looked after – moved further away from the Euston brothel where she was found.
Without being defensive, Nina explained that the witness protection programme had declined to fund a re-location, so the Hampstead flat had been a compromise. She had worked out a schedule of regular visits with Relia and given her specific instructions about leaving the flat, and making contact with friends, either from her home country or in London.
As the organisation charged with protecting Relia, we all felt some guilt. As DCI Bowler continued with his briefing he made it quite clear that he wanted us to find out if Relia had been out and about – where she had gone and at what times.
As the meeting ended, Bowler called me and Nina into his office. The small room smelt of percolated coffee. Documents littered a bulky desk and on the rear wall, there was a large white board with what looked like a flattened spider drawn on it. Bowler noticed me staring at it.
‘It’s a mind map. It’s not much at the moment but, believe me, it will soon be filled as you guys start the information flow.’
As I sat down next to Nina, still puzzling at the spider drawing, Bowler’s tone quickly changed. ‘Right, first things first: where were you two yesterday?’
Nina answered before I had time to think. ‘I was sick, finding Relia like that affected me more than I expected. DI Finlay was with MI5 all day due to his recent problems. I assume you’ve been apprised of them?’
The DCI snorted. ‘Yes … we’re well aware. And, as I’m sure you both know, the first twenty-four hours in a murder enquiry can be crucial. So far, we’ve got nowhere. I’ve not long come off the phone with your Superintendent. He’s OK’d it that, for the next few days, at least, you will be on AMIT with me. Nina, I’m going to ask you to work here with the Office Manager and I will need a statement from you, usual stuff from the scene but also cover everything you know about Relia Stanga – her history, where she hails from, how we came across her … anything really.’
Nina nodded. ‘I’ll get on it straight away. But I think we should be visiting the brothel where she was picked up.’
‘Already on it. And later on I want you to tell me more about this Cristea syndicate,’ said Bowler. He turned to me.
‘Bob, no disrespect, but in view of your lack of CID experience I’ve partnered you with DC Bonner on one of the investigation teams. He’s a good lad, you’ll like him – bright spark with a great sense of humour. I’ve asked him to wait for you in the canteen. He’ll show you the ropes, how to use HOLMES, that kind of thing.’
‘HOLMES?’ I asked, doing my best not to look too puzzled.
‘Our computer system. We’ve just switched to the new version – HOLMES TWO. It makes sure that people like me can process the tons of information that people like you will be bringing in so that we don’t overlook any clues.’
Nina and I left our new boss making telephone calls. The main enquiry room was already buzzing
with activity. In some ways it resembled a small call centre, with operators busy on telephones in front of computer screens. All those present, however, were focussed on one task: finding Relia’s killers.
‘Thanks for covering for me,’ I said to Nina quietly as we entered the main enquiry office.
‘No problem. Do the same for me one day.’
Before heading off to the canteen, Nina introduced me to another Detective Sergeant, Naomi Young, who had been appointed as the Office Manager. Determined to strike while the iron was hot, the two of them patiently attempted to explain to me how HOLMES worked. But, almost instantly, my eyes began to glaze over and the detective saw it.
‘Bit technical?’
‘Yes … computers really aren’t my thing. I’ve only just discovered the internet.’
‘OK … sorry. I’ll keep it simple.’ Naomi turned to her desk, tapped a few keys on the keyboard and indicated a complex looking screen that appeared on the visual display unit.
‘This is HOLMES TWO. Stands for Home Office Large and Major Enquiry System. HOLMES ONE was OK but it couldn’t link between different police forces or even between different enquiries. The updated version can, so if, for example, we have a serial killer operating in Yorkshire, Devon and the Met, we ought to be able to see the common factors.’
‘Sounds good,’ I replied.
‘Oh, it is good. But it’s only as good as you guys on the ground. The better the information you give us to put into it, the more valuable the data it can produce. Conversely, shit data produces shit intelligence, so to speak.’
