'I'll think about it.'
Sarah grinned inwardly. She knew she had him on the ropes, and he'd sign the acceptance note included in the letter in a few days. She could afford to wait a week or two; she'd been waiting for almost three decades of marriage.
Chapter 38: Keys to the Castle
A subtle carved sign hung above the entrance to the Professional Standards Department: 'Quis custodiet ipsos custodes'. The unit was the last line of defence in the Met, watching over the guardians that safeguard society to ensure that their work was carried out with due diligence. The Professional Standards Department never took chances, preferring caution at every turn. No single person held all the keys to the castle, and so no one could abuse their position within the unit for personal gain.
Every access request on their encrypted computer system was logged, tagged and assigned to an investigation. At one glance an investigator could see who was looking at a jacket, how often, and whether they were involved with the case in any discernible way. The unit had a rigidly enforced policy of Chinese walls. No investigator should ever look at an investigation he was not actively involved in. The system used a flag warning system. If a file was included in a list it shouldn't have been, a small flag was raised. A one-off glance at the index of a jacket would also raise a small flag. Looking at one repeatedly would drop so many flags that the system would raise an alert.
Those alerts then went to the Professional Standards Department security officer responsible for enforcing the Chinese wall. When John Friedrich accessed the jacket for Charles Rosenburg the system had flagged it in no time. He was a mere data-entry worker, and had no reason to access active files unless specifically instructed. He wasn't involved in the Rosenburg case, so it came to the attention of the security officer seconds after his first access.
Seeing that he took a break immediately after viewing the illicit data, the security officer had followed him outside, pretending to smoke a cigarette.
He heard the conversation on the phone, and surreptitiously swiped the phone from John's desk when he went back to work. He didn't know who was being called, but he would find out. The boss would threaten John with obstruction of justice, as well as being an accessory to the crimes. There was no way John wouldn't crumble. He was a simple bloke, and wouldn't survive in jail.
***
'No smoke inhalation,' the pathologist announced as he walked in.
Charles Rosenburg had never investigated an arson homicide before, and must have looked quizzical because the pathologist explained without Rosenburg needing to ask.
'It means they were dead before the fire started. The lungs are clean, so they weren't breathing when smoke was in the air.' He spoke slowly, as if explaining something to a child.
'So how did they die?' Rosenburg snapped. He was never patient when he was being patronised.
'Acute blood loss, though the man wasn't in great shape before that. He suffered a pretty thorough beating.' The doc's tone was more conciliatory.
'What happened?'
'Looks like he was beaten, though I don’t know what with. Eventually his throat was slit. Cause of death is exsanguination.'
'Fuck. Who'd he piss off?'
'That'd be your job to find out, Inspector.' The pathologist grinned. He much preferred the simplicity of the morgue.
'Any hint as to ID?'
'DNA samples have been sent over to the Forensics Department, but you'll have to get the results yourself.'
‘What about the woman?'
'Again, blood loss. She took one blow, a knife shoved up through the lungs. It would have collapsed the lungs. A classic stealth takedown. It wasn't needed though; she was wearing a gag, so only the killer could have heard her anyway.'
'So he didn't want to hear her? What about the man?'
'No gag there. Seemed his squeamishness was limited only to the woman.'
'Maybe he knew her, or has woman issues. Time to talk to the head doctor upstairs.'
'My full autopsy report will be on your desk tomorrow morning.'
'Thanks, Doc.'
***
'Dr Jensen?' Rosenburg popped his head around the door to find the doctor dozing in a wing-backed leather chair, a pile of papers scattered across his desk. It looked like Rosenburg wasn't the only one with an excessive caseload.
'What? I was just resting my eyes.' He started to shuffle papers in an attempt to feign being organised.
'Relax. Got time for a quick question?'
'Shoot.' Jensen chuckled at his own double entendre.
'Got a double homicide. Killer let the man scream, but prevented the woman from doing so. That strike you as normal?'
'Could be a number of things: difficulty dealing with women, the perception of women as property in need of protection, guilt, rage at the male victim and the need for him to suffer more.'
'What could cause it?'
'Old-fashioned upbringing, elevated hormone levels, post-traumatic stress, childhood abuse... Your guess is probably as good as mine without a psych evaluation.'
'So there's a chance he wouldn't be fit to stand trial?' His eyebrows narrowed. The lawyers would jump on it.
'Maybe. Let me have a look at him when you bring him in.'
'Gotta catch the bastard first.'
'Good luck with that.'
***
The room was cold. John had been asked to join his supervisor in interview suite number one. It was used to conduct interviews for active investigations, and a number of efforts were made to make the subject uncomfortable. Keeping the thermostat down was one of them, and it was working on John. They hadn't told him what they wanted to talk to him about, and he was beginning to stress out.
Despite the frigidity of the room, beads of sweat were beginning to form at his temples. Outside, the security officer was running through what he had witnessed again.
'He dialled from a mobile, but it wasn't a work-issued phone so no tracking that way.'
'Don't worry, it was probably a disposable SIM. You reckon we've let him stew long enough?' The supervisor, Theresa West, jerked a thumb at the one-way mirror between them and John.
'Give him five more minutes. Then he's all yours. I'll be outside if you need me, boss.'
***
'Who'd you call, John?'
'Sorry, what are you talking about?' John feigned ignorance.
'We know you accessed the ARM Disposal jacket.'
'Did I? Must have clicked on the wrong link.' John gulped slightly, the movement of his Adam's apple betraying his nerves.
'Don't think so, John, you spent several minutes on that page. Then you called someone. Who?'
'I must have just left the window open.' This time, it was more of a plea than a defence. He knew they had him.
'John, you're not fooling anyone. Talk now, and all you'll lose is your job. Otherwise I'm arresting you for perverting the course of justice at the least.' The threat was obvious. The charge would be tried on indictment, so John would face anything up to life imprisonment with twelve strangers deciding his fate. The odds were stacked against him.
'I called Rosenburg.'
'Why?'
'His wife is my cousin. She runs the disposal company.'
'How many guns have they faked the destruction of?'
'Hundreds. Not all in one go, but a couple in each consignment. '
'What did they do with them?'
'No idea. Sold them, I assume. Don't know who to.'
'Wait here. I have an idea.' Theresa stood, leaving John where he was. He didn't have much choice but to wait for her to return.
Chapter 39: Honey Trap
The plan was fairly simple. Rosenburg was being watched closely, as was his wife. If he made an early move to the guns they'd simply catch him red-handed and arrest him.
If he didn't then Theresa's plan would come into play. They would use the cousin as a sting by having him offer to help ditch the guns, and then Rosenburg would be arrested in the process.
It didn't take long to set up. John readily agreed to go through with it. They had him bang to rights for perverting the course of justice, and would have added accessory charges to heap on the pressure if needed. It hadn't taken long for him to cave; he was a simple man and not clever enough to even ask for a lawyer. If he had, then the lawyer would almost certainly have put the kibosh on the sting.
He was to be at the ARM Disposal plant at ten that evening. Rosenburg wanted a sentry on the gate as a lookout while he brought the guns back on site from his illicit stash, and once he had he would work the immense shredder the company used to destroy guns. It took a while to fire up, so he would need a large period of time uninterrupted.
The Professional Standards Department wanted Rosenburg bang to rights. Anything less and it would probably be swept under the carpet. Rosenburg would simply be fired in light of his service record. Theresa wasn't going to settle for that.
She positioned cameras at the gate to the property. Recording him going in would prevent any argument that the guns were on site, and that the destruction had simply been delayed. Telescopic lenses would catch him as he unloaded them. They would then let him fire up the machine, and wait until he disposed of the first gun. At that point an armed response unit would take him in.
It was a simple plan, and hinged on the guns' not being stored on site already; but Theresa was confident that Rosenburg wouldn't simply leave the guns lying around the property to be found. It wasn't a large building, so it made sense that they would use an external site to hide them. If Theresa had known where it was she might have been tempted to simply stake out the site, but that information wasn't forthcoming.
***
'Surveillance team, in position,' a voice crackled over the radio.
It was ten minutes to ten, and John had been stood at the gates for around ten minutes. Surveillance were in a building a short distance away aiming their lenses through the window. As the lights behind them were out they would be hard to spot even if Rosenburg was looking.
The images they would capture wouldn't be perfect. The distance combined with the low light levels would make for a poor-resolution picture even with high-quality kit. Anything more would be intrusive and obvious though. For the same reason John wasn't wearing a wire, as handy as it would have been.
'Charlie!' John called out as his cousin's wife approached in a pickup. Tarpaulin was stretched taut over the back, secured with nylon cord. Surveillance wouldn't get an image of the guns specifically, but the team waiting to arrest Rosenburg would find the weapons in it later on.
Charles stepped out of the pickup, a bronze key in his left hand. The gates swung open with an almighty creak, and he gestured for John to wait inside while he moved the pickup inside the fence.
Once the pickup was inside, with the rear of the vehicle nearest the door, he stepped out again.
'John. Appreciate the call the other day. I need you to wait with the truck. I'll lock the gates, but if you see so much as a shadow move out there then shout for me.'
'OK. Mind if I wait inside the truck? It's cold out here.' John mock-shivered as he made the request.
Rosenburg shrugged, but tossed him the keys anyway.
He disappeared inside the building with the key to the fence. It didn't matter; the police already had a team inside. They were in the attic, monitoring the building with infrared guns that let them see an outline of a warm body below. Soon, another heat signature appeared as the shredder began to warm up, rows of diamond-tipped teeth whirring at dizzying speed.
It was almost time to make their move. A small camera was aimed at the feeding tube for the shredder, with the feed coming over Bluetooth to their smartphones. Once they saw the first gun go in the shredder there would be an exodus from the attic. It would almost certainly cause a ruckus, but another team would have moved into place outside the building by the time he could react and run.
Rosenburg went back out to the truck, pulled back the tarpaulin and started to unload. With a nod to his lookout, he went back inside with one box. The team watched his heat signature until he reappeared on the camera. When it became evident the box was full of weapons they began to creep towards the attic hatch. It was a pull-down ladder, and as soon as they moved it he would hear them.
Rosenburg had just placed the first few guns in the shredder – only a few at a time to prevent the machine's jamming – when he heard the creak. He knew he wasn't alone, and thanked God he had left a lookout by the truck.
'John! Start the engine!' He paused just long enough to chuck the rest of the box in the shredder. They would take a while for it to churn up into metal dust, but at least it would destroy the evidence.
Seeing the heat signature move, the team sent two men to pursue him out of the building, with the last man dropping behind to stop the shredder and save as much evidence as possible. Rosenburg was quicker than them and jumped into the passenger seat of his getaway vehicle.
'GO!' He screamed. Instead, John hit the driver-side button, locking both doors to the cabin. Charles Rosenburg was going nowhere.
By the time the team inside had caught up with him the team outside was prying Rosenburg off John's limp body. In such cramped confines John took a beating, and was bleeding profusely when the police rescued him.
'Good work, John. Get him to the hospital.'
Teresa turned to the dirty cop in disdain.
'Detective Inspector Rosenburg, you are under arrest. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.' She had just bagged the biggest collar of her career in the Professional Standards Department.
'Spare me.' Rosenburg spat at her feet as a uniform cuffed him. She shoved him roughly into the back of a waiting squad car. Today had been a good day in the fight against police corruption. His wife would be picked up momentarily, and both would be going to jail for a long time.
***
Morton was off duty when his phone beeped. He and Sarah were out having a quiet coffee in Kensington.
It was a text from Ayala: 'Boss, get yourself into the office ASAP. Big news'.
He showed it to Sarah.
'Go, I've got to get my hair done anyway.' She flicked her hair as she spoke, and David realised she had an ulterior motive in coming out for coffee. It had seemed excessive to spend money on Kensington parking for the sake of a cappuccino. She must have had it booked for weeks.
'Thanks. See you at dinner?'
'Sure, what do you fancy?
'Steak?' he ventured.
'Again? No. How about Chinese?'
'Yuck. Italian?' It was the old standby.
'Sure thing, Giovanni's at eight.'
He grabbed his coat from the track, drained his coffee cup and left Sarah to finish his lemon slice.
***
'David! Wait up!' Alan Sheppard jogged to catch up with Morton as he stepped into the elevator.
'Hey, Al.' Morton's voice was overly chirpy, trying to hide his jealousy that his friend was still actively investigating crimes while he lingered over data-entry work.
'There's something you need to know. I don't know all the details but Charlie Rosenburg has just been nicked. I hear he's been caught flogging seized weapons.'
'Shit. Does the press know yet?' Morton knew better than anyone that there would be a whirlwind of camera vans on site as soon as the press could muster them.
'It's only a matter of time. The whole building seems to know about it already; thought you'd want a heads-up. Anyway, this is my stop.' Alan stepped off the elevator as Morton rode to the sixth-floor briefing room.
As he walked into the briefing room he found out the exact details from WPC Stevenson.
'His wife had inherited an arms company and ran it legitimately for a number of years under her maiden name. A lawyer for the gang he busted with a few hundred weapons approached him seeking their return, having spot
ted the marital connection. For the six years since, the police have been funnelling the seized guns back to the criminals they were seized from. The lawyer took a cut for organising the sale, but they still cleared thousands.'
'Don't we witness the shredding?' Morton was aghast. He'd confiscated many of those weapons himself.
'Sort of. An officiator sees them start the batch, but they didn't nick the lot. They just keep back a few from each job. I guess it's how they afforded the nice flat with the view of the Thames. I figured they'd just inherited a few bob!'
'Damn. At least we caught it. Bet the press will have a field day. 'Scuse me, I need a word with the Superintendent.'
The Superintendent's office was upstairs, and he had an army of secretaries and support workers guarding the door to his office. Normally it would take at least a week to make an appointment and get past his guardians. Today Morton knew that they'd all be cowering. The Superintendent hated it when the press caught wind of anything negative, and he was liable to yell at anyone who dared enter his lair.
The coast was clear when Morton made it to the top of the stairs. It was six flights up, and he had to pause a moment to catch his breath. A secretary came scuttling past.
'Here to see him?' she jerked her head upwards towards the Superintendent's office. 'I wouldn't bother today, love.'
Morton rolled his shoulders in a laissez-faire shrug. He wasn't scared of a tongue-lashing. He had nothing to lose by going in there.
'Superintendent?' He rapped smartly on the open door three times in quick succession to announce his presence.
'What?!' he growled. He looked rough, like a man possessed. The arrest had happened late the previous evening, and it didn't look like the Superintendent had slept. His jaw sported a day's growth, giving him a somewhat shady appearance. A press conference was due that afternoon, and he needed to go home and freshen up for the cameras.
'Sir, with Detective Inspector Rosenburg gone the murder investigation team is incredibly shorthanded.'
'You'll have to make do without him, Morton, get back to work.'
The DCI Morton Box Set Page 16
