by Bill Rogers
‘SI Stuart,’ he said, ‘are there any firearms or public order implications surrounding this operation?’
Naeem Khan leaned close to Jo and whispered in her ear, before sitting back.
‘No, Sir,’ Jo said. ‘We have no reason to believe that the abductor has a firearm, and neither Mr Khan nor our own behavioural psychologist believe that he would use one if cornered. On the contrary, the presence of a significant number of armed officers might present a greater danger to the victim. However, both I and my colleague Investigator Nailor are registered firearms officers, and have already received approval to carry sidearms during this operation.’
The Head of the Tactical Firearms Unit began to object, and was forestalled by his Chief Constable.
‘So long as you have carried out a risk assessment, signed off by your superiors, SI Stuart,’ he said, ‘I’m content for my firearms officers not to be involved.’
The Chief Constable might just as well have added ‘on your head be it,’ thought Jo.
‘Yes, Sir,’ she replied, ‘that is the case.’
He nodded grimly. ‘Then I’m content for ACC Gates and Deputy Director Levi, when he finally arrives, to assume joint Gold Command, and for you, SI Stuart, to assume Silver Command, with DI Sarsfield to assume Bronze Command. Although, as I understand it, you also intend to operate in the field, SI Stuart?’
‘That’s correct, Sir,’ Jo replied. ‘DI Sarsfield and I will both be using command vehicles with integrated communications equipment.’
‘Marked or unmarked vehicles?’
‘Unmarked. I have secured two further unmarked Interceptor pursuit cars, and five marked vehicles, plus a paramedic, a forensics nurse and a Crime Scene Investigation Unit. ACC Gates has already agreed to provide a Tactical Aid unit in the event that we need to make enforced entry, search premises or pursue on foot.’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘However, I do have a specific request involving the potential use of air support.’
‘Go ahead,’ he said.
‘As we speak, a tracker device is being placed on the suspect’s car. However, we believe that he must have been using alternative vehicles to abduct his other victims. In the event that he did use an alternative vehicle and employed evasion tactics such that we lost visual contact, it would be essential to have air support on standby. More so, because we believe that he holds his victims in a well-hidden or remote location.’
The Chief Constable frowned.
‘I can try to prioritise that, however, there are only four helicopters across the whole of the North West Air Operations Group, and that covers a vast area, not only Greater Manchester, but also Cheshire, Lancashire, Merseyside and North Wales.’
‘I’m aware of that, Sir,’ she began, but stopped when her colleague Khan raised his hand.
‘In such cases, a helicopter can turn out to be over-intrusive,’ he said. ‘If the abductor becomes aware of the helicopter before he reaches the place where he’s holding his victim, he could well abort and we may never find her. But I do have an alternative suggestion.’
‘Which is?’
‘We, the National Crime Agency, possess a number of UAVs – Unmanned Aerial Vehicles – which are used for a variety of purposes, including major drug investigations and kidnap and hostage rescue. I’m sure we can get one up here fairly quickly, but I understand that Merseyside Police and Greater Manchester Fire and Rescue already employ them. Would it be possible to ask for the loan of a UAV and a flight control operator?’
‘That’s a great idea, Naeem,’ Jo muttered under her breath.
‘That will not be necessary,’ said the Chief Constable. ‘We’re currently trialling a SkyRanger drone. This would be an excellent opportunity for a live trial in the field.’
‘Thank you,’ Jo said. She looked at her notes. ‘I have just one final request. I believe that we ought to have Dog Unit support in the form of one dog and handler.’
‘Would that be a general-purpose dog or a specialist search dog, like a body dog?’ asked the Head of Crime.
‘General purpose,’ Jo replied, hoping fervently that she was right. She dreaded having to face Abbie and tell her that Sally had been murdered, let alone informing Sally’s brother and parents.
Chapter 51
‘I’m sorry, Gerry,’ said Jo, holding up her BlackBerry. ‘I’ll meet you in the foyer. I have to take this call – it’s Abbie.’
He grimaced.
‘Good luck with that,’ he said as he headed for the stairs.
Jo took a deep breath and answered the call.
‘Abbie,’ she began.
‘When were you going to tell me?’ she yelled. ‘We had to hear it on the radio, for God’s sake!’
‘Abbie,’ said Jo. ‘Please, calm down and let me explain.’
‘Calm down? How the hell am I supposed to do that? The bastard that’s been kidnapping and raping those students has got her, hasn’t he? Hasn’t he!’
Jo swore silently. That was not supposed to have been part of any of the briefings. Someone was going to pay.
‘Abbie, either you calm down,’ she said, ‘and let me explain what we’re doing to get Sally back safe and sound, or I’ll end this call right now.’
She could hear Abbie arguing with someone, then a male voice replaced Abbie’s.
‘Miss Stuart, this is James Warburton,’ he said. ‘Sally’s brother. Can you please tell me exactly what’s going on?’
His voice was rich and authoritative as befitted a privately educated City trader. Jo wrestled with her emotions. She knew she had to set aside her feelings about his role as putative father for Abbie’s baby. He was a victim. A dangerous man had abducted his sister. Right now that was all that mattered.
‘I have just come from a meeting, James,’ Jo said, ‘with the Chief Constable and some of his commanders, the Crown Prosecution Service, and a colleague from the National Crime Agency. We’re united in our determination to bring your sister back safe and sound as soon as possible.’
‘What does that mean?’ he asked. ‘I’m sorry, but it sounds like a load of platitudes.’
‘It means that we’re following up specific leads and mobilising all of the relevant resources. We will find Sally.’
‘You’re saying you know who has got her?’
‘I’m not going to repeat myself, James, because you’ll only accuse me of giving you the brush-off. The truth is that I can’t tell you anything more at this point because it might compromise the investigation. You wouldn’t want that, would you?’
‘No, but . . .’
‘Look, James,’ she said, ‘I’m leading this investigation, so unless you want to hold it up, you really have to let me go right now. Where are you and Abbie at the moment – at Sally’s house?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Well, please stay there. Two Family Liaison officers are on their way to you as we speak. They will be my sole point of contact with you. And I promise that I will keep you and Abbie informed, through them, of any major developments.’
‘Well . . .’
‘I’m sorry, James, but I have to go. Please try not to worry, and do your best to reassure Abbie. I promise we’ll get your sister back.’
She pressed end call before he could respond, put her phone away and hurried to the lifts. Now all she had to do was deliver on her promises.
Chapter 52
Malacott’s house was on a quiet leafy road just off the A56 in Prestwich, an upmarket town three miles and a lifetime away from Manchester city centre. It stood behind a low brick wall, and a row of beech trees that screened it from the road. The residents were sufficiently influential to have ensured that automatic barriers at each end of the street further protected their privacy, and there were traffic-calming measures designed to deter any boy racers who might slip through the net. It was 18.00hrs, six in the evening. The light from the street lamps and gaudy Christmas displays on the houses themselves was barely visible through the skeletal trees and the slanting
rain.
There were four of them in the modified Audi Q7. The driver, the communications officer, Jo, Max, and a loggist whose role it was to record every single decision against which Jo, as Silver Command, could be held accountable up to seven years hence. The rear two seats had been folded to provide storage for their clothing and equipment.
‘Remind me,’ said Jo, ‘how long is it he’s been in there?’
‘Since sixteen thirty,’ said Max, ‘according to the guys we replaced.’
They could hear the sound of Christmas music being piped around the house.
‘What is that?’ Jo asked.
The driver turned his head. ‘That’s Slay Belles by RuPaul,’ he said. ‘Interesting choice.’
The two investigators looked at each other.
‘It’s one of the top-selling Christmas albums this year,’ the driver continued. ‘I’m surprised you haven’t heard it.’
‘Well, at least we know the bugs are working,’ said Jo.
They were sixty yards from the house, behind two parked cars. Another hundred yards ahead of them, beyond the house, was the second unmarked car, call sign X-Ray Zebra Sierra, containing DI Sarsfield, his Comms officer, loggist and Naeem Khan from the AKEU. An unmarked Interceptor pursuit car, call sign Tango One Seven One, was parked out of sight around the corner on the main road. Reconnaissance had established that the only exit from the rear of the property was via a garden gate on a path through the woods that led to Church Lane to the east, and Clough Lane to the west, both of which were also under observation. Four unmarked cars were discreetly hidden away awaiting instructions. Malacott was boxed in.
‘He’s done well,’ said Max. ‘Who’d have thought that line of work would buy a place like this?’
‘It didn’t,’ said Jo. ‘His mother died two years ago. Liver failure. She left the house to him because the daughter had buggered off to New Zealand. In any case, according to his sister, he was his mother’s blue-eyed boy.’
The radio bleeped.
‘Quebec Base, Quebec Base . . . Quebec One.’ It was Ram, using the Quebec prefix they had agreed for all NCA officers engaged in the operation.
‘Quebec One,’ said Jo. ‘Go ahead, Quebec Base.’
‘We’ve established that there are two further vehicles registered to the target’s company,’ Ram said. ‘Both are leased. The registered keeper is the company secretary. I’ve sent you the details.’
‘Thank you, Base.’
Jo punched the back of the seat in front of her.
‘I knew it!’ she said.
The Comms officer peered around the side of his seat.
‘I felt that, Ma’am.’
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Can you open that message, please?’
He nodded, turned back and hunched over his keyboard.
‘There you go, Ma’am,’ he said.
The details appeared on the screen attached to the back of his seat. Jo pointed to the screen.
‘One of them’s a Vauxhall. There were fibres from a Vauxhall on Sareen Lomax’s clothes,’ she told Max. She read the keeper’s address. ‘Radcliffe. That’s a stone’s throw away from here. Can you map this address, please?’
The Comms officer tapped away at his keyboard. A street map appeared with an arrow over the address. Jo used her thumb and forefinger to zoom out until the map included their current position.
‘Two and a half miles,’ Jo said. ‘That has to be the explanation. He’s using one of those cars.’
‘We should get a car over there,’ said Max.
‘Too late,’ said their driver pointing to the screen. ‘The target is on the move.’
A green blip pulsated on the map that he had now brought up. The tension in the car was palpable. They watched as the BMW nosed out of the drive and turned right towards Gerry Sarsfield’s own 4x4. There was no need to let him know that Malacott was heading his way, their radios were on open channel.
‘I have visual on the target,’ Sarsfield said.
They waited for Malacott to reach the main road, where his left-hand indicator began to flash. As soon as he disappeared around the corner, Jo leaned forward.
‘Go,’ she said.
The driver started the engine, switched on the lights and set off.
‘Tango, Tango One Seven One, the target is yours,’ she said.
‘Quebec One . . . understood,’ Tango One Seven One replied. ‘We have visual now. One male up. Can confirm it is the target. Repeat I have visual on the target.’
As the Audi approached the junction, Jo glanced in the rear-view camera display and watched as Gerry Sarsfield’s car performed a U-turn and fell in behind them. At the same time, the final unmarked car entered the road in which Malacott’s house stood and took up station in the spot he had just vacated.
‘Do you really think he may have an accomplice?’ asked Max. ‘That he’s acting as a decoy?’
‘Like you, I have no idea,’ she told him. ‘I think it’s unlikely, and Andy agrees. It doesn’t fit the profile. But then the person who abducted me was an accomplice none of us knew existed.’
‘Malacott’s was the only vehicle at the house,’ Max reminded her, ‘and no voices were heard all the time he was under observation.’
‘I know,’ she said, ‘but I’m not taking any risks. Not when a woman’s life is in peril.’
She leaned into the microphone, and pressed the button. ‘This is Quebec One. Juliet Two, please execute a clandestine search of the target’s property to establish if our MisPer is present. Units Five through Juliet Nine, follow now. Maintain two-mile interval at all times between Juliet Five and Quebec One until instructed otherwise. Please confirm.’
‘Quebec One, this is Juliet Two. Understood.’
‘Quebec One, this is Juliet Five. Two-mile interval at all times. I confirm, you have a convoy.’
Jo released the button and shook her head.
‘We also have a comedian,’ she said.
‘Two miles?’ said Max.
‘If the target decides to do a U-turn to throw any pursuers, I don’t want him passing a line of marked cars. At least this way they’ll have time to scatter into side roads if he does.’
‘Good decision, Ma’am,’ said their driver.
Before Jo could decide if she was being patronised, he pointed to the display console.
‘I’d say the target was deploying evasion tactics.’
The blip that represented Malacott’s car was on the roundabout at Junction 17 of the M60 ring road. However, instead of taking either of the slip roads to the west or the east, or going straight ahead across the roundabout towards Bury, he was heading back on himself, towards them. Jo pressed the send button.
‘This is Quebec One,’ she said. ‘All units: prepare to take evasive action.’
Malacott seemed to have stopped at the lights. They waited to see what he would do next. The blip began to move.
‘He’s going back round,’ muttered Max. ‘The devious bastard. At least we know he has something to hide.’
‘Quebec One, this is Tango One Seven One. I have a visual. I’m holding back until we have a clear sense of the target’s route.’
The Comms officer pressed a key and pointed to the second of the larger screens.
‘This is Tango One Seven One’s dashcam,’ he said.
The lead unmarked car had pulled into the Shell garage sixty yards from the roundabout.
‘Do you think the target may have spotted him?’ Jo asked.
‘I doubt it,’ the driver replied. ‘Not with this rain and his wipers going.’
The traffic had slowed approaching the roundabout so they did not have to pull over themselves, but Jo realised that both they and the second unmarked car were getting perilously close to having to do so. To their relief, on the third pass, Malacott took the eastbound slip road on to the motorway. Tango One Seven One pulled out of the garage and resumed the pursuit.
‘What are you going to do about the marked ve
hicles?’ Max asked. ‘If he pulls a similar trick at the Middleton turn off and doubles back on the opposite carriageway, he’s going to pass them going the other way. He only has to put two and two together, and we’re blown.’
Jo leaned forward and spoke to the Comms officer. ‘Tell Juliet Five through Nine to pull over before the Shell garage at Junction 17 and await instructions,’ she said.
As he did so, she pointed to the split-screen map displaying the tracker blip from Malacott’s car.
‘What’s he doing now?’ she demanded.
The blip had slowed dramatically. He seemed to be travelling in the inside lane. They watched as he suddenly pulled out, and sped up for half a mile, before moving back into the inside lane and slowing down again.
‘At a guess,’ said their driver, ‘I’d say he’s playing hide-and-seek in between articulated lorries. That way anyone following him would have to do the same and risk losing visual contact.’
They watched as Malacott’s car approached Junction 18.
‘He’s got three choices,’ said Max. ‘To carry on towards Leeds, to head south towards East Manchester, Cheshire, and the Derbyshire Peaks, or go north on the M66.’
‘Four choices,’ Jo reminded him. ‘He could double back on the M62, in which case you and I will need to duck out of sight.’
‘He’ll never clock us,’ said Max, ‘it’s too dark, and what with all this rain . . .’
‘No need,’ said the driver. ‘He’s nipped on to the M66 northbound slip road.’
‘This is Quebec One,’ said Jo. ‘Juliet Five through Nine, proceed eastbound on the M62, and then northbound on the M66. Close up to within two miles of Quebec One, and continue to follow.’
For the next six miles, the only sounds in the car were background chatter as units confirmed their positions, the clack of the wipers and the hiss of tyres dispersing surface water. The driver had to continually adjust his speed as cars desperate to get home for Christmas cut in, spraying the windscreen with a grimy film of salt, muck and water.
