The Falcon Tattoo (The National Crime Agency Series Book 2)

by Bill Rogers

  ‘Junction One. Target leaving left, left, left,’ said the Comms officer.

  They stared at their screens.

  ‘Where are you going, Sam?’ muttered Max.

  ‘He’s got plenty of options,’ said Jo. ‘Bury, Ramsbottom, Nangreaves, Edenfield.’

  ‘Not Bury,’ the driver observed as they watched the blip turn right on to the A56.

  ‘He’s not going to his company secretary’s place in Radcliffe either,’ said Jo. ‘Or if he is, he’s going a roundabout route. How far are we from Junction 1?’ she wondered, staring at the map on the screen.

  ‘Less than a mile,’ said the driver. ‘Tango One Seven One should be just leaving the motorway.’

  ‘You devious bugger!’ she said.

  ‘What?’ said Max.

  She pointed at the display. ‘Look where he’s going: Summerseat.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘Firstly, there are dozens of ways out of there. Secondly, Bass Lane, where he’s just turned into, is a single car width, with passing places all the way down. If he doubles back at the bottom, he’s going to have all the time in the world to eyeball anyone following him.’

  She leaned into the mike.

  ‘Quebec One to Tango One Seven One. Go left,’ she said, ‘go left, then first right.’

  ‘Tango One Seven One, left then first right,’ came the calm reply. ‘Rowlands Road.’

  Jo sat back.

  ‘There’s no way we can cover all of the exits out of there,’ she said. ‘Not with unmarked cars. Thank God for that tracker.’

  ‘How come you know so much about this place?’ Max asked.

  ‘Because it’s a popular beauty spot. Abbie and I have been to a restaurant down here loads of times.’

  ‘Target has stopped,’ observed the Comms officer.

  Sure enough, the green blip was stationary.

  ‘Where is he exactly?’ Jo asked.

  The Comms officer zoomed in on the map.

  ‘Summerseat garden centre. Looks like he’s in their car park.’

  Jo knew that she had to make a quick decision. They were approaching Junction One themselves. Tango One Seven One was just entering Railway Road, seconds from the garden centre. She leaned forward.

  ‘Quebec One to Tango One Seven One, lay up south of the target location, with visual on the exit. Please confirm arrival.’

  They waited with bated breath. Thirty seconds later, the radio came to life.

  ‘Tango One Seven One,’ came the reply. ‘Stopping now. Have visual on exit.’

  ‘What’s he playing at?’ Max wondered. ‘It’s a long way to come for a Christmas tree.’

  ‘Which way do you want me to go, Ma’am?’ asked the driver.

  They were at the lights at the end of the slip road.

  ‘Left, then right,’ she said. ‘The same way One Seven One went.’ She studied the map. ‘Then take the fourth on the right, at the bottom, Miller Street.’

  She leaned into the mike again.

  ‘X-Ray Zebra Sierra, please proceed to the junction of the B6214 with Newcombe Road, Summerseat. Juliet Five through Nine, lay up on the exit slip road at Junction 1 and await instructions.’

  Gerry Sarsfield acknowledged the instruction, waited for Juliet Five to do the same, and then addressed Jo directly. He sounded put out.

  ‘Quebec One,’ he said. ‘What’s going on?’

  Jo knew why Sarsfield was upset. After all, he was Bronze Command. By insisting on being right here, in the thick of the operation as Silver Command, she had muddied the waters, effectively giving him very little say in anything at all. It was time to redress that before it soured their relationship. She dared not let that happen, not in the middle of an operation as sensitive as this. And not with Gold Command listening in to every word that was spoken.

  ‘Apologies, Bronze Command,’ she said. ‘It’s been full on up here. I didn’t want us parking behind One Seven One. If the target were to emerge from that garden centre, he’d make for us straight away. What I’m suggesting is that I wait on the opposite side of the River Irwell, and cover the exits on that side, and you cover the possibility that he might exit towards Greenmount, or Holcombe Brook. What do you think?’

  When Sarsfield finally replied, he sounded mollified. ‘I agree,’ he said.

  She sensed his hesitation. ‘Go ahead,’ she said.

  ‘I was just thinking,’ Sarsfield said. ‘What if he’s picking up a Christmas tree, some baubles, whatever? What if it isn’t him?’

  She tried hard not to let her irritation show. He had just articulated the unthinkable that she had managed not to dwell on until now. ‘Then we’ll have to deal with it, and go back to square one,’ she said.

  Beside her, Max pulled a face and whispered in her ear. ‘If it isn’t him, I’ll eat my hat.’

  ‘You haven’t got one,’ she whispered back.

  ‘Then I’ll buy one specially.’

  The driver ventured cautiously on to the ancient stone bridge over the Irwell. The river was seriously swollen and in spate. On their right, the Waterside pub and restaurant spanned the river, forming the left wall of the bridge. On the opposite side, a muddy, swirling, white-crested torrent slapped up and over the bank on either side. On the far side of the bridge, both the road and courtyard of the Spinney’s Mill apartments were already a foot deep in water.

  ‘It’ll be a bloody miracle if that bridge holds out much longer,’ said the Comms officer.

  After three hundred yards, Jo instructed the driver to turn off alongside a park and children’s playground, and then stop. She leaned forward and tapped the Comms officer on the shoulder.

  ‘Can we have Tango One Seven One’s dashcam up again, please?’

  The five of them watched rivulets of rain running down the windscreen of the Interceptor car, interspersed by brief moments of clarity as the wipers kicked in. It was one of those watching-paint-dry occasions with which all police officers were only too familiar. Jo stared at the screen, willing something to happen.

  Chapter 53

  ‘How long has it been?’ Jo asked.

  ‘Five minutes,’ Max told her.

  It had felt like an eternity. They had seen two cars and two vans leave the garden centre. Both vans, one of which had driven right past the Interceptor, had the tips of Christmas trees protruding from open rear doors. The cars, both of which had driven past their Audi Q7, had two women in one of them, and a male and female with two young children in the other. Malacott’s car had still not moved.

  ‘Something’s wrong,’ said Jo. ‘I can feel it.’

  Her hands were clammy. She wiped them on her trousers.

  ‘I agree,’ Sarsfield chipped in. ‘What do you propose we do about it?’

  ‘I think we should send Tango One Seven One into the car park,’ she said, ‘and have Quebec Three go inside and see if she can spot him.’

  A female voice broke in.

  ‘Silver Command, this is Gold Command. Might that not be premature?’

  Jo cursed silently. Tactical decisions were down to her and Gerry Sarsfield, not Helen Gates. They were the ones on the spot, stuck out here in the pouring rain.

  ‘That may well be, Gold Command,’ she replied, with a calm that belied her inner turmoil. ‘But One Seven One is an unmarked car. The officer I have in mind to enter the garden centre is female and not known to the target. I think it highly unlikely he would suspect either her or One Seven One. On the other hand, if he has slipped us, every minute that passes, he could be further and further away.’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Your decision, Silver Command,’ came the response.

  The loggist bent to his pad and began to write. Jo leaned in to the mike. She was not going to be accused of going it alone.

  ‘Bronze Command,’ she said. ‘Where do you stand on this?’

  She imagined Gerry Sarsfield pulling a face and cursing her. Helen Gates was his Boss. Jo knew that she had placed him in an
unenviable position. He wanted to share the decision-making: this was his big chance. It was time he manned up. Squeaky balls time. She could hear him squirming.

  ‘I accept the rationale for your decision,’ he said at last.

  She had to admit it was a smart response. He had managed to slide out of siding with either of them. Beside her, Max shook his head but held his tongue, mindful of the loggist beside him.

  ‘Tango One Seven One,’ Jo said. ‘This is Quebec One. Please proceed to the car park. Let me know when you’re parked with visual on the target vehicle, without compromising your anonymity.’

  One minute passed.

  ‘Quebec One, this is Tango One Seven One. I’m in position. I have visual on the target vehicle. The target is not present.’

  ‘Quebec Three,’ Jo said. ‘Get in there, and see if you can spot him. Wear your earpiece and lapel camera. Make as though you’re buying something, and for God’s sake don’t wear your NCA cagoule!’

  ‘As if.’

  ‘I heard that,’ said Jo.

  ‘Sorry, Ma’am,’ said the hapless NCA officer. ‘I meant to say, message received and understood.’

  ‘That was a bit harsh,’ whispered Max as they waited for the pictures to come through.

  ‘It’s easily done when it’s pouring down like this,’ Jo retorted. ‘You reach back on autopilot, grab your cagoule, shrug it on and skip through the raindrops with POLICE emblazoned across your back. We’ve all done it.’

  ‘Here we go,’ said the Comms officer, pointing to one of the split screens.

  They watched as Quebec Three dashed to the conservatory-style entrance, stepped beyond the automatic doors and paused before an impressive display of blue and silver Christmas trees. Which way to go? Left into the apparently empty plant hall, or right into the indoor shop? She went right, squeezing past two women standing before a display of poinsettias, and into the right-hand aisle, full of seasonal cushions, cards and baubles. It was empty. The camera wobbled as she bent, picked up a blue shopping basket and placed a cushion in it.

  ‘Clever girl,’ said Max.

  Jo elbowed him. ‘Officer,’ she said. ‘Clever officer.’

  Three aisles and two dead ends later, Quebec Three reached the central display area. It was surprising how few people she had passed, given the number of cars in the car park. A picket fence surrounded the entrance to Santa’s Grotto. A mini Big Wheel took centre stage. A gnome stood in the mock ticket office. The door to the grotto was closed.

  ‘Keep going,’ said Jo, as much to herself as to the NCA officer.

  They watched as she sped through a winter wonderland replete with life-sized polar bears and penguins, a bandstand with Father Christmas musicians, and a food and deli area, before arriving at the cafe, which was closed. She turned and hurried to the Pay Here Zone. There were five people queueing at the two tills. Malacott was not one of them.

  ‘This is Quebec Three,’ said the NCA officer. ‘He’s not here.’

  ‘The toilets,’ said Jo. ‘You haven’t checked the toilets.’

  They heard Quebec Three curse under her breath, before turning on her heels and dashing back towards the cafe. They could hear her heavy breathing and the sound of the doors banging as they watched her slamming them back. One, in the men’s, was locked. She entered the neighbouring cubicle, climbed on the seat and levered herself up. Her lapel camera was pressed up against the cubicle partition. The screen was a blurry mass of beige.

  ‘Whoops! Sorry, sir,’ they heard her say. ‘Police.’ She began to climb down. ‘Nothing to worry about. You carry on.’

  She jogged back to the entrance, turned right, and scanned the plant hall.

  ‘This is Quebec Three,’ she said. ‘He’s definitely not here. I repeat, the target is absent.’

  ‘We could check their CCTV,’ said Max. ‘If he’s been in there, they’ll definitely have picked him up.’

  ‘I’ll get Juliet Seven to come and do that,’ Jo told him. ‘They can carry out a thorough search at the same time. But you know as well as I do, this means he’s done a switch. We’ve lost him.’

  She issued instructions to the Tactical Aid team waiting in Juliet Seven.

  ‘It can only have been one of those two vans with the Christmas trees,’ Max said. ‘Both Tango One Seven One and us had a good look at the occupants of those cars.’

  Another voice broke in. It was Gerry Sarsfield.

  ‘This is Bronze Command,’ he said. ‘Negative to that, Quebec One. Both of the vans you described exited from Summerseat on to the B6214 from Newcombe Road, turning right towards Holcombe Brook. We had close visual on both. We double-checked the dashcam footage on both. In neither was the target present, unless he was lying down beneath one or other of the Christmas trees.’

  Jo stared at the map, trying to suppress the panic that was threatening to engulf her.

  ‘It’s about three hundred and fifty yards from the car park across fields to Higher Summerseat, or ninety or so yards to Hall Street,’ she said. ‘Perhaps he had another vehicle parked on one of those?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Max agreed. ‘But those fields are going to be a quagmire after all this rain.’

  ‘There is another possibility, Ma’am,’ said the driver twisting in his seat.

  ‘Go on,’ she said.

  ‘Between us spotting that the target had stopped moving, and Tango One Seven One confirming visual on the car park exit, thirty-five seconds elapsed. Even allowing for ten seconds of visual contact by Tango One Seven One on a car travelling away from that exit, it would give the target twenty-five seconds to transfer to another vehicle and drive away. I could do that comfortably in fifteen.’

  It wasn’t what Jo wanted to hear, but she knew that he was right. It also meant that Malacott would have had time to get out of the valley in which Summerseat lay before Gerry Sarsfield’s vehicle had taken up station. Besides, he would have had four other exit points that did not involve passing vehicles associated with the operation. The silence in the car and over the network was oppressive. Everyone was listening. Waiting for her decision. She tapped the Comms officer’s shoulder to ensure his attention, and then leaned into the mike.

  ‘This is Silver Command,’ she said. ‘I’m about to send details of two vehicles associated with the target to every officer associated with this operation. If either of them is identified, I need to know immediately. Gold Command, could you please ensure that every car fitted with Automatic Number Plate Recognition within a twenty-mile radius of my current location is alerted to look out for the licence plates, together with priority analysis of static ANPR camera footage for the past fifteen minutes.’

  While she had been talking, the Comms officer had picked up on her instruction, located Ram’s email and prepared to send it as instructed. Jo nodded to him.

  ‘Sending now,’ she said.

  ‘Understood,’ said Helen Gates, the Gold Commander. ‘What will you do if he’s using false plates?’

  What I’m doing now, Jo was tempted to reply. Pray.

  ‘In addition to notifying any sighting of the two licence plates,’ Jo replied, ‘I request notification of any vehicles meeting the description of those vehicles that are believed to be bearing false number plates.’

  ‘Understood,’ Gates responded. ‘However, if the plates are cloned, there’s no way they’re going to be picked up without a stop and search.’

  Jo already knew that. It didn’t help to have it spelled out.

  ‘Then we’ll have to hope they haven’t been cloned,’ she said. ‘Given the trouble he’s gone to in order to avoid being followed, I doubt that he would want to draw attention to himself by using either false or cloned plates.’

  ‘You had better hope you’re right, Quebec One,’ said Gates.

  There was an uncomfortable silence, during which they watched as Juliet Seven overtook them at speed, spraying water all over the windscreen and side of the Audi before swinging into the garden centre car park.
At least if he was hiding in there they would soon find out, Jo reflected. They would also know if there was CCTV covering the car park that might have caught him switching cars.

  ‘Gold Command,’ she said. ‘What is the possibility of deploying air support?’

  ‘Checking now,’ came the brusque reply.

  Thirty nervous seconds went by.

  ‘No helicopter support available at present,’ Gates said. ‘Home-based India Nine Nine is dealing with a ten-car pile-up on the M6. Merseyside is tied up with a missing child search. Cheshire is experiencing technical problems. North Wales is unable to fly due to severe weather conditions, and none of the fixed wings available to the region are able to fly for the same reason. Even if they could, it’s unlikely they would be able to see much with the low cloud cover and torrential rain.’

  ‘Presumably paramedic and motorway police are also dealing with the pile-up?’ Jo said. ‘How soon might India Nine Nine be free to support this operation?’

  ‘Wait, please,’ said Gates.

  Another thirty seconds passed.

  ‘An estimated ten minutes on station, plus twelve minutes flying time to your current position, Quebec One,’ Gates told her.

  Twenty-two minutes. Given the current traffic conditions, that was time enough for Malacott to travel another seven miles or so in any direction. Not that they knew where he was right now, or what they were looking for.

  There was a faint squeal of leather as Max eased back in his seat. Beside him, the loggist sat, biro poised. The radio crackled. Rain drummed on the panoramic roof. A new form of water torture.

  Jo felt a cold sweat coming on. They were waiting. Gold Command in Central Park, her colleagues on the Quays, dozens of officers in the cars and vans. Waiting for her to make up her mind. Wondering how she was going to dig herself out of this hole. She was beginning to think the unthinkable. That she would have to abort the operation.

  Then the radio burst into life.

  Chapter 54