by Iain Cameron
‘It must be a snatch,’ she said, ‘or he must know them. Why else would they get into his car?’
‘It would explain,’ Wallop said, ‘why they left their passports and other personal stuff behind. Also, why there’s been no traffic on their mobiles or credit cards, they were most likely dumped or trashed. It wouldn’t happen if the motive was robbery or a kidnap for ransom.’
‘I think the MO is as good as we can make it,’ Walters said. ‘Even though they’re not young women, they all seem to take care of themselves, not easy I imagine when looking after children.’
‘Children,’ Henderson exclaimed, his sudden outburst startling the other two. ‘I meant to raise the topic earlier. Is it significant all the women have children? I mean Kelly and Amy both went missing after dropping their kids off at school.’
‘They did,’ Wallop said, ‘but the Langton and Sandford kids are at different schools, and in Denise Quinn’s case, her kids are grown up with two at sixth-form college and another at university.’
‘Yeah, and Kelly Langton is the only one to disappear on her way back from school,’ she said, ‘Amy Sandford was visiting a property with a client when she went missing.’
‘Two things,’ Henderson said, determined not to lose his chain of thought, ‘well three things. One, he may be meeting them at school. It’s a bit unlikely I know, as he would need kids at two different schools.’
‘Could be a maintenance or service man,’ she said.
‘Yes, that occurred to me as well, it’s something we need to follow up.’ He picked up a pen and jotted it down. ‘Number two, he may be using the kids thing as an opening, to start a conversation with the women at a park or a swimming pool.’
‘Speaking as a woman, I think it’s got to be the crappiest chat-up line I’ve ever heard.’
‘Number three, the kids thing might be a feature of the age and type of women he’s targeting.’
‘Kelly and Amy differ in age by about four years,’ she said, ‘but all three women look about the same age.’
‘Following your chain of thought, boss there could be a number four,’ Wallop said. ‘All the kids might be attending the same club or go to the same horse riding lessons or swimming lessons.’
They batted around the questions and issues for the next fifteen minutes before Henderson called a halt.
‘I think we’ve got enough to put in front of Edwards and request a full investigation but while we’ve done a good job outlining the problem, we need to think about the solution? How are we going to catch him?’
A silence descended over the little room, each detective aware that what they had achieved so far was in many ways the easy bit.
‘I’ll give you my take,’ Henderson said, ‘but bear in mind I’m thinking out loud so it might be utter rubbish. We need to look at how all the women were abducted by driving or walking over the route they took, and try and find the best spot for him to make his move. Put ourselves in his shoes if you will.’
‘We should go over all the evidence,’ he continued, ‘and have it forensically tested for prints and DNA. The three cases were initially treated as missing persons, so it’s unlikely any of this has been done. The Amy Sandford case is the most recent and the one I think we should focus our efforts on. We need to get into the flat in Richmond Road as soon as possible and see if Mr Swift left anything behind.’
‘We need to look at the interview statements for the two new women,’ Walters said, ‘and see if there are any anomalies and similarities with Langton we can explore. If the same guy pops up as a friend or acquaintance or if all the women are members of the same gym or casino or something, it will give us an opening.’
‘Good idea, get it organised. Anything else?’
‘Well, we mentioned schools earlier,’ Wallop said, ‘and talked about the maintenance people. We should talk to the schools and the sports centres and find out what companies they’re using.’
‘In terms of the maintenance people in schools, it might be hard for them to get to know the parents, but they’d have the advantage of a van or truck already on school grounds. Get it organised Harry.’
Henderson paused.
‘Now, before we let the troops loose on all this, I’ve a difficult meeting with Edwards tomorrow to get through.’
‘Do you think she’ll buy it?’ she said.
‘Part of me says it’s obvious, so why wouldn’t she, but you know how senior management can see only what they want to see especially when faced with ever reducing budgets and the might of the press.’
‘What then?’ Wallop said, as his brow wrinkled in concentration or perhaps consternation. ‘We wait until another woman gets snatched? No way.’
‘Yeah, it’s crazy boss,’ Walters said. ‘We can’t let this guy take any more women. If she doesn’t give us the green light, we’ll do it on our own.’
TWENTY-NINE
On the top floor of the Regency Casino and Gaming Club in Worthing, Dominic Green was playing his favourite game. Sentimentality wasn’t a word often heard in property development circles, but he had been accused of buying this place not because it would be a great money-spinner, but because of its fantastic snooker facilities.
What bullshit, and if it hadn’t been his friend John Lester saying it, he would have cut the speaker’s tongue out a long time ago. He never bought anything unless it made money and in fact, after a few tweaks, the casino downstairs was now a better performer than the similar-sized one he owned in Hove.
What could not be doubted was his love of snooker and if anybody said he was born with a cue in his hand, they wouldn’t be far wrong, although sometimes it was there to bash someone’s head with. He was a natural at the game and rather than turn professional at the age of sixteen, as many thought he would, he instead used his skill to scam money from shysters who thought they could play, and raised enough, with the twenty grand he stole from an over-trusting uncle, to start his property business,
His opponent this evening wasn’t aware how much of Green’s youth had been spent on the green baize, but the days of fleecing drunks and public schoolboys with their hand-made cues were over. The game tonight was business and so he didn’t mind if Gerry Malone believed his skill and cunning were behind a score of 2-2 and a lead in the final frame, rather than anything to do with Green pulling his shots.
The reason for being so nice was because his rotund, balding and gold-decked opponent owned a small supermarket in Worthing, smack bang in the middle of a small parade of shops. Green owned the rest and with a little assistance from Mr Malone, would soon be the proud proprietor a plum site, ripe for development.
In the Dominic Green charm book, this was part one of a two-part process. If Malone still refused to sell to him, and providing the sticking point wasn’t only money, he would find himself in the boot of an old car, ready to be pushed over Beachy Head or dangling from a rope in the warehouse with Spike standing close by, picking his nails with a sharp knife.
It was Green’s turn and an automatic calculation told him all he needed to do to win, was pot the red, then black, pink, and the black again; easy-peasy. He lined up his cue. People always told him a steady cue was the key to winning a game, but not for him. He didn’t know where it came from, but he could tell exactly how far the coloured ball lay from the cue ball with unerring accuracy and from there, determined how much pressure to apply to the cue.
He hit the cue ball dead centre instead of slightly to the left, as his instinct told him to do, and as expected, the red kissed the cushion and rolled back, right in front of the hole.
‘Oh, bad luck Dominic,’ Malone said, the Irish twang leaking out of his whisky-soaked mouth. Malone wasn’t so oiled he couldn’t see an easy pot when presented to him, and so a few minutes later, he cleared the table to win the game. Green shook his hand and handed over two hundred pounds and for once, he parted with money wearing a genuine smile.
At ten, and after refilling his guest’s whisky glass, Green
guided him downstairs and left him in the capable hands of gaming manager, Tony Morati with two hundred and fifty pounds worth of chips in his pocket to play the tables. After his success on the snooker table, he must have thought his luck was in, and would probably blow the lot on one spin of the roulette wheel.
Green headed back upstairs to the bar on the first floor and sat with the gaming club boss, Alan Steadman. He wanted to pick his brains on attracting more high rollers down to Worthing from London. Steadman’s idea was to use the boutique hotel Green owned on the seafront, ‘The Landseer,’ to offer combined hotel and gambling weekends. He liked the suggestion and was on the point of hammering out the finer details when John Lester approached.
Ten minutes later, Green and Lester made the short journey to the warehouse at Shoreham. Once inside, John went off to make a brew while he waited for Des Raynor and Spike to stop nattering. No way was it a rumbustious debate between sabre-sharp intellects, as Raynor operated a fork-lift truck at Shoreham Harbour and thought ships and fish were interesting, while Spike liked to maim people and watch porn.
‘Right gents,’ he said, when boredom became too much and he was forced to interrupt. ‘Where are the goods?’
‘Over there,’ Spike said, nodding towards the table at the back, ‘we were waiting for you.’
Green got up and walked to the table and waited while Spike lifted up each of the two holdalls and dumped them on the table. John handed him a brew as Spike started unloading the bags of dope. The packages came tightly wrapped in thick, smelly greaseproof paper and inside, the goods were bagged in polythene, all ways of trying to disguise the smell from sniffer dogs, but as soon as Spike opened one, the pungent aroma of grade one Pakistani black made his head spin.
‘I can’t believe we got it all, after what happened last time.’
‘What? You can’t believe Shah could be bothered sending us another consignment,’ Lester said, ‘because he’s a devious, money-grabbing bastard, and would rather smoke it himself, or that the cops didn’t nab it like before.’
‘I wouldn’t trust Shah with your granny and I know she’s dead, but the latter. No trouble at the docks, Des? No hint of the filth?’
‘No, Mr Green. I did everything you said and more. You know, I checked the approach roads, listened on the short wave radio you gave me and I asked around, subtle like. Nope. No fucking sign, so I went back on the ship, met with the deck hand and he handed it over. Couldn’t have been easier.’
‘See what I mean John? We keep everyone’s mouth zipped and it works like a dream. Now we’ve got rid of the blab in our organisation it works the way it should.’
The first holdall contained top-class marijuana, the product of choice for Brighton’s middle class professionals, university lecturers and students at the city’s numerous educational establishments. The second holdall was filled with bags of heroin. They would be cut up with something benign like flour or calcium carbonate, otherwise the purity of this stuff would kill many junkies whose scrawny bodies were used to a weaker solution.
Green glanced at Raynor while this was going on and something about his demeanour make him appear nervous. He was a tough man and afraid of nothing, one of the reasons he liked him, but his highly tuned nose told him something didn’t feel right.
Green led him away from the table and back to the chairs.
‘Des,’ he said, leaning towards him, ‘how do we know this isn’t a set up and the filth didn’t plant a bug in our consignment, or follow you? I mean they nabbed it last time, I can’t believe they didn’t try something again.’
Raynor’s face looked a picture, and wouldn’t have been much different if he’d been slapped.
Spike could be a thick sod at times and wouldn’t know which channel Mastermind was on, never mind be able to answer any of the questions, but he possessed an uncanny sense of knowing when something wasn’t right. He stopped dealing with the dope and hovered close to his little tete-a-tete with Raynor.
‘What, what do you mean? The Pakistani guy sealed the packages, how could they get into them?’
‘I don’t know. Use the same tape, the same oily paper. You tell me.’
‘I dunno either. I got them from this Korean bloke, the one I always deal with. He’s straight as a ramrod and would tell me if somebody’d fiddled with it.’
‘Ha. How can he be fucking straight, if he’s bringing in dope and getting backhanders from us?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘I know what I mean Des,’ he said, raising his voice, ‘and I think there’s something dodgy going on here.’
Raynor’s quick glance at the door told him everything.
‘Spike, nab him.’
Spike grabbed him by the throat and punched him on the side of the head until he stopped struggling. He tied him to the chair.
‘What’s the problem Dominic?’ Lester said, walking towards him.
‘I think Henderson’s behind this. I think there’s a tracker on the dope, and he’s hoping to catch us handling it or selling it.’
‘Are you not being a bit paranoid? I didn’t see anything odd in the packages or inside either of the holdalls. I’ll take another look if you want.’
‘Watch and learn.’
He faced the man in the chair, a rope securing his arms and legs.
‘Now Raynor, I’m not in the mood for fucking about. Save yourself a lot of grief and tell me what’s going on.’
‘Nothing Mr Green, I swear. It’s all cosha.’
The way Spike had tied him, his hands lay flat against his thighs. Green nodded to Spike and the little guy drove his knife straight into Raynor’s hand.
‘Aggggg. You fucking bastard,’ Raynor screamed. ‘Agggggg,’
Blood seeped under his hand, as the knife also went into his thigh. Double pain from a single blow; sweet.
Green took a drink of tea but it tasted cold now. He could ask John to make another but he wanted to get this sorted quick-style and get off home. He waited until Raynor quietened down before resuming.
‘Listen mate,’ Green said, ‘your other hand is lying in the same position as the first. One word to Spike and he’ll do the same again.’
He strained against the rope, trying to move his arms but they wouldn’t budge. The tough guy wept tears of pain, frustration and fear and had probably crapped in his pants. No matter, the fishes didn’t care what they ate.
‘What the fuck’s going on Raynor?’
‘It’s Henderson,’ he said, sobbing.
‘Henderson what?’
‘Henderson what made me do this.’
‘Do what?’
‘Let you get the dope.’
‘See, what did I tell you, John. Here’s another fucking nark in my organisation. Right, I’ve had enough of this Scottish bastard, I’ve decided what I’m going to do.’
‘What?’ Lester said.
‘We know Henderson’s a principled fuck and wouldn’t compromise his precious justice for any amount of the readies?’
‘Yep.’
‘We know he’s got a girlfriend who’s a reporter for the Argus.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Christ, you wouldn’t even need to grab her off the street, just tell her a juicy story and she’ll come running to you.’
‘Neat.’
‘Lift her sometime over the weekend, bring her down here and we’ll see how long Henderson sticks to his fucking principles.’
‘No problem.’
‘Right Raynor,’ Green said, ‘this is your starter for ten. What’s Henderson up to?’
He didn’t reply, either because he had lapsed into unconsciousness and couldn’t speak, or he was acting schtum to protect his precious jock cop. ‘Spike, chuck something on his face and wake him up, I don’t want to be here all night.’
The little man smiled a cunning smile, before the roof fell in. The roof didn’t actually fall in, it just felt like it did.
First, he heard an almighty bang, and then a team
of heavily-kitted people ran into the warehouse. He thought for a moment they were the Stanislav brothers, making a last desperate attempt to muscle in on his territory, but when they shouted ‘Stop Police! Stop what you’re doing. Show us your hands,’ he knew it wasn’t them.
He stood with hands in the air, like a frightened customer in a Wild West saloon and facing the wrath of a feared outlaw gang, led by who else? His nemesis, the Scottish-bastard, DI Angus Henderson.
In his peripheral vision, he saw Lester pull a gun out from the waistband of his trousers.
‘No, John, no,’ he bellowed.
But it came too late.
A volley of flame erupted from the coppers’ weapons and Lester fell with red blotches peppering his white shirt, gun still in hand. His gun fired as he fell and the bullet narrowly missed embedding itself in Raynor’s skull. Shame, it would have been one less witness for the filth to call, and the last selfless act by his dearest friend.
THIRTY
DCI Lisa Edwards was busy when DI Henderson arrived outside her office for their Friday morning meeting. With a regal wave of the hand she indicated he should wait.
He’d spent a large part of the previous night lying on the sofa and sipping a glass of whisky, trying to calm down after the raid on Dominic Green’s premises. With all the paperwork, he hadn’t got home until two in the morning, but it wouldn’t end there. There would be internal enquiries, an IPCC investigation, the media to deal with, on top of the forensic and other police work required to make sure Dominic Green stayed in jail and for them to dismantle as much of his organisation as they could. Green was major scalp and everyone involved in the raid would go down in Sussex Police folklore as heroes, but he wished he felt better about it.
