Seven of Swords (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 3)

by Lewis Hastings

  Roberts had a vacancy for a detective inspector and was eying up the potential among his three detective sergeants, two males and a female, and two were ferociously competitive. Williams had been up front, ‘I’m happy with my lot. It’s not for me governor, but thank you. Let one of the other two have a go.’

  The first was DS Nick Fisher. Fisher was the nearest thing to permanent heart failure for Roberts and the previous six managers that he had all but broken. What Fisher didn’t know about tactical policing wasn’t worth knowing. He’d started in the West Midlands Police when that force was still trying to rebuild its reputation, following the dissolution of the Serious Crime Squad and the media frenzy that surrounded its demise.

  A devout Lancastrian, Fisher had been a Royal Marine, short term, but the beret and the esprit de corps had never left him. He was what even his dear mother called a hard bastard. Brilliant and inquisitive blue eyes that wouldn’t have been out of place in a falcon, scanned and watched for the slightest sign of weakness, but they smiled too and his sense of humour was legendary. Sharper than the proverbial axe.

  He had a sense of purpose that saw him walk from A to B in a stance that meant he leant forward a few degrees, as if doing so would mean he reached his destination quicker than anyone else. He said he kept his hair deliberately short and what he had was greying-blond. His face was a roadmap, formed by the stories of his life and its resultant pressures; what he hadn’t done to get a conviction – all above board – was hardly worthy of note.

  He dressed well, never afraid to be bold, and had remained devoutly single. There had been plenty of women, two at once on one memorable night in the Balearics, but that was another story.

  He knew that he needed to leave the Midlands force and had headed south, making a new name for himself in the overt world of crime squads and firearms. The greatest challenge for Roberts was restraining what Fisher called professional swearing. He struggled to rein in the expletives at the best of times, but when the clock was ticking and the end in sight it was akin to being in a Bangkok brothel when the US Sixth Fleet had arrived in town. If he didn’t know a swear word he would make one up and they were often interspersed with real words.

  His briefings were a challenge. His briefings to command were a bloody nightmare. And yet when in front of command or politicians, or once a delightful female Secretary of State, he was as eloquent as the next man. He had a switch did Nicholas Joseph Fisher, a pity no one knew where it was.

  He’d used the middle name Joe many times as an alias – always use something real in your cover story. He had once even called himself Joe D’Etalle – a tweak of the law enforcement term Joey Details or false names. Whatever he did, he did well and his team would follow him to the ends of the earth. In his direct opposite, he had an equal. And he loved her, but had never summoned up the courage to tell her. Never could. Never would.

  DS Bridie McGee was also a career police officer. Contrary to her name she had been born and bred in south Yorkshire and had joined the police pretty much straight after attending Canterbury University, in a city she grew to love, the home of the famous cathedral, inside a walled citadel, a place of pilgrimage and her home for three years.

  She had studied English and had fallen in love with study. Like Fisher, she had met a few people that she had been attracted to, one or two had made it to her bedroom, but she was always waiting for the right partner to come along. Married, for a short time and soon divorced, she became wed to her job.

  She was captivatingly pretty, in a girl next door way – but that somehow made her even more attractive to Fisher. Short-haired, she had a perfectly rounded face and a smile that could light up the moon. It was her eyes though that were her primary weapon and she could melt him from across a room with a sideways glance or a deliberate look. Their eyes darted back and forth at every opportunity but not once had anyone noticed.

  She felt the same about Fisher. Those looks were not for anyone else. But she sensed a feeling that she would never truly get to know him – unless she left her current husband and he, the job.

  “Bridie, you and Team One have a new job. I need you to get out on the ground, talk to the homeless and find out what they know about Eastern Europeans.”

  “Yes, guv. A question if I may.” Her Yorkshire accent had softened but was always evident, especially when she became animated.

  “Go ahead.”

  She leant forward slightly. “Is anyone actually collecting intel on this group, or are you still bearing a grudge from years ago?”

  It was a fair question given the lower volume of ATM and point of sale attacks. A few amateur gas attacks had happened further north, and in one case a team of Irish travellers from a nearby site had literally dragged a bank machine from the wall of a post office in rural Derbyshire. They would spend days trying to cut it open and all for a few thousand pounds.

  “Bit of both Bridie. On one hand, I will never stop hunting them down, on the other we’ve had a little bit of detail late last night when you were tucked up in your deluxe goose down duvet with Mr McGee.”

  “Care to elaborate boss?” It was Fisher.

  “No. What DS McGee and her husband get up to in their own home is their business.”

  “I meant…”

  “I know what you meant Nick, keep what’s left of your hair on. No, I can’t. Not yet. Needless to say, things might change. In fact Nick, get out in a car with Bridie will you, go and lift a few cardboard cities, turn over a few moist blankets, offer a few quid here and there.”

  “You said moist boss. Fucking disgusting.”

  “Get out DS Fisher and take the lovely Mrs M with you. And when you get back, come and see me before you go off duty. We need to talk. Both of you.”

  “Guv.” It was the standard ending to any directive.

  They quickly briefed each of their teams, then headed to the Scotland Yard car park to collect a pool vehicle. Another year and the iconic police building would be gone, sold to the highest bidder for upmarket accommodation. Someone in Abu Dhabi had considered it a snip at three hundred and seventy million.

  Roberts walked back towards his office, bumping into Liz Staveley, the executive assistant.

  “Elizabeth, you are looking rather scrumptious today! Lovely dress!”

  “Thank you, sir. Tea is it, and a gingernut?”

  “Piss off Liz, I was being nice. Look you haven’t heard from Cynthia, have you?”

  “No, sorry. Do you want me to check the duties?”

  “Please. Let me know sharpish. Not like her.”

  “You worried boss?”

  “Quietly Lizzie, yes. Call it male intuition.”

  Ten and a half thousand miles away, Cade had touched down in Sydney. It was a city he liked very much. Laid back but cosmopolitan enough to be trendy and dynamic.

  His taxi took him the more interesting way from Kingsford Smith Airport to Darling Harbour. The cab pulled into the foyer area and the jovial Somali driver lifted Cade’s luggage out and shook his hand, taking more cash than he asked for. He had been polite and interesting. His life story, condensed into a twenty five minute ride had been enough to convert into a thriller. Two bachelors’ degrees and an enquiring mind should never have been captaining a cab around one of the great cities.

  Cade walked through the blue-glass rotating doors into reception. The Sofitel had been recommended by his friend and mentor, John Daniel. The staff were discreet, polite, professional and across both genders, attractive. That explained one reason JD favoured the place.

  The receptionist looked up, in her thirties at the most, a typical Aussie stereotype – fit, evidently healthy and attractive. Her name was Issy.

  “Good afternoon, Issy. Jack Cade, one night in one of your harbour view rooms. How’s your day going?”

  “Welcome to the Sofitel Mr Cade. My day is good thanks. Started with a swim and a surf. How much better could it get?”

  “Lucky thing. Mine has been a hellishly long flight fr
om London, but at least it’s a tad warmer here! How’s the pool today?”

  “Warm and inviting.” She flashed another smile as she processed his room details and took a copy of his passport. No wedding or engagement ring. Tanned. Toned. Stop it Cade.

  “Great, then with your blessing I’ll be in there in half an hour!”

  “I’d join you, but the manager wouldn’t be impressed!”

  “Haha I bet. Tell him it’s all part of the customer service.”

  “It’s a her, and best not. And she’s definitely not your type. Nor mine.”

  “Oh. Point taken. Your secret is safe with me.” She was lovely. The last time he had flirted with a hotel employee, she’d also had blonde hair and Irish eyes. He wondered how Elizabeth Delaney was and whether she had ever looked out from Room Eight in the same way.

  “Oh sorry, I forgot to mention, I have a guest later on. Can you get a message to me when she arrives?”

  “Sure. Do you want us to make up the room for two people?”

  He smiled. Or was she offering to stay the night?

  “No, sadly not Isabel. She’s an old acquaintance. But I will be using the restaurant, could you book me a table for two? With a view?”

  “I can. Consider it done. There’s your room cards. You have a Luxury room with harbour views as requested. Enjoy the bath. And it’s Israel.” Blonde hair, brown eyes and a triathlete’s body.

  “Dad, serve in the Middle East?”

  “Nope.” She smiled and closed the guest folder, her attention drawn to a newly arrived couple. “Hello, my name is Issy. Welcome to the Sofitel.”

  Clever girl had left him wanting more.

  He declined the porter and headed to his room, flashed the card against the door and walked in, searched every part of the space he would call home for the night, checked the bathroom, the back of the door, opened the fridge, opened the complimentary spring water and stood for a moment admiring the view as he emptied the bottle and dropped it in the bin. Around the corner was the bathroom, with a bath, big enough for two, overlooking the harbour. If only.

  Fifteen minutes later he was unpacked and laying a blue and white striped towel on a sun lounger next to the infinity pool. The air temperature was still in the late twenties. It felt wonderful when he plunged beneath its cooling surface and swam up to the wall where he breathed in the panoramic view of one of the world’s great harbours.

  The air bubbles were fizzing around his tired body as he lowered himself below the water and sat on the bottom for a while, exhaling slowly.

  In a few hours, he’d get ready to meet an old friend.

  In London, Liz Staveley walked from her office to Roberts’ larger home from home.

  “Boss, I know it’s early but you got me thinking about Cynthia. I don’t think she’s had a day off sick or otherwise since I’ve worked here. Does Carrie know anything?”

  “No. She said she thought she seemed fine. Nothing out of the ordinary. Busy, but then we all are. I’ll try ringing again. Get Carrie, would you?”

  O’Shea arrived, a light tap on Roberts’ door, and she was in, dropping her takeaway cup into his bin and pointing to a chair.

  “Yes, grab a seat, mate. I may need your help. Got a funny feeling.” He dialled, tucking the phone receiver into his jawline. Answerphone.

  “Cynthia darling. It’s your boss here. We are a bit worried about you. If you have run off with an Arab sheik, that’s fine but can you send me a postcard. It’s still early, so you may surface yet. Ring me. Jason.”

  “Couldn’t you have just asked her to ring you?”

  “I guess.” He looked at her, and she picked up on his concern.

  “What is it, Jason? Talk to me.”

  “Shut the door.”

  Sitting again, she said, “Go on…”

  “I didn’t want to alarm you, but I spoke to a snout of mine last night. I’ve worked him for years. A traveller who I first locked up in my probationary days. He’s given me some A1 intelligence over the years and since I registered him he’s come good on many an occasion.”

  “And?”

  Roberts exhaled slowly. “And late last night he rang from a custody suite in Nottingham. He’d been locked up for some nonsense bloody crime and started throwing my name around like confetti. That was fine, but it was what he said me that stopped me in my tracks.”

  Roberts outlined what he had been told.

  O’Shea’s face paled. An altogether wonderful time had passed since she had heard the names. She felt her stomach knot and her fists clench. She gripped hold of her own hand and squeezed until her knuckles whitened.

  “You OK?”

  “No. But I’ll be fine. So what’s this about the tower?

  “I have no idea, Carrie. I think it’s a red herring. But I can’t afford to discount it either. My waters tell me there will be action in this fair city any day now and my betting head says its ten to one, odds on that a man with a black tattoo is involved. It’s been way too quiet. It’s also been a bloody long time since we locked them up Carrie and retribution can be sweet and apparently best served cold.”

  “You think they would come for us?”

  “No, not at all.” He wasn’t convincing. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if they take another pop at our banks. They’ve moved on since then, smarter, more techno, and with Alex Stefanescu at the helm they could really be looking to make their mark among the other criminal syndicates in town.” He realised what he had just announced.

  “He’s out?” O’Shea’s simple words were cold and demanded an answer. “Why didn’t you…”

  Roberts raised a hand. “Because you didn’t need to know until we confirmed it. Jack spotted a headline in the bloody newspaper of all places. Said he’d escaped whilst being moved from one prison to another. Bulgarian authorities were hunting for him, he’s using a network of associates etcetera.”

  “And what does Jack think about it?”

  “He thinks it’s all a cover. Thinks our man Jackdaw was causing so many issues inside that it was easier to just open the back door and let him walk.”

  “Never. No government would sign off on that.”

  “Wouldn’t they?” He rubbed his face, removing the last of the night’s sleep from his eyes.

  A hundred and twenty miles north, the Meadows Police Station custody area was beehive-like; staff arriving, staff leaving, sergeants handing over the bountiful captures from the night shifts, working out who could deal with who and who got the short straw – normally a stolen car full of juveniles who knew more about the law than their captors.

  Breakfasts, of sorts, were offered along with the standard ‘builder’s’ teas – of milk and as many sugars as could be immersed into the stewed liquid being presented with glee to the waiting criminal guests.

  Constantin Nicolescu looked at his cellmate.

  “You know what to do?”

  “I do, but I don’t want to do it Mr Nicolescu. I’ll be in more bloody trouble than I am already in.”

  “No, you will not. It seems that you have friends in low places.”

  With the handover almost complete, the night shift sergeant made sure that his replacement knew where the worst of the worst were held, who was staying, who was leaving and whether there were any medical or suicidal cases that needed attention. Then he clicked save, then restart and began to think about the joys of sinking into a warm bed when everyone else was begrudgingly heading to work.

  “Usual cocktail of society’s finest. We’ve got two banged up together, both travellers, make sure you get the right bloody one – you know how devious they can be.”

  “Takes a clever bastard to get one over on me, mate.”

  “Indeed. I’m just saying be careful.” He pointed to the screen with the end of a well-chewed biro. “Now, one is heading to court here, the other to London, on bail after some DCI from the Met intervened last night and managed to convince Dave Beggs to talk to our inspector. I’ve got a travel warrant sort
ed so he can catch the train straight there. Oh, and we’ve also got another overnighter, not in custody, in a side office for his own safety apparently, being collected by some Met staff. All very hush-hush. Best you don’t ask. Right, any questions?” He was almost through the door.

  “None.”

  “Right, Mr Lee. I am Sergeant Farmer. I can see with that injury to your mouth you are struggling to talk. I don’t suppose you want to tell me how it happened?”

  Lee shook his head.

  “Fair enough. I’m flat out busy with a full house and five juveniles in a stolen car who I could do with you giving a good talking to…you know, tell them the error of their ways?”

  Lee smiled an awkward smile and shrugged his shoulders.

  “Your call, but I’ll be writing up the custody report to support the fact that I asked. How does the other fella look?”

  “Better than me.” His words were slightly slurred, but it was all he said.

  “OK, you are bailed to attend Bow Street Magistrates on the twenty-fifth of January, year of our Lord two thousand and fifteen. You know the penalty for not turning up?” The male before him nodded.

  “Good. My advice is to be there or you’ll be looking over your shoulder. You clearly have friends in high places in London. Sign here. Here’s your train ticket.”

  He took the train ticket and signed on the dotted line.

  “And don’t be coming back, I’m short-staffed and I’ve got enough to do without more bloody paperwork.”

  He nodded again, walked through the grey-painted windowless door, towards another, waited for the buzzer to sound then entered the main reception area which was already full of people wanting to report crimes, lost property and enquire about their loved ones who for some reason had been detained by the police overnight.

  The pretty counter clerk with a dark brown bobbed haircut looked up, took a deep breath, scribbled her pen onto a pad to check whether it would last the shift, and beckoned the first of the day’s visitors.