“Next.”
A male dressed in someone else’s oversized hand-me-downs nodded to the two suited staff in the queue. He was constantly pulling the trousers up and around his waist and stepping from side to side. He looked sixty but was probably in his thirties. Homelessness did that to you.
“They can go first, sweetheart. I’ve got all day. And besides, I know a detective when I see one.”
The two Metropolitan Police staff walked confidently up to the counter and showed their warrant cards.
“DCs Hawker and Dayton to see your duty inspector please my love.”
“We’ve been expecting you, gents. Good journey?”
“Rest day, less than eight hours’ notice. It was exceptional thanks.”
“Cup of tea?”
“And they say northern hospitality is dead! Love one. Breakfast would be great if you have a canteen?”
“We do. Alistair, can you watch the counter for me I’ve got a hot date with two dishy detectives from London?”
They walked from the reception through another grey, anonymous door and into the lift. “I’m Angie. I run the place. At least I may as well. I’ll get you up to the canteen and introduce you to our inspector, he’s called Darren Fletcher – a good man and I know he can’t wait to get rid of your secret passenger!”
“After you.” They both looked as she confidently walked into the lift. Cute. Playful. And probably married.
An hour later they were ushered back downstairs to a side room where their newfound guide introduced them to David Francis.
“Here you go, gents. This is Mr Francis.”
He looked up, scanned them both and for old time’s sake took a last look at the ever-so-lovely Angie, then stood, steadied himself and shook their hands.
“Francis. I have no idea what is happening here but let’s go shall we?”
“Sounds like a plan, Mr Francis. You got everything?” He looked and saw that for Francis, everything was a simple black back pack.
“Yep. I’ve got all I need to survive.”
They were on the M1 motorway heading south thirty minutes later.
“So what’s your connection to DCI Roberts?”
“None. My connection is more six degrees. Your DCI used to work with a man called Cade. They were investigating a criminal group a few years ago – one of whom killed my father. At least that is what Cade told me, and I trust Jack Cade more than any man I have ever met, and that includes my military days.”
Over the next hour Francis outlined how Cade had rescued him from an alcohol-laden and early death just by dropping in during his patrols, putting the kettle on and allowing Francis to vent. Cade discovered that far from being a reclusive drunk, the man was actually a premier league intelligence operator. Abandoned by all who knew him.
There were Walter Mitty characters out there. Every cop had met them, but this man in their unmarked Vauxhall had the scars and cynicism of many years to back up the impressive collection of operational T-shirts. He had, as they say, walked the walk.
Having battled through the all-day commuter traffic, the trio arrived at the security barrier of Scotland Yard to be met by Jason Roberts.
Dark grey suit, light grey shirt and an orange tie with a matching handkerchief.
Francis got out first, again judged his surroundings, then nodded to Roberts. “You must be Ginger? I guess you know who I am? So, why am I here?”
“Long or short version, David.”
“Short. To the point. And sweet.”
“The man that tried to attack you in your home is called Constantin Nicolescu. I suspect he tried to kill your father some years ago. He is a member of the Romanian criminal syndicate known as the Seventh Wave. He also tried to kill me on a train a few years ago. Therefore, we have a mutual hatred. My team, with the support of Jack Cade, locked most of the group up back in 2004, including their leader, one Alex Stefanescu.”
Francis was taking it all in, filtering, triaging, retaining what he needed to keep for the future.
“Things elevated, David. Governments became involved, stuff way above even my level started to happen. People we thought we could trust became people we couldn’t. Innocuous bits of paper became more valuable than diamonds or gold. And I can see you processing this and wondering where you fit in?”
“You are a smart man, Jason. And please call me Dave.”
“Dave, it is. And thank you. Cade is in Australia at the moment, long story. Things have happened since you last saw him. Frankly, we will never have enough time to recap, but needless to say what we thought was dead and buried has been resurrected, and right now I have a horde of criminal zombies shuffling through my city. I can sense it. My problem is, I have no idea what their next move is. And that sir is where you fit in.”
“So what exactly are you saying? I’ve been taken out of my home and forced to come down here to do what?”
Roberts remembered when he had first set eyes on Francis, or rather a faded, heat-curled facsimile of a young and hopeful soldier. The Francis he looked at now looked older than the image of the bright young man, staring back at him from the floor of his uncle’s demolished house in north Kent. He had lived a hard life, and it showed, but there was an intensity in his eyes and the way he spoke that indicated he was also seeking vengeance.
Cade said he was good. If they could keep him sober all the better.
“Look Dave, if Jack Cade rates your skills then I do. For now, I need you to avoid Messrs Daniels and Beam. Grab yourself a desk and we’ll get you whatever you need. You will be working with Carrie O’Shea – go easy on her at first, she’s your equal, and when it comes to knowledge of London, she has no one to touch her, and for fuck’s sake don’t try it on with her. Tomorrow I’m hoping to introduce you to Cynthia Bell, she’s a geospatial genius. What she can’t do with maps isn’t worth mapping.”
“So who’s paying for this?”
It was a fair question.
“Fair question, Dave. Not my budget, that’s for sure. We’ll put you into some nearby accommodation, give you a cell phone and clear you for access to this place. For now, let’s just say the British government is funding your stay.”
What he didn’t say was that he had no idea whether this was true. He did know, however, that he may need to use Francis as bait. He also conveniently forgot to mention that Francis had just spent the night sleeping next door to the man that had killed his uncle. Metres away. Keep your enemies closer still and all that. It was easier that way.
Chapter Eight
In Nottingham, Constantin Nicolescu walked out of the impressive archway, with its gloss black door standing sentinel below a blue police lamp. He dragged in a lungful of cold morning air, turned left onto Station Street and walked with confidence away from the police station, clutching a ripped-open polythene custody bag and a train ticket to London.
He emptied the minimal contents and dumped the bag into a concrete bin. He had no idea where he was heading other than to find someone with a phone or better still, an internet café. Anywhere that would allow him to link up with his team. He was on the move. Hunted.
It had been that easy. Exploiting the principle that many hands made for mistakes, he had waited for the right moment, swapped with Patrick Lee and stepped forward when he was asked for. The overweight early-shift custodian had asked Lee a question to which he answered in Romanian. Lee had been needlessly practising it all night. It meant nothing to him, but it certainly wasn’t the Queen’s English.
The custodian looked at Nicolescu. “I heard you had fallen out with your cellmate. Then you must be Mr Lee.”
The crooked, blood-stained smile that he got in return and a grunt of ‘I’m fine’ was all he needed. The quicker the uniformed civilian cleared the cells, the quicker he could grab some breakfast. He hadn’t eaten for two hours.
Candy from a baby. The subsequent reports would take days and an enquiry much longer.
Lee now found himself a victim – of fear.
An unusual experience for a man who had led with his fists for so many years. Nicolescu held the full house on fear though and Lee hoped that another call to his friend Mr Roberts might allow him to be treated with compassion. He didn’t hold out much hope. How would a man in his position even begin to understand the hierarchy among the travelling people of Europe?
The call to arms was rapid, it always was for any ‘escapes custody’, as it was known the world over. The call from the custody sergeant to DCI Roberts was more difficult. He held the earpiece a few inches away but could him clearly.
“He’s done what?” Roberts was incredulous.
“Promise me you have every man and his proverbial land shark hunting the streets of Nottingham for Nicolescu? Do you know how dangerous that man is? What sort of three-ring circus are you running up there?”
“Sir, I’m sorry, we were busy and your man was convincing. I take full responsibility for this error.”
“Error? It’s a right fuck up, sergeant. Where’s Robin Fucking Hood when you need him? No, forget that, he was bad too. The Sheriff of Bloody Nottingham.”
He took a second to gather his thoughts. “OK, no point in falling out. We need to act together. Get your duty inspector to ring this number when he’s come down off the ceiling will you?”
“And what about Mr Lee? He says he was forced into it. They look similar in the half-light…”
“In future, may I recommend turning the bloody thing on? As for that caravan-dwelling bastard, tell him from me that I’ll be forcing something up his arse the next time I get my hands on him, probably my unlubricated truncheon. Jesus Christ, what a mess. Send my best wishes to Friar Tuck. At least he was a decent spoonerism...”
The sergeant let the senior man rant, apologised again, hung up, then added a second charge to Nicolescu’s record of escaping custody. A warrant would be issued. All they needed to do was find him.
Nicolescu had turned left again, quickly covering ground and away from the railway and police stations and the CCTV that accompanied them. He had Lee’s wallet and a few tacky pieces of jewellery, but they had a value and might become useful. He never had a taste for gold sovereigns but he knew their worth and the one mounted on Patrick Lee’s ring, gifted by his father for his twenty first, was worth a few hundred at least.
Halfway along the street he stopped at a brick-built arch. Derelict, a legacy of the old railway system that once brought people and products into the city. Now a temporary shelter for a few more weeks before the developers moved in, and the homeless moved on.
He beckoned to a figure in the shadows. ‘Come here.’
The male brushed the cardboard covering from his poorly clothed body, eased himself onto his feet and put a hand into his right pocket. He felt the knife and was reassured.
Constantin held up his hand. ‘No need.’
He spoke in broken English. “I am not here to steal from you. I want to give you something in a trade for information. We are brothers. OK?”
The male was nineteen and trusted no one. Not even the people he shared the archway with, those that drank themselves to death and the others who inhaled glue from a shared carrier bag until life and its problems evaporated.
“No one gives me anything without wanting something in return, and you are no different. What do want? Sex? Forget that, I’m too sore. Yeah, shocking ain’t it that a man would do that for a few quid or some drugs. I’m nineteen, homeless, hungry and have nothing and no one, so do me a favour, fuck off and leave me alone before I stab you to death. No, wait, if I do that at least I’ll get fed and have somewhere dry to sleep.”
He removed the knife from his pocket. His thousand-yard stare lengthened as he walked towards the man with the accent.
The chink of metal onto the grubby brickwork stopped the younger male in his tracks. It was gold. And valuable. So what did this man want in exchange?
He bent to pick it up, never taking his eyes off the older man. It felt cold in his already chilled hands. He rubbed the metal between his thumb and forefinger. It was probably the most valuable thing he had ever possessed. That and his dog.
“It is worth money to you, no?”
“Yeah. It is, and I’ve got it now, and you haven’t so piss off and don’t come back.”
Nicolescu tossed the train ticket to the boy.
He unfolded it. It was a chance to get to London. It wasn’t his home city; he was slowly dying in that one, without a roof or regular food. Why rot to oblivion here? The capital was the place to go. Better to exist in the big city where it was warmer and there were more night shelters and opportunities.
“OK, you have a deal man, I don’t know what you want, but I have nothing to give.”
“A mouthful of your drink and one coin from your begging collection is all I ask. That, and your clothes. Then, I will, as you say, piss off and leave you alone.”
The boy knew the man had escaped from somewhere, but had no idea he was still so close to his captors. He undressed slowly, his aching limbs impeding him. He was covered in sores, and Nicolescu knew he probably suffered from scabies too. Wearing his clothes was not without risk, but it was necessary and he prayed that if his skin did crawl, it would only be for a short time.
He looked at the boy and felt pity for him, stood there in a dirty, damp Victorian portico, forgotten by his family in a city that passed him by every day.
Now, the same boy, wearing Nicolescu’s clothes felt almost human. He held out his hand, which was filthy, long nails, underlined with grime.
“What do else do you need?” he handed his bottle over, having respectfully wiped the rim as he collected what possessions he had and put them in the cleanest carrier bag he could find.
“I just need a phone.”
The boy laughed. Leonard Simon Barker, nineteen and destitute, actually laughed.
“You think I have a phone?”
“No. But you may know where a payphone is. I must not be traced.”
“There’s one a hundred metres from here. Right outside the police station.”
Nicolescu allowed himself a moment of levity, too. The next few days would be far removed from anything humourous. “Thank you, brother. Travel safely and good luck.”
They shook hands. The prey and the preyed upon, for a short time they had an alliance. Constantin waited for the younger man to exit the tunnel, then followed about twenty paces behind him, running the single coin between his fingers as the boy did the same with the ring. As they reached the payphone, Barker thanked his lucky stars, crossed the road and never looked back.
The Romanian picked up the phone and followed the onscreen instructions, hearing the only coin he had eagerly consumed by the machine.
“It is me. I need to be collected. Quickly.” He was told to wait a moment. Every second was painful, his paranoia was returning and his breathing increased in pace, he knew he was starting to panic.
“Hello. You still there?”
Looking around. At people, going places, all looking at him, at a police officer entering the station – it was just a matter of time.
“Yes. Go on.” His reply was hurried.
“Get to the end of the street, cross the main road, there is an old track that leads to a dead end. We will pick you up there in two hours. Silver car. Get in the back and lay down. Say nothing. We will bring you to London.”
He was walking along the one-way street before the call had been ended, shuffling, apparently homeless but very much untraceable.
And very much ready to visit old adversaries. It had been too long.
Chapter Nine
Twenty-four hours passed. Constantin was back, near London, in hiding. He brought skills and a mind-set that was worth more than the pitiful rewards they gave him. His knowledge was plentiful – myriad skills farmed from books in libraries right across the British prison system. Chemistry, biology and medicine. For a failure from the poorer parts of Craiova, he should have been considered a great success and been given t
he freedom of the city. Instead, he remained a broken, bitter and capable prodigy.
“Eat, brother. Shower too, you smell worse than the municipal dump outside our home town. Then we have some work for you, which we think you will enjoy.”
Constantin had no idea who the new male was. He didn’t trust him, and that was reciprocal. He had a job to do. Alex was the one man he responded to, for Alex had kept him alive and rewarded him. He needed to. He had to.
“I need you to send a message to an old friend, Constantin. How you do it is entirely up to you. But please, do not be too pleasant.”
“OK, everyone gather around.” It was Roberts in a non-playful mood. His team had read the briefing paper he had signed off. His best analyst O’Shea had written it the night before and now stood up and started talking.
“Our target Nicolescu is on the move, foolishly bailed by an overworked team up north. In isolation, this means one man is out there and potentially problematic. As a group, with him as their hired help, this is not good. We all need to focus from this moment on.”
O’Shea covered the history, the injuries and fatalities, and laboured on the aspect of hell-bent revenge.
“Word is that the group have re-formed, are better equipped and trained, and one source even suggests that Alex Stefanescu is in-country. We have nothing to support this and have expanded our intelligence network to include all border agencies and GCHQ.”
This stopped a few of the wiser staff in their tracks.
Nick Fisher held up his hand and spoke without waiting to be asked. “Hold on, Carrie. GCHQ? What are the Doughnut brigade doing involved in this?”
The name was a colloquial reference to the shape of the building that housed Britain’s most classified signals intelligence network. Created during the Second World War and located at Bletchley Park, it achieved fame for its role in breaking the Enigma codes used by the Germans.
Now housed at specially constructed buildings in Cheltenham, a few hours to the west of London, it now employed six thousand people and consisted of signals and cyber intelligence teams. Its linguistics component was also considered among the best in the world.
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