by Angie Smith
“Maybe it was him, pretending to be dead. What was the name of the pathologist?” Woods asked, fumbling through the paperwork.
“Dr Nugunda,” Barnes replied. “I’ve saved the best till last. He’s a really shady character if ever I’ve seen one. He has an offshore account that was set up in December 2010, exactly one month after Crean died. There’s only been the one deposit: £750,000. Enough to buy a fraudulent post-mortem report, perhaps.”
Woods looked astonished. “Crean isn’t dead, is he?”
Barnes shook her head. “If we find him, we find the killer.”
Woods stood thinking. “Maria, I’m going to ask you to bend the rules even further. And I know what I’m asking you to do could get us both sacked, but I’ll take full responsibility and protect you to the hilt.”
“You don’t want me to mention any of this to Foster,” she said, undeterred.
Woods nodded. “If you’re not comfortable with it I’ll understand.”
“On the contrary, I was going to suggest we kept it to ourselves.”
He rolled his eyes.
“You won’t be rolling your eyes if we get the killer,” she said, grinning.
Woods laughed. “No, I’ll be rubbing my hands together in delight.”
“I need to update you on the Russian connection,” she said, explaining about Bedford’s involvement with the KGB, SVR and FSB. “I’m going to see him on Monday morning.”
“Okay, I think it’s time you got back to work. I’ll read these reports and figure out how Crean duped Pauline and the police liaison officer,” he pondered for a moment. “There’s always the possibility that Pauline’s in on this.”
Barnes tut-tutted and slowly shook her head. “I don’t think so. There’s no evidence of any telephone or internet contact with anyone other than her kids, Plant, close friends and family. And would she really be sleeping with Plant if she knew Gerrard was still alive?”
“No, she wouldn’t.”
Jacobs rushed — together with the two gendarmes — over to the police car and jumped in. The call from the Montpellier Divisional HQ had been received at 2.00 p.m. and the subsequent conversation with Madame Laurent had concluded with Jacobs’ realisation that the Patricia Gomez who worked for her was indeed Ramírez.
“How long will it take?” Jacobs asked.
“Twenty minutes,” the gendarme answered as the car lurched off.
Jacobs grabbed his mobile and keyed in Foster’s number. “Hello, we’ve found her,” he yelled above the sound of the siren. “I’m on my way there now; she’s been filmed performing sex acts and the footage is on the internet. It must be her.”
“Is she alive?”
“She was at 9.30 this morning.”
“Ring me as soon as you’ve got her.”
“No problem,” Jacobs said, shutting down the call. “How long?” he called out.
“Fifteen minutes, Monsieur.”
When the car pulled up outside Gomez’s cottage Jacobs ran past the damaged Fiat straight to the front door and banged loudly with his fist. Nothing!
“Go round the back,” he ordered.
The two gendarmes sprinted out of sight as he continued banging on the front door. “Rebecca, Rebecca!” he called out.
There were shouts from the back of the cottage followed by two gunshots.
“Shit!” Jacobs cursed. He ran round the side of the property and immediately saw one of the gendarmes lying on the floor clutching his abdomen. “What’s happened?”
The other gendarme was already on the radio asking for reinforcements. “Monsieur,” he pointed over the garden wall.
Jacobs leapt over the crumbling stonework onto the rough-made track which followed the garden boundaries, eventually joining the road about 200 yards further down. He spotted a man in dark clothing running off and immediately gave chase. “STOP, POLICE!” he yelled, all to no effect. His heartbeat raced as he ran after the assailant, but unfortunately, the track was uneven and poorly maintained; wearing his light footwear, Jacobs’ footing was unsure and he stumbled trying to stay upright. He was losing ground and the man was getting away.
When the man reached the road a dark blue Mercedes saloon screeched up and he jumped inside. The car then sped off and, as Jacobs lurched out onto the road, it was already too far away for him to read the registration number.
Rather dejectedly he made his way back up the lane to the cottage; he had already guessed what he was likely to discover. There were two paramedics squatting down assisting the gendarme who’d been shot in the stomach; four additional gendarmes had arrived, and apparently more were on the way. Jacobs informed them about the blue Mercedes and the information was given out over the police radios.
“Monsieur,” one of the gendarmes said, pointing into the cottage.
Jacobs slipped on some disposable shoe cover-ups and went inside. He was directed to the bedroom. Ramírez lay on the bed with a pillow covering her face. His heart sank like a stone; he looked at the gendarme standing guard at the bedroom door.
“Sorry Monsieur. She’s been dead a while, possibly this morning.”
“What?” Jacobs said, confused. “There was a car waiting for him, he only just got away.”
“She’s cold, Monsieur.”
Jacobs shook his head in disbelief. “Surely he didn’t hang around waiting for us?”
The gendarme held up his hands. “Monsieur, you’ll need to speak to the Inspector.”
Foster received Jacobs’ update at 5.15 p.m. and listened with dismay as the day’s events were relayed.
“She died this morning, sometime before lunch. It looks as though she’d been drugged, they’re analysing the coffee. The sex toys and restraints used in the internet footage weren’t in the cottage. The killer must have taken them away with him.”
“So who was running away from the cottage?”
Jacobs sighed. “Probably one of the chaps who’s been shadowing me.”
Foster was incensed, but tried to hold his feelings in check. “Stay there, work with the French police and gather as much information as you can. I need to meet with the Chief Constable and update him. There are going to be ramifications, but I don’t want you worrying; you did everything you could. It’s a certain Mr Dudley and his colleagues that will have some explaining to do.”
Foster ended the call, and immediately rang Matt Holden’s secretary.
Faulkner-Brown once again drove slowly into the off-road shale car park on the outskirts of the small industrial estate in St Albans. Exactly as on his last visit his headlights illuminated one other vehicle. He drove up, parked alongside it, switched off his engine, and stepped from the BMW straight into the Audi A6.
“I thought I’d made myself perfectly clear; you were not to contact me until Williams was no longer a problem,” the Audi driver said.
“Things have changed.”
“Are you here to hand in your resignation?”
“Of course not, I’m here to discuss matters and agree a way forward,” stated Faulkner-Brown.
The Audi driver sighed, “Go on, I’m listening.”
“The sixth victim DXVI, Rebecca Ramírez was murdered today; the numerals were in the footage uploaded to the internet. That leaves CCCXVI and CXVI. I was rather hoping we’d have got Williams by now, but, as you’d expect, he’s meticulous and appears to have luck on his side.”
“I understand from the press reports that two people are currently under police protection.”
“Well, Victor Zielinski is; meanwhile Pauline Crean has her own security and we’re watching her from a distance. As you know, Plant will definitely be one of the final two on the list. Obviously we’d prefer to keep that from the police, that’s why he orchestrated her as being the one in danger. We’re now stationing him at the farmhouse, because he can draw Williams in and deal with him. All we have to do is make it appear Williams was after her.”
“Do you intend killing her?” the Audi driver asked.
&
nbsp; “It may not have to come to that, but I’m not ruling it out.”
“Right, everything is in order then.”
Faulkner-Brown shook his head. “The police were starting to ask awkward questions about Plant, and they were having doubts about Pauline being in danger. I had to take action.”
“Yes, so I understand; there really are no depths to which you won’t stoop.”
“Nevertheless, Woods is now out of the way and the detectives are working on the assumption that Zielinski and Pauline are the ones at risk. I’ve got someone on the investigation team, keeping me up to date.” Faulkner-Brown stopped speaking.
“Go on,” the Audi driver said.
“We think the Russians also have someone on the team.”
The Audi driver’s voice took on a sinister tone. “What exactly are you proposing to do about that?”
“It’s a young woman. She’s compromised my guy and is heavily influencing the direction of the investigation. We’re assuming she’ll want Williams captured and then for him to sing like a nightingale.”
“You’ve checked her out?”
“She’s clean. I can’t find anything out of the ordinary, but that’s what you’d expect.”
“Perhaps she might have an unfortunate accident?”
“She’s way too clever, and I wouldn’t want to risk it. She’s already obtained evidence we drugged Woods’ coffee; if anything happened to her no doubt it would end up in the wrong hands.”
“What options are left?”
“We play along, keep a watchful eye on her, and make absolutely sure Plant succeeds. When Williams is dead she’ll disappear back to whence she came.”
“And if Plant fails?”
Faulkner-Brown looked out of the window.
“Well?” the Audi driver demanded.
“Then, it’s either you or I that will be the last one on the list.”
“What about the Pole? I understand he abused Crean’s mother.”
“It’s not about Crean anymore. He was used to put the story on the front pages; Williams now wants to get us.”
“Then we’re both drinking at the last chance saloon. What contingency have you in place?”
“If Williams is captured, my guy on the investigation team will sort it, but if Plant fails, we’ll need to act.”
“What you’re actually saying is, if Plant fails, I’ll need to act. I’m not stupid; you know it’s me he’ll want dead. I was the one who sanctioned the operation.”
“Is this where we fall out?” Faulkner-Brown asked.
“Maybe I need my own contingencies. If I have to go down, then I’ll make sure the bloody lot of you are brought down with me.”
“As I’ve said, Plant’s capable of looking after himself and dealing with Williams, so it shouldn’t have to come to that. I’m just keeping you in the picture.”
“Get out of the car. I know exactly what you are doing. You forget who put you where you are now; I can quite as easily have you removed.”
Faulkner-Brown stepped out of the Audi. “I’ll be in touch,” he said, closing the door.
Chapter 15
Monday 4th June – Tuesday 5th June.
Woods was travelling up to Newcastle, having caught the 7.35 a.m. Glasgow train out of Wakefield Westgate Station. He had purposely walked through the whole length of the train twice, looking for anyone suspicious. Satisfied he was not being followed, he waited until north of York before switching on his unregistered mobile. Immediately he received a text from Barnes.
Homer’s chauffeur no longer at risk!
On way to see Homer’s mediator!
Have news about offshore money.
Ring before 10, if you can.
Woods keyed in Barnes’ unregistered number. “Hello,” he said. “What’s the news on Homer’s chauffeur?”
Being careful how she worded it, she updated him on the circumstances surrounding Ramírez’s murder.
“Two left,” he said dejectedly when she had finished. “What about the pathologist’s money?”
“The £750,000 supposedly originated from the sale of gold, which he claimed was a family heirloom left to him by his grandparents, but as you’ll know gold is very difficult to trace. So it’s going to be difficult to either prove or disprove.”
“The money’s obviously in the offshore account for tax avoidance reasons,” said Woods.
“Yes, and there’s another connection; the pathologist’s parents own £250,000 of shares in Homer’s company; they became shareholders about the time the money appeared in the offshore account, and the shares generate a substantial annual income. The fraud guys are looking at Homer’s accounts for me, trying to find any trace of the £1m, but it could all be part of the £400m that went missing.”
“Mmm,” Woods said. “I’ll see what the pathologist says this morning. You couldn’t do me a big favour and ring Homer’s wife? Ask who was there when she identified his body and if she or any other members of the family went to see him in the chapel of rest before the funeral.”
“I’ll do it now. I’ll ring you back.”
Five minutes later she rang with the answers. “The liaison officer and Homer’s pathologist were with her when she identified his body, but no-one went to see him in the chapel of rest; she said it would’ve been too painful.”
“What the hell was the pathologist doing there? It’s usually one of the mortuary staff plus the liaison officer,” he said, speaking quietly and turning towards the window to avoid drawing attention to himself.
“Apparently he was doing something with Homer’s body when she arrived so he supervised the identification.”
“I bet he did. Right, I’ll ring the hospital and check a few procedural things out with them. I think I might have an idea how this was done.”
“Good luck. Text me with the answers.”
Woods terminated the call, but left the phone switched on.
The Glasgow train reached Newcastle on time at 9.27 and Woods took a taxi straight to the hospital. Dr Nugunda, a stocky Nigerian in his early forties, around five-foot tall with bulging eyes, a pock-marked complexion and short thick curly black hair, was sitting in his office waiting for Woods to arrive. He welcomed his guest, offering refreshments, which were declined. On the desk in front of him was Gerrard Crean’s post-mortem report.
Woods was invited to sit and got straight to the point. “Dr Nugunda, as I mentioned on the telephone I’m reinvestigating the circumstances surrounding Gerrard Crean’s death.”
“Could I suggest that you read my report?” Nugunda said abruptly, pushing the file across the desk. “It might help answer some of your questions.”
Woods smiled. “Thank you, but I’ve already done that.” He noticed the pathologist furtively glance around the room. “This is one of the most extensive reports that I have ever read. You must be congratulated, Dr Nugunda. I can see why you are so very well qualified.”
“Thank you,” Nugunda said, appearing to relax. “Does it help answer your questions?”
Woods nodded. “There’s something troubling me though.”
Nugunda squinted. “What’s that?”
“It’s almost too good. As you can imagine, I’ve read hundreds of reports, all of varying quality, and this one,” he held it up, “is staggering, in both its content and detail.”
“All my reports are written in this way; I’m very thorough.”
“I think I’ll read a few more if they’re as good as this one.”
“Err, some may not be quite as good,” Nugunda replied, nervously nibbling his fingernail. “Some are written to demonstrate specialisms to students. They’re used for training purposes.”
“Are they?” Woods paused. “It’s funny you should mention that because I understand you regularly take students and other doctors with you into the examinations.”
“Yes I do.”
“Did you take anyone on the day you examined Gerrard Crean, and his wife arrived to formally identif
y the body?”
“No, I’ve checked the records; I was on my own on that day.”
“Yes, so I understand,” Woods said, his glare fixed on Nugunda. “I spoke to your Hospital Director this morning. He checked the signing-in book and confirmed you were the only person who signed in at 10.30 a.m.; Mrs Crean arrived at 11.15, along with the police liaison officer.”
“Everyone has to sign in.”
“Mmm,” Woods said. “But, it’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that you had someone with you and they feigned signing in, or you feigned signing them in, or you created a distraction and let them in unnoticed. After all, who would challenge you?”
Nugunda frowned. “What you are suggesting is preposterous.”
“Your Hospital Director says that although it’s policy that everyone should sign in, it isn’t policed and most visitors forget to sign out. As you did on that fateful day.”
Nugunda started perspiring, and Woods’ voice became cool and measured. “On the day Pauline Crean formally identified her husband’s body you arrived here with Crean disguised as a member of the medical staff, maybe a doctor, maybe a student, and you walked with him into the mortuary. The police liaison officer had telephoned the previous day to confirm the time and made arrangements to bring Mrs Crean in. Kevin Jarvis’ body was in the mortuary with the tag and barcode indicating it was Gerrard Crean who’d been brought in following a car accident. You came to the mortuary with Crean in disguise, making an excuse about needing to re-examine his body. You were informed about the pending formal identification — which you already knew about — and you insisted that you would handle it yourself. You assured staff that you were not going to perform any invasive procedures.”
“That’s utter rubbish; you don’t know what you’re talking about,” Nugunda retorted, shuffling around uncomfortably in his chair.
“Somehow you got Crean past the receptionist, and asked staff to get Jarvis’ body.” Woods paused. “As you know, two members of staff have to check the coding on the ankle-tag and verify you have the right body; but because you were present, you and one of the technicians brought Jarvis’ body into the examination room. The technician left you, and your supposed assistant, to start work. You then removed Jarvis’ body and placed it on the shelf below the trolley, covering it with a long sheet hung down from the table above. Crean then took the place of Jarvis’ body on the table and was covered with a separate sheet. You’d previously given him some medication to make him look deathly pale. When Pauline Crean arrived you lifted the sheet exposing only the head and she formally identified Gerrard. She left in tears and you reversed the whole procedure. The technicians replaced Jarvis in the cold storage and you and Crean calmly walked out.”
