by Angie Smith
Nugunda shook his head. “Nonsense, utter nonsense. How do you explain the photographs? You can see they’re Crean. Are you suggesting I performed a post-mortem examination on him and then stitched him back together?”
“There’s only one photograph that shows the full body; all the others — of the internal organs and the examination — could be of anyone. What I’m suggesting is that single photograph is a forgery and it’s actually Crean’s head on Jarvis’ body.”
“No, no, no!” Nugunda stood up. “What proof have you to substantiate these ridiculous allegations? Is there any CCTV footage of me walking into the mortuary on that day?”
“No doubt you’ll already know the hospital only keeps footage for 12 months.”
“Therefore, you’ve no proof,” Nugunda said, triumphantly.
Woods sat back in his chair and pointed at the window. “Somewhere out there Gerrard Crean’s alive and walking around. Sooner or later he will be caught and then you’ll have some explaining to do. In the meantime I’ve got the National Fraud Intelligence Bureau looking at your finances and your parents’ shares; the same applies to the £3.5m that suddenly appeared in Kevin Jarvis’ account. And I’m taking this to have it analysed.” Woods pulled out the original photograph from the report.
The pathologist was motionless.
“No doubt I’ll be seeing you again, Dr Nugunda.” Woods rose and walked calmly out.
Barnes knocked on the large oak-panelled door and waited. Since her last visit the brass nameplate depicting Bedford Logistics Ltd. had been cleaned and there were smudges of polish on the oak panelling. The door opened and Bedford appeared.
“How nice to see you again, Miss Barnes, and so soon,” he said, smiling.
“Dobroye utro,” Barnes said.
Bedford grinned broadly, “Good morning to you too.”
“You can speak Russian?”
“Only the odd word or two. I assume you’re here to ask about Gerrard and his connections in Russia.”
She nodded. “And also the KGB, SVR and FSB.”
“Right, I’ll make some tea. This is going to be a long conversation.” Bedford left Barnes alone in his office; he went to fill the kettle and when he returned she was studying the certificates on the wall. “Impressed?” he asked.
“Suitably.”
“I had to study long and hard for those.” He switched the kettle on and sorted out two mugs. “Milk and sugar?”
Barnes nodded. “Two please.”
While Bedford was busy making the drinks she went over to the window and looked out. Parked across the road was a metallic grey Audi A4 with two men sitting in it. “Do you have a rear entrance to this building?” she asked.
Bedford poured the drinks. “Yes, out through the door at the bottom of the stairs.” He carried the mugs across the room, placed one down on the desk for Barnes and went behind it to his chair. “Come and sit down,” he said, noticing her still looking outside. “Got company?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.” She settled in the seat facing him and sipped the hot tea. “Can you tell me what Gerrard was doing in Russia?”
“As you may know Gerrard was extremely innovative and created his own specialist team of scientists who developed ground-breaking solutions to complex technical processes. The team were all Cambridge PhD graduates and amongst them were a husband and wife; I think he was a geologist and she a physicist. Anyway, around 2008 they were developing a system for the safe removal of shale gas - an alternative to fracking.”
Barnes raised her eyebrows.
“At that time shale gas was becoming an important source of natural gas, particularly in the States, and experts were predicting it would greatly expand the worldwide energy supply.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Barnes interjected, “but hasn’t China got the world’s largest reserves and the thinking now is that the USA and Canada could prevent Russia from dictating higher gas prices in Europe?”
Bedford nodded. “You are well informed. And no doubt you’ve already worked out where this is going.”
“Enlighten me,” she said.
“Well, Gerrard realised the importance of what was being developed and, more to the point, the money that could be made, so he looked for backing from the British Government. However, backward-thinking Britain wasn’t interested at that time, so he considered approaching the US Government; but the Russians appeared on the scene, with money, resources and the offer of relocating the manufacturing process to Russia.”
“Realising if they controlled the safe extraction process they’d still have a hold on the energy market.”
“Precisely. And that’s exactly what Gerrard did. He agreed a deal, relocated the team of scientists to Russia, built a factory and was just about to go into the experimental production process when the husband and wife who were leading the development were tragically killed in a boating accident, along with their three teenage kids.”
“Was there no-one who could take over from them?”
“Unfortunately, because of the secretive nature of what was being developed, very few people knew the whole process and, despite several attempts to get it off the ground and working, they failed.”
“Can you remember the name of the couple who were killed?”
“Rose and Philip Mathewson. They were sailing on Lake Baikal when their boat blew up. Ironically it was a gas explosion.”
“And presumably you assisted Crean with the land, property and plant acquisitions, and that’s how you came into contact with the Russian intelligence agencies.”
Bedford laughed. “Sort of, but to be honest the Russians dealt with all the problematic people. They don’t tend to argue there, not if they want to stay alive. All I did was work with their mediator, a chap called Freddy Williams. He was. . .”
“Freddy Williams!” Barnes said, sitting up.
“Yes, he was a really nice guy and Gerrard and I got to know him quite well. He was British, but worked as an interpreter.”
“You don’t have a photograph do you?”
“Yes. I think I do have one.” Bedford stood up, went over to one of the filing cabinets and sorted through some files. “Ah, here it is. This was taken at some big function in Moscow. There’s Gerrard, Freddy and me along with a couple of Russian businessmen.” He handed the photograph over. “Keep it,” he said.
“Is this one Williams?” Barnes asked, picking up a pencil from Bedford’s desk.
He nodded and she drew an asterisk in the photograph’s margin under Williams.
“When was the last time you saw him?” she asked, chewing the end of the pencil.
“Let me think,” Bedford placed his elbows on the table, clasped his gigantic hands together and rested his chin on his outstretched thumbs. “I think it was around the time of the boating accident.”
“Can we go back to that accident? Were there any suspicious circumstances, or an investigation?”
“There were rumours going around saying either the British or Americans were behind it, but nothing was proven. In fact it was Freddy Williams who was convinced the British Secret Service had killed the family. He took it really badly, and then he disappeared. I’ve never come across him since.”
Barnes pondered. “If the British finally realised the importance of the project to the Russians, and the knock-on effect to the energy market, then there’s every chance the SIS were involved. What happened when the project failed - did Gerrard keep working in Russia?”
“He scaled down operations, but kept his team of scientists there. He said it was more secure, and — you’ll find this funny — less likely to suffer espionage; he trusted the Russians far more than the British.”
Barnes smiled coyly. “I suppose he lost a fortune when things went pear-shaped?”
“From what I remember he didn’t do too badly. I think the Russians were the big losers.”
“Do you know if Gerrard had any further dealings with Williams?”
“I
’m not absolutely sure, but they’d become close friends, so he may have stayed in touch. Why?”
“Curiosity.”
Bedford nodded and she smiled sweetly at him. “Well, thank you once again for being so open,” she said, getting up and going over to the window.
“Are they still there?”
She nodded. “Metallic grey Audi A4.”
“Let me get a couple of my chaps to block them in and create a diversion, while you disappear out through the back. I’m assuming you’ve parked away from here and they’ve traced you through your phone signal. It wasn’t one I gave you was it?”
“Of course not, they wouldn’t know that, and my work phone has been switched off since early this morning. They must have followed me, but I kept watching I didn’t spot them.” She was troubled; it wasn’t like her to miss anything, but she was sure no vehicles had followed her. They must be using a multitude of vehicles. They’ll know where the car is! “How far from here is the train station on foot?”
“Ten minutes,” Bedford said, rummaging through his desk drawer. He took out a phone and placed a sim card in it. “I’ll ring my chaps and sort out a distraction. You’ll have to give me twenty minutes or so to set things up and when they’re ready, you can go.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you for keeping me out of the investigation.”
“They won’t take kindly to being held up; they’ll probably come asking questions.”
Bedford grinned. “You haven’t seen the size of the chaps I’ll use to slow them down, I don’t think they’ll bother coming here.”
As a result of Bedford’s delaying tactics Barnes travelled back to Yorkshire on the train, secure in the knowledge she was not being followed. As she emerged from the tunnel through the Pennines she switched on the unregistered phone. Two texts from Woods arrived almost instantaneously:
Homer’s pathologist on thin ice.
Going to see undertaker!
Can you ring me? Phone on until 3 p.m.
Barnes keyed in Woods’ number.
“I’ve got a photo of our suspect and a link to Homer,” she said. “Can we meet at the usual location?”
“Fantastic,” Woods said. “I’m on my way back. I could see you around two o’clock.”
Barnes agreed. “I’ve got some very interesting news,” she said. Then, terminating the call, she immediately switched off the phone. She looked at her watch; it was 12.10 p.m. The train would arrive in Huddersfield shortly and then she would need to swap platforms and catch the Wakefield Westgate train which would get her into Wakefield just in time for the bus out to near the footbridge. A sudden hunger pang reminded her she hadn’t eaten since early morning; she would be a few minutes after Woods, but could grab a sandwich at Huddersfield and eat it on the way.
Consequently it was 2.15 p.m. when she walked up to the footbridge and spotted Woods waiting. Where’s his car? Surely he hasn’t walked. “How did you get here?”
“Bus.”
“You, on a bus! What have I missed?” she said shaking her head.
“Needs must,” Woods replied. “So tell me what you found out this morning.”
He listened as she relayed what Bedford had divulged. “You’ll have to let Foster know all this, but don’t pass on the photo. You’re not supposed to know about Freddy Williams; if Dudley finds out you do, he’ll know you’re working with me.”
“Right,” she acknowledged. “This afternoon I’m going to look in detail at Rose and Philip Mathewson; if Crean believed, as Williams did, that the SIS murdered them, then perhaps that’s why Plant’s the target. Maybe he was the one who killed them and Gerrard wanted revenge.”
“It’s so bloody complicated,” Woods grumbled, scratching his head. “I’m convinced Crean faked his own death and is coordinating the murders. We just need to find where from.” He then spent a few minutes updating her on his conversation with Nugunda and how he assumed Pauline was duped in the mortuary. “I was hoping the undertaker would recognise Jarvis’ photograph as being Crean, but unfortunately he couldn’t remember either of them; he said he sees so many bodies.”
“I’m expecting things to become increasingly more difficult,” Barnes said wearily. “I had to lose a couple of Dudley’s chums this morning; they’re using a multitude of vehicles to follow me now, making it harder to spot them.”
“A multitude of vehicles!”
She nodded. “Don’t worry; I can deal with it. I had some help from Bedford this morning though; I quite like him, I can see why Gerrard worked with him.” She gave a resigned smile. “But they’re trying to keep an eye on me; I have to keep switching my works phone on and off as well as being ultra careful with the unregistered one.”
“Let me know if you want to stop this.”
She smiled. “Don’t worry; I’m enjoying the challenge. Now, what would you like me to do?” she asked.
“We have to find Crean, and we need to uncover Williams’ true identity. In the meantime, if Plant is one of the final two under threat we need to discover who CXVI is. We both agree that neither Pauline nor Victor Zielinski is in danger and you must therefore try to get Foster to recognise that.”
“He already has that suspicion, but I need evidence to convince him.”
“Try to keep Dudley out of the loop.”
“I’ve got an idea,” she said, “but it will mean working into the night. I’ll ring tomorrow and we’ll arrange to meet. I need to get back.”
“No problem,” Woods said. “We’ll need to catch separate buses.”
She nodded. “Give me twenty minutes and then go to the bus stop.” She walked off down the lane making her way back to the A642, scanning the surrounding fields for any suspicious activity.
When her bus neared the city centre she switched on her work mobile and rang through to the Incident Room saying she was ten minutes away. She also reported that the car had broken down in Manchester and that she’d had to catch the train back to Wakefield. She asked for recovery to go and collect it.
Pauline was out in the yard grooming Huntford when she heard a vehicle pulling up at the entrance gates. She turned to see the guard speaking to Plant who had arrived in his Mercedes. What’s he doing back so soon?
The guard shouted over to her, “Mrs Crean, Jonathan Plant to see you. Is it okay to let him through?”
“Of course,” she called back, smiling.
Plant drove in, parked up and removed a large black Antler suitcase from the back of the four-by-four. Pauline went across to meet him.
“That must have been one of the shortest trips to South Africa on record. What did you do when you arrived - jump on the next flight home?”
“Just about. I’ve been stood-down until you are out of danger. I’m here full time. I won’t leave your side until the killer has been caught; you can stop worrying now and let me look after you. If you’re happy, we can reduce the number of guards and save you some money.”
Pauline hugged him. “This is a surprise. How come they’ve agreed to you protecting me? Is that something the Diplomatic Service normally do?”
“Pauline, that’s enough. I’m here to protect you; it doesn’t matter where or who I work for, what’s important is your safety.”
“I’m sorry, you’re right. You decide how many guards we need.” she kissed him on the cheek. “Come inside and I’ll make you a drink.”
Tuesday 5th June.
Barnes’ head was resting on her folded arms and she was sleeping at her desk. She stirred and looked up when she felt someone touching her lightly on the shoulder. “Sorry, I must have dropped off. What time is it?” she asked.
“Seven o’clock. Have you been here all night?” McLean replied.
She nodded. “I’ve been looking into the Mathewsons’. I think I’ve finally worked it all out. . .” Her mouth clamped shut as Dudley walked in. “I’ll tell you later,” she whispered.
Dudley headed over to his desk. “Morning,” he said.
“Of course, I’m happy to assist in any way I can,” Dudley said.
That should keep you out of my way for a while. She spotted Foster arriving and intended going to knock on his office door, but McLean beat her to it and disappeared inside. Two minutes later Foster reappeared. “Maria, have you got a moment?” he asked, beckoning her in.
She obliged and joined McLean, who was perched on one of the stools.
“Maria, I’m concerned about how hard you’re working,” Foster said. “You need a break. Pete tells me you’ve been here all night again.”
“I have, and you’re right, I could do with a few hours’ sleep. Is it okay if I disappear off? I’ll update you both when I’ve cleared my head.”
Foster nodded. “Go home, grab some sleep and we’ll see you after lunch.”
She walked back to her desk, gathered up her things, went outside and then headed down town to the Ridings Shopping Centre, carefully watching out for anyone following her.
Woods received the text at 8.10 a.m. He was early morning shopping at Tesco. He looked at his watch and then composed a response:
