by Angie Smith
“Who was that?” Dudley asked.
“Woods has gone on holiday with his family; one of his neighbours said they left on Wednesday afternoon.”
“Barnes left on Wednesday morning and Woods goes on holiday in the afternoon… Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
Faulkner-Brown’s phone rang again. He listened and then reported to Dudley. “Woods flew out of Manchester to Abu Dhabi on Wednesday evening with his wife and daughter.”
“He could’ve gone anywhere from there. Was Barnes on the flight?”
“They’re checking.”
“She may have travelled under a false name.”
Faulkner-Brown shook his head. “They’re checking that too.” His phone rang yet again and he concentrated on the call. He turned to Dudley. “Woods, his wife, and daughter Laura flew from Abu Dhabi to Mahe, then onto Praslin. Barnes wasn’t on either flight and neither was a lone female traveller. She’s not with him in the Seychelles.”
“Just a second. He has twin teenage daughters. Why’s he only taken one on holiday, and where’s the other one?”
The catamaran quietly bobbed around in the crystal clear water as Barnes focused on the young woman walking the pugs along the headland. Woods had been instructed to go into the cabin and remain out of sight whilst she relayed events to him.
“She’s looking at the boat,” she said, waving her hand at the woman.
“What the hell are you doing?” Woods barked.
“I’m on holiday sailing around the island. What’s wrong with me waving at her? Look, she’s waving back.”
“Don’t draw attention to us,” Woods pleaded.
“She’s heading into that villa.” Barnes was looking to her right. “Lester, drop the anchor,” she shouted. “We need to go ashore.” She focused in on the imposing villa, searching for Crean, and any guards patrolling the grounds.
The villa was an individual, exclusive, Colonial-style property with spectacular uninterrupted views out over the ocean. It was majestic. It had large open windows, wide covered verandas, lavish grounds, its own swimming pools, tennis courts, a private mooring, and a helicopter landing pad.
“Gerrard must live there. I need to change.” She headed to the back of the boat. “Is the dinghy ready?”
Woods prepared to board the inflatable as she slipped on some shorts, a tee shirt and a pair of sandals.
“Only beach,” Lester reinforced for the umpteenth time.
“We should have flown in by helicopter; it would have been easier,” she observed.
Woods turned to his wife. “Make sure they wait here. You know what to say when they spot we’ve left the beach.”
Pamela nodded as the two detectives stepped gingerly into the dinghy and Woods pulled the starting cord on the outboard motor. Barnes was far from amused when it failed to start. Joseph climbed aboard to get the engine running, and after six attempts it finally spluttered into life, and he jumped back to the catamaran.
It took them a few minutes to reach the breakers and under Barnes’ instructions Woods sailed gung-ho style straight up onto the white sandy seashore. They jumped out and together pulled the small craft up the beach, tying it to one of the large volcanic boulders.
“We’ve attracted attention,” Barnes said, nodding towards the headland at what she presumed to be binoculars glistening in the sunlight.
“Let’s start by mooching around the beach and hope they get bored, then we’ll make a move for the villa,” Woods said.
They strolled along the sand, Barnes watching the headland. “I can’t see any more guards,” she said. “I’ll mosey on up to the edge of the beach while you walk along the shore. At the opportune moment I’ll head inland at the spot covered by the coconut trees; I’ll make for the path that leads up to the villa. You need to wait a few minutes, then look surprised at my disappearance, and come after me, appearing to be searching for me. If we get stopped I’ll do the talking.”
She walked nonchalantly off in the direction of the trees, and as she approached the edge of the beach she did one last reconnaissance of the headland and villa, then slipped stealthily into the foliage. She crept through the giant palm leaves and reached the narrow footpath. There was no sign of anyone, so she set off walking up the hill towards the villa. She checked the beach for Woods, but he too had disappeared. As she walked on she heard faint footsteps approaching from behind. She ducked quickly out of sight into the lush vegetation, keeping still as the footsteps grew louder. She held her breath...
“You should have waited much longer before coming to find me,” she whispered as Woods appeared.
“You scared the life out of me,” he said quietly, regaining his composure.
Barnes joined him on the footpath. “Come on, stay low and keep quiet,” she mouthed.
They ventured forward, reached the tennis courts and ducked down behind a terrace.
“We’re almost there,” Woods said.
“Shush!”
Immediately there was loud barking heading their way and running, heavy footsteps approached them across the tennis courts. “This is it,” Barnes said, standing up.
Woods joined her as two Dobermans and six heavily armed guards wearing camouflaged uniforms surrounded them.
Faulkner-Brown tapped his fingers nervously on the laptop as he waited to hear back from the team trying to locate Holly Woods. In contrast Dudley’s fingers worked tirelessly away on his keyboard as he downloaded the CCTV footage from Wednesday afternoon at Manchester Airport’s departure hall.
The phone rang. Faulkner-Brown snatched it up; seconds later he updated Dudley.
“Holly Woods is with her aunt, here in West Yorkshire. They’ve checked social media posts between the two sisters over the past days which confirm Laura is in the Seychelles with her parents and Holly is staying with her aunt. They’re going to the house to verify that as we speak.”
“Both sisters are staying with their aunt,” Dudley contradicted. “Look at this.” He turned the laptop so Faulkner-Brown could see the screen. “This is Woods arriving in the departure hall. Watch what his so-called daughter does. Now watch them going through security, and finally, through the departure lounge.”
Faulkner-Brown pondered. “You may have something there, but we need more proof. All we have at the moment is a teenager dashing to the loo and avoiding the camera on the departure screen. . .”
“Then meandering up to security avoiding looking at the cameras on the way, miraculously stumbling at the precise moment she passes through the detector and finally avoiding the cameras in the departure lounge. What more proof do you need?”
Faulkner-Brown continued to ponder. “Okay, I’ll ask them to search the aunt’s house. You look at how, where and when Woods booked the flights.”
Forty-five minutes later Faulkner-Brown had the answers. “There’s only one daughter staying at the aunt’s,” he reported.
“I beg to differ. Put the house under surveillance. The other one must have been out. Woods booked the flights on an unregistered mobile, from a location near the footbridge where Mateland was murdered. That number has been in contact with another unregistered number and several texts have been sent between the two.” He spun the laptop in order for Faulkner-Brown to read the messages.
“The place where 9.80665 meters per sec squared is relevant, and lovers meet to chat. That must be the footbridge.”
Dudley nodded.
“Homer’s chauffeur no longer at risk! On way to see Homer’s mediator! Have news about offshore money… Homer must be Crean, the chauffeur Ramírez, the mediator Albion Bedford. What’s the offshore money?”
Dudley shrugged.
“Homer’s pathologist on thin ice. What does that mean?”
“We need to have a chat with the pathologist, but this proves Barnes and Woods were working together. She was keeping him up to date and they were conducting their own investigation. One of the phone calls was when Woods was being followed in the White Rose Sh
opping Centre, and the last text was on Tuesday morning when Woods sent ‘See you at 9.00 a.m.’, the day Barnes left work at 7.15 and never returned; the day the flights were booked.”
Faulkner-Brown was sitting lost in thought, his breathing audible.
“There have only been two numbers the second unregistered phone has been in contact with: Woods’ number and the laboratory’s which it rang on Thursday 31st May.”
Faulkner-Brown wasn’t interested. “Homer’s Odyssey…” he said, as the penny finally dropped. “Odysseus’ journey home after the fall of Troy, where it’s assumed he’d died and in his absence his wife deals with unruly suitors. They believe Gerrard Crean is still alive.”
Barnes stepped in front of Woods to face the guards whose Kalashnikovs were trained on both of them. She spoke in Russian for several minutes, addressing the person she assumed to be the senior protection officer. He spoke intermittently and then turned to the other guards and addressed them. They lowered their weapons and backed off.
“What have they said?” Woods asked.
“They’re letting us speak to the owner.”
The senior protection officer beckoned them to follow him. Woods and Barnes were led to the large terrace and while they waited in the sun the officer disappeared inside the villa.
After a few minutes a bespectacled frail man in a brilliant white dressing gown was brought out in a wheelchair. He looked up and there was the faintest hint of a smile.
“Hello Gerrard,” Barnes said.
Chapter 19
Friday 8th June – Saturday 9th June.
Barnes and Woods followed Crean as he was pushed slowly by the senior protection officer onto the covered veranda and positioned in the shade at the far side of a large oval wicker table. They were invited to take a seat and a maid appeared with an offer of fresh fruit juice, which both accepted. As Barnes sipped the juice she became acutely aware of Crean’s predicament; his breathing was shallow, laboured, and unmistakably painful. In her estimation he weighed less than 55kg. His features were sunken and drawn, his complexion wan, his grey hair thinning, and he appeared much older than his true age. It was obvious he was dying.
While the juice was being served Sarah and her brother came out to sit with their father, and after checking with Crean the senior protection officer went back inside the villa. Sarah spoke first. “Against my wishes, Father’s agreed to speak with you. Please, may I ask you respect his dignity, as you can see he’s unwell and the nursing staff will need to keep an eye on him. He tires quickly and has difficulty breathing.”
“There are seven other people who have difficulty breathing, thanks to your father,” Woods interrupted.
“Those deaths have nothing to do with him.”
Crean raised his hand slowly. “Thank you, Sarah,” he said, in a weak, quavering voice. “I can speak for myself, albeit a little slowly.” He smiled at Barnes. “I’ve been expecting you, Maria; I’d planned what to say, and now you are here, I’m struggling to remember what it was.”
Barnes frowned. “You were expecting me! Do you know me?”
“I know of you and that’s why I’ve been expecting you.”
She scowled, but as usual Woods’ impatience dictated he cut in. His words contained little, if any, emotion. “You obviously faked your death; but I take it the illness was genuine.”
“The cancer is real enough. No doubt you’ll know about Kevin Jarvis and the lottery win?”
Woods nodded succinctly. “And Nugunda’s million pounds. We worked out how you duped Pauline in the mortuary; what I don’t understand is why, particularly if you were dying anyway.”
“There was a new experimental treatment that was having limited success in Sweden. I decided to rid myself of the pressures of life, risk the treatment and, if successful, start a new life here in paradise. If it had been successful I would’ve contacted Pauline and flown her out to be with me. But as you can see, its only reward was to prolong my life a little.”
“How much longer have you left?” Barnes asked quietly.
“A few weeks; maybe less.”
She watched Sarah reach across and squeeze her father’s hand, but Woods continued, apparently oblivious to the poignant scene that had just taken place. “I assume the business losses were so you could siphon money to pay for all this?” he said, using a harsh tone.
Crean chuckled and began to cough. He struggled for breath and a nurse appeared with an inhaler. He attempted, somewhat pitifully, to push the base of the device in order to release a spray of its contents, and Sarah had to lean across to assist him. He took a few moments to recover and after sipping some water said, “Well, it was my money after all.”
Woods looked unamused. “What about Freddy Williams, or Geoffrey Drummond, if that’s how you know him? Explain how he fits in with all this.”
“I always knew him as Freddy; it wasn’t until after his family were murdered that his true identity was known.” He adjusted his glasses. “You know about the British and their desire that the work on shale gas extraction should fail?”
Woods nodded. “But if you’d kept detailed records, it could’ve succeeded even without the Mathewson’s involvement.”
Crean frowned and shook his head. “We did keep records; Plant got his hands on them. That was the first part of his mission, and that’s how the deal was struck between Britain and Russia. Didn’t you know about that?”
Woods looked confused. “What deal?”
Barnes was ahead of him and answered the question. “The British agreed to bury the detailed records, meaning no-one would benefit from the development work, and in return the Russians agreed to cover up Britain’s involvement in the murders of the Mathewsons.”
Crean smiled. “Maria’s right. Freddy obtained proof it was Plant who committed the murders. He saw the official reports; apparently it had been authorised at the highest level. He also had access to the original Russian investigation, which concluded it was a bomb that caused the explosion.” Crean pulled out a folder, which had been tucked at his side. He handed it to Barnes. “You’ll need to translate the Russian documents, but that won’t be a problem for you. I want you to have these: copies of all the reports. There’s footage of Plant in the area on the day of the bombing, witness statements from people who’d seen him. Plus, there are the classified reports from the British; obviously they don’t name names, but Freddy confirmed Plant’s codename was XVI. You’ll be able to piece together who was involved.”
“So Plant’s CXVI?” Barnes queried.
Crean smiled. “No. As you’ll see,” he pointed a thin unsteady finger at the folder, “the assignment to kill the Mathewsons was codenamed CXVI.”
“How did you get hold of the reports?” Woods pried.
“Freddy; in case anything untoward happened to him.”
Barnes flicked up an eyebrow. “Who was Williams working for?”
Crean coughed and then spluttered, but this time managed to control his breathing without the inhaler that Sarah immediately held out for him. Instead he sipped some water. “Who do you think?”
“The Russians?” she ventured.
He nodded. “The irony is the British believed he worked for them, but he was a double-agent, by all accounts a fine one. In reality he was feeding the British misinformation. Tragically, part of the subterfuge involved him convincing them that the Russians were negotiating with the Chinese on the development of shale gas extraction. . .”
Barnes jumped in. “Now I understand. If the Russians and Chinese worked together they’d dominate the world’s energy market.”
Crean nodded.
“And that misinformation prompted drastic action.”
“Got it in one,” he said, clearly in pain and forcing a smile.
“So Williams wanted revenge, he approached you, and together you formulated a plan to murder eight people,” Woods concluded.
Everyone around the table — including Barnes — shook their heads.
&n
bsp; “Why would I want to murder anyone?” Crean croaked.
Woods glanced at Barnes, clearly annoyed, then back to Crean. “So far seven people have died, six linked to you and your wife, the seventh an unfortunate bystander. Looking at the sequence of numerals there are two people still under threat. Tell me who they are,” he demanded.
“I’m guessing Plant and whoever sanctioned the murder of Freddy’s family.”
“Not Pauline?”
Crean appeared shocked by Woods’ question. “Why would Pauline be under threat? She’s never done anything wrong to anyone.”
Woods hesitated.
Barnes, thinking he was about to mention the adultery, decided to speak. “Have you any idea who authorised the murders?”
Crean shook his head. “As I’ve already said, it was sanctioned at the highest level. Freddy told me he’d uncover who by.”
“So what about the first six?” Woods said, tapping his fingers annoyingly on the table. “You claim to have had nothing to do with the deaths, but it can’t be pure coincidence that Williams chose to murder the six people who’d caused you and Pauline trouble.”
“The first I knew was when I read about Mateland and Hussain’s murders. Then the press reported Bulmer and Broadbent’s deaths were being linked. By the time Porter had been killed I’d worked out it was Freddy and his plan for revenge.”
“Do you know what the plan entails?” Woods pressed.
“After his family were murdered he told me he’d hold the Establishment to account. At the time I didn’t know how he would do this, but I can see why he’s done what he has. There isn’t a newspaper or broadcaster who isn’t reporting the story and the speculation about who’s at risk is headline news around the world. Freddy’s contrived it all. As you know, the first deaths weren’t treated as murders; that was deliberate. Then clues were left at the scene of Mateland’s murder which enabled you to link the others. The numerals were a message to Plant, as were the first four murders and the link to Pauline.” He paused to take a few shallow breaths. “By the time the Intelligence Service discovered what was going on, the story was too big to bury, and that’s exactly what Freddy would’ve wanted. He used me and Pauline, knowing you’d find the link to him and uncover the truth. Now the Intelligence Service will be doing everything they can to prevent the truth getting into the public domain. And Freddy will be doing the opposite.”
