Craig interrupted. “This Solokov. Any record of him passing the guns on or selling them?”
“Legal selling, no, but they could easily have passed through underground trades. I found something else interesting just before you arrived.” He woke up his computer and began to type. “Oh, by the way, there were lots of prints on the wall bed but none in our system.”
Craig nodded. It was what he’d been expecting to hear. Des stopped typing and beckoned them all to look.
“What should we be seeing?”
“Last known sightings of Solokov. He was in Berlin four weeks ago.”
Liam asked the question. “Business or pleasure?”
“Not sure. That’s for you lot to find out. But I do know that there are several branches of the Russian mafia very active in Germany, especially in Dusseldorf and Berlin. The Tambov gang is a biggy, as is the Eugenov. Solokov is one of their top men. Money laundering, organised prostitution and extortion seem to be their activities of choice.”
A Russian gangster whose guns had been found at Peter McManus’ shooting had connections with Germany, as did Beatrix Hass. It was a tenuous link but right now Craig would take anything he could get.
As they finished their coffee and got ready to leave, Davy’s question kept echoing in his mind. Who besides the Pro-Britain lobby would go to this extreme to influence the referendum vote?
****
Belfast City Centre. 9 p.m.
Trevor Rudkin had on a new suit, even flashier than the one he’d worn at their last encounter, and Kyle Spence’s quick feel of his sleeve implied that it was booty Rudkin wouldn’t want the taxman told about. The D.I. shook his head.
“I don’t bung you enough to afford this.”
Rudkin jerked his arm away, bridling at the implication. “I do earn a salary you know!”
The detective scoffed.
“A civil servant’s pay could never cover that! It must be three grands worth at-.”
He frowned as something suddenly dawned on him.
“If you’re not getting it from me or work then someone else is greasing your palm.” He lurched forward, pushing his face close to his informant’s. “If Loughrey’s bought you, I’ll-”
To his shock Rudkin laughed in his face.
“You’ll do what, Inspector? Arrest me? For accepting a gift from my new boss?”
Kyle’s mind raced at the speed that things had slipped from his grip. Two days before the civil servant had been his bitch: timid, controlled by the odd envelope full of cash, and feeding him information that could help crack the murder of the First Minister. Access to the sex-party this weekend depended on Rudkin as well, but if Loughrey had got to him then all that would be off.
Now the little scumbag was defying him and with a smugness that said someone far scarier than him was watching his back. Someone capable of murder perhaps, if not alone then as part of an elite group.
The Intelligence officer thought quickly. One of the things he’d excelled at as a spy had been thinking on his feet. Watching a situation suddenly get dumped into the toilet and yet still preventing it from being flushed. Kyle dug deep for that quality now, and came up with something more frightening to some men than death.
His voice dropped to a murmur, forcing the civil servant to come close to him to hear.
“You didn’t just come here tonight to tell me to fuck off, Trevor. You could have done that over the phone. But before you do try it, and make the worst mistake of your life, just remember what will happen to you if you choose the wrong side. Loughrey might have been involved in planning Peter McManus’ death, and the penalty for aiding a murderer is substantial.”
Trevor Rudkin’s slanted eyes widened and he pushed his floppy hair back from his face with a trembling hand. As he did so Kyle watched the man work his way through his limited emotional range from smugness to surprise and then shock, as the possibility that he might have got something wrong started to sink in.
As it did, panic took shock’s place, joined quickly by back-pedalling obsequiousness as Rudkin realised he might have just burnt his bridges with the detective without being certain what lay on his side of the river bank. The result was a swift readjustment of the civil servant’s posture to humble and a half-smile appearing on his thin lips.
“You didn’t think I was serious, Kyle, did you? I was only pulling your leg.”
At the use of his first name Spence grinned inwardly, knowing that he had the little bugger on the run.
He kept his voice low and adopted a hurt expression.
“What else was I to think, Trevor, given your words? If Loughrey’s buying your loyalty with flash suits, how-”
The sentence didn’t need to be finished. Rudkin was on the back foot now so he signalled the barman for more drinks, a generosity that he hoped would reinstate him in the detective’s good books. While they waited for their fresh pints the civil servant shook his head vigorously.
“It wasn’t a bribe, honestly. Loughrey doesn’t have any idea that I meet with you, so he couldn’t be trying to buy my silence.”
It was a lightbulb moment for Kyle. That was exactly what Joshua Loughrey was doing. Why else would he give a lowly advisor a three-thousand-pound suit? Loughrey might not know that the police were onto Rudkin or that he was a paid snout, or maybe he did in which case they’d have a whole new level of shit to contend with, but he was ensuring Rudkin’s loyalty anyway. It was probably his standard operating practice for new staff who might get close enough to hear unfortunate things.
The civil servant was still talking.
“He said I needed to look smart, given the meetings I’d be accompanying him to. Sorry, I didn’t-”
Kyle seized on the man’s new-found guilt. “Tell me about the party.”
Relieved that they were changing the subject Rudkin spilled his guts. “We’re meeting Saturday six p.m., at Loughrey’s place in Bangor. Then we’re being taken by car to someone’s house. I don’t know where.”
Bangor was only ten miles from Emmett Darrian’s mansion. The venue was starting to firm up.
“What else did Loughrey tell you?”
Rudkin snatched his cold pint from the approaching barman, gulping half of it down in one swallow before he carried on. His nervousness made Kyle smile and he mentally retrieved the situation from the toilet bowl and firmly closed the lid.
“He said there’d be girls and drugs and did I have a problem with that?”
“Which you said you didn’t, of course.”
Rudkin gave his first wholehearted smile of the evening. “I definitely don’t with the girls, but I’ll give the drugs a miss.”
Like hell.
“Whatever. Did Loughrey say he was meeting anyone there?”
The advisor shook his head. “Sorry, no. But he might be and just didn’t tell me. Maybe he doesn’t trust me completely yet.” His eyes widened. “Maybe he’s on to me?”
Kyle had dismissed that possibility at the mention of drugs. Loughrey had already told his aide far too much for a man that he didn’t trust. Rudkin’s cover was intact.
“No. He’s not on to you, but telling you who he’s meeting requires more than just loyalty.”
He lifted his pint from the small round table and sipped at it as he thought. Rudkin was going to the party and he would definitely report back, now that he owned him again. But that wouldn’t be as much use as hearing everything live. They needed someone else inside that party. Him.
The D.I. stared hard at his informant. “I need you to get me in there.”
Rudkin scraped back his chair in alarm. “No way! Anyway, it’s impossible now. Everyone there has to be vetted beforehand.”
“How do you know that?”
The civil servant stumbled over his next words. “It’s…that’s…what I-”
Kyle’s eyes narrowed into a glare. “You know something more. What? What do you know?”
The advisor shook his head frantically. “I don’t know anythin
g. Honestly. It’s just…well…” His next words were blurted out. “Loughrey took my passport when we landed back! He said he needed it and he’d give it back to me on Saturday night.”
Kyle slumped back in his chair, nodding his head in grudging admiration. Loughrey was having the aide security vetted more deeply than the usual civil service access checks, and probably cloning his passport at the same time, just in case he ever needed to frame Rudkin for something if he stepped out of line.
The Intelligence Officer frowned as he thought. Guests were being advance vetted and Rudkin didn’t know where the party was being held. He could make the advisor wear a wire, except that the likelihood was that all guests would be searched before entry and if it was found the shit, and probably Rudkin, would hit the wall.
He wondered if Ray Barrett had had any new recording gadgets made recently, making up his mind to find out. If not, that only left one play. They’d have to tail Loughrey to the venue. If they had troops already at Darrian’s mansion as well and they were right about it being the place then they could record everything on directional mikes. Kyle nodded to himself. Even if it wasn’t at Darrian’s place the tail might still get photos and recordings of a few guests.
Rudkin had been watching the detective intently, certain that he wasn’t going to like what came next. When Kyle tutted suddenly, the aide’s anxiety levels spiked.
“What? What have I done?”
Kyle shook his head. “You? Nothing, yet, although if any part of you is thinking of tipping Loughrey off remember those years in jail.”
Kyle continued thinking. His plans only took them so far. They needed to get inside that party, and better still inside the clique if it met. He was starting to run through other options when he suddenly realised that he didn’t need the civil servant there, so he handed the snout a new burn phone and with a wave towards the door Trevor Rudkin found himself dismissed.
“Keep that with you, and I’ll call if we need to meet again before the party. Otherwise, any change of plans you contact me immediately. Understand?”
The fear of God way in which Trevor Rudkin nodded said that he most definitely did.
****
Katy Steven’s Apartment, Laganbank. 11 p.m.
Craig was on the third button of Katy’s cardigan, his progress punctuated by slow kisses, when a wave of guilt overcame the physician suddenly and she placed a delaying hand over his. The detective widened his dark eyes quizzically.
“Something wrong, pet?”
The way Katy smiled back said that he’d done everything right, but the shake of her blonde waves that followed and the way she rose from the sofa said that something else was going on. She lifted the wine bottle and held it over his glass, topping it up.
“I need to talk to you about something.”
This was it. The big talk. The, why don’t you rent out your apartment and move in here, talk. The next step up the ladder of commitment. Craig knew what was coming and yet for some reason his heart didn’t sink; it had to be a good sign.
But when his petite girlfriend sat down again, this time out of his reach, signifying the seriousness of her intentions, he was surprised when her first words weren’t “I think that it’s time, Marc”, but rather “John and Natalie are in trouble.”
It caught him unawares, but rather than say anything he nodded her on, listening for ten minutes without interrupting but with growing dismay, as he realised that what John had thought was just Natalie being difficult was far more serious than that.
****
Friday. 2 a.m.
Ray Barrett was fast asleep when his phone rang, sleeping the sleep of a well-fed baby, which would have surprised many people given that he was the Director of Police Intelligence and must therefore have had a myriad of reasons to pace the floor all night. But then Barrett had always been a good sleeper; the only time he could recall a broken night was during the birth of his first son, who unlike his more obliging siblings had chosen the wee small hours to announce his entrance into the world. The transgression had been referred to many times during the boy’s adolescence when guilt as a weapon of chastisement had been required.
Such a good sleeper was Barrett that it took three alarm clocks to wake him in the morning, and even then his wife had to slam down his customary mug of coffee by the bed. So it was with not a little surprise that he found himself awake now, and he felt for the reality of the bedside table, just to make sure.
How he’d been woken by the phone’s ringing was a puzzle that could wait to be solved, but why it had rung was something he intended to find out right away. He snatched up the offending handset and snapped out a “Yes!” adding “Who in God’s name is calling me at this unearthly hour?”
Kyle Spence was shocked by the question and then even more shocked as he realised what he’d just done. He’d worked for Ray Barrett for years and everyone knew about his sleeping habits, so why he’d chosen to call him at two in the morning could only be explained by him losing track of time. Explanation made to himself, now he had to decide what to do: hang up and thank the stars that his number was withheld, or plough on regardless and make the request that he’d intended to when he’d made the call.
Not being a coward or a kid playing ‘knock door run fast’ Spence decided to speak, preparing himself for the barrage of abuse that he knew he would get from his old boss.
“It’s me, Director. I just wondered if research had come up with any undetectable recording or filming devices since I’d left. It’s urgent. We need them for an Obo asap.”
He moved the phone to arms’ length and waited for Barratt’s yell, but to his surprise the only reply was. “Call round tomorrow at one o’clock.”
As the phone went down both men were left wondering if they’d just had a dream.
****
The Merchant Hotel, Belfast.
The Fox was satisfied. The final party was set for the next evening, just as the others elsewhere in the UK were as well. One last push and they would be savouring victory. He was convinced that they’d done enough. McManus was gone and Roger Burke, one of their true believers, was in his place. He would lead the final week of campaigning with zeal, and their men dotted around the housing estates would do the same on the ground, using violence, bribery and whatever else they needed to get out the vote.
He glanced around his ornate hotel room as he thought. It was a beautiful place, and one of the few things about the UK that he would be sorry to leave. The whole country made him uncomfortable with its weak self-indulgence, but at least it would soon be out of the back-slapping, corrupt entity that was the EU. Its fat eurocrats with their expense accounts made him sick. They needed to be taught a lesson and the outcome of this referendum would soon give them that.
As he walked to the high swashed windows and stared out at Waring Street the old warrior smiled at the thought; sex, subterfuge and threats of exposure worked on corrupt men everywhere, whether they were left or right wing.
Within a week the outcome would be definite and he would be back in his own country planning the next steps.
****
Police Headquarters. Malone Road. 11 a.m.
As Craig left Headquarters after giving Sean Flanagan an update, he was still reeling from what Katy had told him the night before. He had however managed to park his shock long enough to notice how grey the normally robust Chief Constable had looked, and to register Flanagan’s response when he’d inquired if he was all right. The C.C. had just gazed at him unblinkingly for a moment and then opened his mouth as if he had something to confide. Then the moment had passed, his mouth had closed again and whatever stress was afflicting the man had drawn the pall further over his face.
What Craig had really wanted to ask the man was ‘I know you’re not going to the sex parties so what’s your involvement with this stuff?’, ‘Why were you tasked with finding Veronica Lewis?’ And ‘If you’re not corrupt then why are you allowing corrupt men to pull your strings?’
/> But he hadn’t asked any of those questions, not from any fear of the man or deference for his rank, and not because he believed Flanagan was dirty, but because of some tiny particle of doubt that must still have existed inside him and the knowledge that if Flanagan did say something to disappoint him before he had all the answers it might knock him off his stride in the case.
The thing that gave him most hope was that Flanagan wasn’t telling him to bury the investigation. All he’d asked was for them to investigate Veronica Lewis’ disappearance, so he could easily have called a halt when she’d reappeared, yet he’d been quietly encouraging of the things they were starting to reveal.
Craig’s thoughts returned to the bombshell that Katy had dropped on him twelve hours before. What the hell did he tell John? If he even had the right to tell him anything. Although part of him wondered if Natalie hadn’t told her best friend hoping that it would get back to her husband, precisely to save her from having to tell John everything herself. The detective was halfway through town, replaying the problem for a third time, when his car phone rang.
“Craig.”
Aidan Hughes unmistakable voice came down the line.
“Can I meet you, chief? Somewhere off site.”
Curious, Craig glanced at his dashboard clock and answered. “Twelve at Lady Dixon Park.”
“I’ll see you there.”
As Craig turned his car and headed back the way he’d just come, Liam was sitting in his Ford on wasteland by the river, wracking his brains. The guns were Russian. Not just in make but in origin, ownership and probably nefarious use. The thought made him take out his notebook and scribble down, ‘match bullet with other shootings’ before descending into thought again.
The Cabal (#16 - The Craig Crime Series) Page 28