by Karl Holton
She looked down at the bodies. “What about these two?”
“You tell me … say the obvious things.”
“This guy has had his head blown off with a shotgun,” she said, pointing at the body further away from them. “Given the destruction, I’d say he was shot from a very short distance.”
“Is there anything else you can tell from the body and the head?” he asked. “Have a look at its position.” Benedict walked over to the body and pulled back the white cover to reveal the evil below.
She stared at it but the shock of the scene was stopping her mind having clarity.
Benedict noticed. “If this guy had been standing up when he was shot in the side of the head, it’s unlikely his body would be in this position relative to the spatter,” he explained. “Plus, the spatter is too close for anything other than a downward trajectory shot.”
She winced. “What are you saying?”
“This guy was on his knees and given his body position … he was facing the building so he’d been turned to face what was happening here,” he said, pointing at the other body.
“You mean he was executed,” she said, quietly.
He nodded.
One of the forensic team came to the doorway of the office behind Wallace. “Mr Benedict, the boss thinks you’re right,” she said.
Benedict looked at her, placing the cover back over the body. “Ok, thanks. Tell him we need bullets; even fragments. Then you need to do your best on the trajectory of each bullet as discussed. Everything you find must go to the pathologist.”
“No problem,” she said.
Wallace looked at him. “What’s that all about?”
He ignored her and pointed at the other body. “Tell me about Billy. Again, just say the obvious things. What do you see?”
She looked down at him again. “He’s been shot once through the forehead but the bullet has blown the back of his head off …” She paused, thinking about what he’d just said. “He’s fallen backward from the force of the bullet so … he was on his knees facing that guy.”
Benedict smiled. “So we have a robbery where the robbers get two guys out here on their knees facing each other. One has his head blown off with a shotgun … another is shot with a rifle through the forehead. What does this say to you?”
“Revenge or punishment?” Wallace looked at him and watched the faint smile on Benedict’s face quickly disappear.
“Now we’re fucked,” Benedict said, nodding at the tall figure coming towards them, with Tate following behind.
Wallace turned to see the face of a man clearly wanting to cause problems.
“DCI Rowe, very good to see you again,” Benedict said. “How can we help?”
Rowe stopped in front of him. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Benedict smiled at him. “Can I use words with more than two syllables?”
Rowe clenched his teeth. “Tate, take this wash-out away. He’s got no reason to be at my crime scene.”
Tate moved beside Rowe. “Excuse me, sir. The chief made it very clear that these guys should be allowed to —”
“Fuck him. I’m in charge here.”
Wallace stepped towards him. “DCI Rowe, if you speak to DS Watkins I think you’ll —”
“Who the fuck are you and why are you speaking to me?” snapped Rowe.
Wallace smiled politely. “I’m DI Wallace from the Flying Squad. I’m here with the authority of DS Watkins. Benedict and I —”
“Can both fuck off!” he shouted. “Tate, remove them. The real drug squad has some work to do here.”
Wallace noticed that Tate didn’t move towards Benedict. “DCI Rowe, Watkins has spoken to the Chief Constable of Essex about this. This crime is connected to a murder in —”
Rowe pointed a finger at her. “I don’t give a shit, DI Wallace. I want this pain in the arse taken out of this crime scene and if you’re here with him … you go.”
Benedict stepped closer to Rowe. “How’s the new career in the drugs squad going, Peter?”
“Leave … now,” Rowe said, turning to a constable. “Hey? You! Constable, get this person out of here.” The constable reluctantly moved towards Benedict.
“We’re going to have the bodies taken to the coroner in London. I’ve spoken to the forensic team and explained my theory. Thankfully they’re intelligent enough to understand it; I mean …” Benedict said, allowing his smile to become a nasal laugh. “We can’t have you suggesting they died from measles.”
“Prick,” Rowe said, stepping closer to Benedict before the constable placed an arm in front of him.
Benedict allowed the constable to hold him. “So they moved you to something a little less challenging? Good for you, Rowe. Much needed I’m sure.”
Rowe turned away trying to hide his intentions, but Benedict noticed. Rowe’s fist moved sharply but Benedict’s feint move putting the constable in the way of the attack was imperceptible. Rowe’s fist smashed into the side of the constable’s face and his transfer of weight sent both him and the constable down to the ground. Benedict sidestepped them both and moved away from them.
Wallace shook her head at the scene. Benedict winked at her and tipped his head towards the car they’d used to get to the scene.
Tate bent down to help both men up and Rowe shouted at them both as they walked away. Tate managed to restrain Rowe as his shouting got louder.
“Does everyone in the Met hate you?” she asked, as they walked towards the car.
He looked at her as they stepped in time. “Only the people that know me.”
She looked at the ground and smiled to herself. He’s not always right, she thought.
Chapter 20
Day 9
Stephen the Great Monument, Chisinau, Moldova
9.44 a.m. GMT (11.44 a.m. Local)
The junction was rumbling with traffic and trams contrasting with the four men standing in silence around the monument. The assault rifles they were holding at their sides were on show ensuring no one else was near them.
Urna and Lomax had followed the instructions they’d been given fifteen minutes earlier. They’d walked over to the location from their hotel and through the park leaving their guards at a distance.
One of the guards had checked them for weapons and allowed both men to step closer to the figure looking up at the statue.
“Mr Moraru?” said Urna. “It’s good to meet at last here in Moldova. We’re very pleased —”
Moraru turned to them. “Do you know anything about him?” he said, pointing at the statue.
Urna looked up. “Stephen the Great.”
“Prince of Moldavia,” said Moraru. “A man who was a national hero and a great leader; but did you know that he is a saint in the Romanian Orthodox Church at the same time as being a friend of Vlad the Impaler?”
“Clearly, he led an eventful life,” said Urna. “Is he a hero of yours?”
Moraru looked up at the statue. “If ever I come back to Chisinau I make a visit to this monument … it’s something I always do. When I worked here at the bank I would come here every week … and think.”
The four guards standing around them seemed to relax. They turned their attention to the surrounding area.
Urna and Lomax knew that Moraru had siphoned one billion dollars into shell companies that he owned. He’d arranged the loans from a range of banks, including the one at which he worked here in Moldova. Then he’d covered it all up by removing files and deleting records. Now he needed to move the money; quickly.
Urna looked at the closest of Moraru’s guards, who was talking to someone wanting to walk past them. “I take it that it’s difficult to spend time here.”
“It is … in fact I need to leave Moldova today. I’m not going to be able to return here for a while.”
“Where are you going?” asked Urna.
Moraru stared at him, appearing to assess him. “I’m going to France tonight … shall we discuss our potential business?�
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Urna stepped closer. “We’re ready to help, Mr Moraru; I hope you’ve had a chance to speak to the clients I provided to give you the assurances you requested.”
“They all had very good things to say about you.”
“We’re ready to start working as soon as you want to go,” Urna said.
Moraru’s eyes looked vacant. “I have to let you know that there’s been a change. We’re no longer talking about the same sum.”
“What’s the total now?” Urna asked.
“Around nine hundred million dollars.”
“It’s still a significant sum … I assume you found something worthy of spending one hundred million dollars on,” said Urna, smiling.
Lomax noticed Moraru’s face appear to spasm with anger. “What exactly would you like done with the money, Mr Moraru?”
Moraru looked at him. “I have some Latvian entities where I’d like to place the majority of the funds. I’d be interested in looking at some investments if you have something interesting.”
Urna and Lomax exchanged glances.
“Do you have anything specific in mind?” Urna said. “We have projects in many different areas.”
Moraru smiled at them. “Like all of your clients I’m interested in return. What has the best potential return at the moment?”
Urna met his eyes. “Like all advisors we like to explain the risk-return profile to our clients. We wouldn’t want you investing without having all the information. Maybe we could send you some ideas.”
Moraru stared at them. “I want to work with someone I can trust, gentlemen,” he said. “I believe that you can arrange these things but it’s about trust now.”
“As do we,” said Urna. “Our world is about trust, Mr Moraru. We wouldn’t be able to work in it if we didn’t have trust.”
“I want you to prove it to me.”
The two men glanced at each other for the second time.
“How would you like us to do that?” Lomax asked.
“I want you to give me something in advance of our deal. Let’s call it a deposit which we’ll agree on a price for later. I won’t pay for it when you give it to me … something that shows me that I can trust you.”
Lomax touched his hands together. “What do you want?”
Moraru looked at the floor for a moment and then looked up. “I want you to get me a piece of art; something significant … important, maybe even historic. Do you think you can do that?”
Lomax felt his hands clasp around each other. He noticed the confirmation in Urna’s eyes. “Yes … I think that’s something we can arrange.”
Chapter 21
Day 9
Brighton Palace Pier, Brighton
1.01 p.m.
The late August sun felt intense on Sam’s pale skin. Even though he lived in the part of the UK with the most sun, he spent so much time at a computer his skin wasn’t ready for it.
Further down the pier he could hear the screams from people on the fairground rides. He’d never been able to understand the thrill of these fear-inducing machines. He wondered if the same noises echoed in the Coliseum as the reluctant combatants fought to the death.
He shook his head and looked at his elderly parents licking their ice creams and smiled. They were happy in their retirement and moments like this felt poignant.
He turned towards the shore and scanned the Brighton vista. The Grand Hotel with its white Victorian frontage was glowing in the sun. He brought his parents there once a month to have lunch. Today he wasn’t able to join them until they’d finished. He’d had too much work to do for Pip, hacking both the CIA and MI5.
The mobile in his pocket vibrated.
“Hello, Pip,” he said.
“Sam, where are you at the moment?”
He sensed her urgency. “I’m on the pier. My parents are here. I needed a break so I came down to meet them.”
Pip sensed his need to explain. “Ok, I need you to do something. It’s very urgent and I think it might take time. You’re going to need to get to the house.”
While head of Interpol’s cybercrime department Pip had found many would-be hackers, Sam was the best hacker she’d ever found. It had taken her years to finally track him down. When she found him she wasn’t even sure she’d found the right guy; his disguise was that good. Eventually, it was a slip of the tongue that had given him away in an interview.
Pip had hidden Sam’s identity from everyone. All the records of what he’d done at Interpol had never identified him. Pip had realised that it would be much more useful to have Sam working for her. Now she was using him as part of her team working for Hanson.
He sighed. “What are we doing?”
“I have the details of some movements of money, which has ended up in a few different banks around the world. We need to trace it and we need to find everything we can about the client’s accounts that they pass through. But we need you to look deeper and discover where it goes.”
Sam stepped a little further away from his parents. “Yes, that could take some time and it will be riskier. Just getting through will depend on the firewalls and security systems.”
“We must try to do this and not be seen,” she said.
“The deeper I go the riskier it gets. I can’t guarantee anything. It’s really difficult to know everything about how they monitor and measure access —”
“I understand, Sam. But we need to discover as much as we can.”
“Where’s the money now?” he asked.
“The last transfers that the UK authorities have been able to trace have gone to banks in Hong Kong, Paraguay and Zimbabwe.”
“Are we helping them?”
Pip sensed Sam’s desire to assist, which endeared him to her. But explaining everything to Sam wasn’t an option. “Yes, we are.”
“Ok, you know these locations won’t be easy?”
“I know,” she said. “Remember, we need to know as much as we can about the clients. So where you can … get those records.”
He nodded. “Do you want me to go through communications?”
“If an employee at the banks is discussing the transfers then it would be good to discover it; especially if it is with anyone external. Where you find anyone like this you need to tell me immediately and do nothing with it until I tell you to do it.”
In his head he’d started imagining the way he would get through and hack each system. He’d broken into many banks before and most of them were not difficult. “Not too many risks?”
“Exactly,” she said. “Once you’re back at home read your emails. I’ve sent you everything we have about the money. Call me when you’re there.”
He looked at his parents, who had no idea what he did. They smiled at him signalling that they’d finished their ice creams. “I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
Chapter 22
Day 9
Hatherley Gardens, East Ham, London
3.19 p.m.
John Davidson sipped from his glass of scotch as he waited for the phone call from the man. He better have the cash he owes me for this info.
He felt the cheap blended brand grating his throat as it slipped down. The fact he couldn’t afford a reasonable single malt whisky was only one of the many frustrations in his current life. Why can’t I make a decent wage … why do I need to break the law to put a few quid in my pocket? He had bought this cheap alcohol from a friend who also worked at Customs & Excise. He was sure his friend had confiscated it from someone trying to bring in a few too many bottles across the border. Everyone is on the make.
When his wife had walked out on him with their two children four years ago, he’d imagined things differently. He’d thought that he would buy his kids tickets for his football team, West Ham. His father had taken him to home matches for the whole of his youth and that was what he’d hoped to do on the weekends he had with them. But eventually, due to lack of money, he had to break promises about getting tickets. Then West Ham moved grounds and
he couldn’t even get himself a new season ticket.
He’d worked for the UK Customs & Excise for his whole adult life, joining when leaving school. The job was terrible for twelve years, not being much more than a record-keeping exercise. Then he’d been given a chance to move to the ‘Art and Antique’ area and he’d thought this would change. The new job still wasn’t much more than keeping records but he did at least get out of the office and visit City Airport and the various ports near London.
His eyes moved to the plain beige envelope beside his old computer monitor. When the man had called him back yesterday and insisted they meet today he’d made sure he had something more to sell. If this was going to be a chance to use his position, he was going to make it worth it.
The front doorbell rang.
He walked through his downstairs flat to the door and opened it. “I thought you were going to call me.”
Celso stepped inside, pushing Davidson into the flat. “Sorry … I told you that we might need to meet.”
“How the fuck do you know where I live?”
Celso didn’t answer. He’d walked into the living room on the right of the small hallway and stood near the window waiting for Davidson, who followed behind him seconds later.
Davidson looked at the small photo on the wall of him with his kids. His son was in an old West Ham kit he’d found at a local market. “Where’s the money?”
Celso turned to him. “I thought you’d ask.” He reached into his pocket and threw an envelope onto the small coffee table between them.
Davidson picked it up, opened it and started counting.
Celso returned his hands to his trouser pockets. With his right hand he felt the handle of the knife. He’d watched Davidson check the quantity and quality of fifty pound notes placed inside. “It’s all there; twenty-five thousand as agreed plus a five-grand bonus for a job well done.
Davidson’s eyes glowed. That’s thirty-five grand with what he gave me at the start … fuck yeah.
