The Long Reach_British Detective

by Michael Leese

  “Paul Moss, that was his name,” said Hooley who had surprised himself with his recall. “Must be going on ten years since we spoke to him.”

  “It probably is, but I bet he’s going to be a very good person for Jonathan to start with as he looks to see how something might be brought into the country. Who knows, maybe they have sniffer dogs for that now.”

  “Dogs would be no use because radiation doesn’t have a smell - at least, nothing anyone has found up to now - but I do know there has been a lot of top secret developments in recent years. If your guy knows about them then he could be really helpful.”

  “I’ll track him down,” said Hooley. “He should remember me so that will help speed things up although, from what Jonathan just said, it sounds like another reason to get our security clearances beefed up.”

  The two detectives left Mayweather and headed back to their office. Roper was just about to get back into his own research when Hooley called out.

  “Rather than just work on until I can’t read anymore - and I know you have never reached that point - let’s set a deadline of 7.30pm to call it a day then we can head off to my local Indian for dinner.”

  Roper’s response was animated. “That would be great. We haven’t done that for ages and I have been building up to trying a new dish.”

  Hooley couldn’t hide his surprise.

  “I was under the impression that you eating anything other than lamb rogan josh would bring you out in spots.”

  “This time I’m going to have a chicken vindaloo.”

  “Are you sure? That’s one of the hottest things they make; I’ve never dared try it, but I did see some bloke going very red in the face last Saturday night. He was eating it for a bet and I got the impression the kitchen made sure he remembered the experience. He was a bit loud when he came in but soon quietened down after that.”

  “I want to try out a theory I’ve been working on. I’ve been practicing eating chillis at home and I have managed to raise my resistance to them. I can manage to eat a Scotch Bonnet now which is at least 100,000 Scoville Units.”

  “Well, I don’t know about your Scovilles, but I do know that a Scotch Bonnet is lethal. If you can manage one of those, then I guess you will be fine. But may I ask what’s bringing about this desire to try something different?”

  “I’ve been reading about chilli pepper and found out it has a lot of good properties. The ingredient that causes the sensation of heat is capsaicin - that can help with reducing blood sugar, boost circulation, which may help with dementia, and provide help against strokes.

  “When you eat it, it also makes the body produce endorphins which helps you feel calmer and more in control. I don’t like to use the expression ‘superfood’ but chilli is very good for you and, even better, you can train yourself to eat the hottest available.”

  “I’ll take your word for all that but I’m afraid you’re on our own when it comes to that. I once tried something called the Nagga chilli while I was on holiday on the Isle of Wight. We visited this place where they were offering samples.

  “At first I didn’t feel anything; then it was like all the air was sucked out of my lungs and the burning pain began. I couldn’t speak and it felt like I couldn’t breathe. My wife was furious because people were giving me funny looks. I wondered what was going to kill me first: her or the chilli.”

  27

  The Chief Constable, Sir Thomas Warner, asked Mayweather to meet him at Whitehall. He was needed at a COBRA meeting, the Whitehall venue used by senior government officials to discuss national issues of safety and security.

  That Sir Thomas was there today was a coincidence, as his PA explained, but Mayweather couldn’t help thinking it was a worrying omen.

  The young man passing on the message was blissfully unaware of her worries as he chatted away. “He’s getting there early so he can talk to you. He says that COBRA is one of the few places where he can be sure he won’t be disturbed. Between ourselves I think he rather enjoys the opportunity to disappear from view, even if it’s just for a little while.”

  He was one of the new breed of officer recruits, with a first-class degree from an Oxbridge college and on the promotion fast track. After twelve months as a patrol officer in East London he had been seconded to the commissioner’s team.

  Mayweather arrived thirty minutes early and decided to take a few minutes in St James’s Park. It was a warm spring day and she suddenly needed the reassurance of being near people who were untroubled by the potential nightmare she was thinking about.

  Feeling refreshed, she arrived to discover Sir Thomas had cleared a forty-minute window for their session. Mayweather was quickly shown inside to find he was already there, pouring himself a coffee as she walked through the door.

  She declined his offer of a drink. They weren’t close, but they enjoyed an excellent working relationship and she admired the intelligence he brought to his work.

  “Sorry about the last-minute change of location, but I really needed to talk to you away from Scotland Yard and this served the purpose. We’ve got it to ourselves for a little while, so I won’t waste time because this is important.

  “If you don’t mind, let me go first. As you may know, the Mayor of London and I don’t see eye-to-eye on a number of issues. In fact, our relationship has been deteriorating. He thinks we aren’t doing enough to catch criminals. I keep pointing out that I don’t have enough policemen to do everything that he wants. But then we had that problem with the Mayor’s relative.”

  A few months back one of his cousins had her home broken into in a wealthy part of west London. The neighbourhood police had told her it was too minor to attend and issued her with a crime number.

  “This is the woman with a blog post and a column in the Evening Standard who said that ordinary Londoners, like herself, were being ignored by the police. The trouble is that her ‘ordinary’ is a home valued at twelve million pounds.”

  “Exactly, and the fallout is still going on with some unpleasant comments on social media. A couple of nights back it took a nasty turn. A mob turned up and threw stones through her window, injuring one of her friends. She’s gone into hiding and the Mayor has gone mad.

  “He has demanded my resignation. Long story short, he has the power to do what he wants, so rather than fight, I’m negotiating. We have agreed a framework where I leave in eighteen months having hand-picked a successor - and I would like that person to be you.”

  Mayweather was stunned but she knew this was no time for false modesty and was determined to be as honest as the Commissioner had just been.

  “I won’t pretend that it hadn’t crossed my mind, especially since I was promoted to Deputy Commissioner - after that the only steps are either up or out. But I certainly wasn’t expecting to be having that conversation today.”

  “Neither was I until this morning, but I had a breakfast meeting with the Mayor and laid out my plans. I told him he could accept, or I would fight his attempt to remove me and, while I couldn’t win, the resulting fallout would do him no favours at all. He may have a colourful reputation but he is a practical man, so we thrashed out a lot of the details on the spot.”

  Glancing at her watch she saw they had used up half their meeting time.

  “I’m assuming I can think this over?”

  “Of course. But you need to decide by the end of the week. Not a lot of time, I know, but there we go. Now, I suspect what you are about to tell me is going to change the mood.”

  He was right, and it was a very sombre Sir Thomas who spoke when she had finished.

  “Definitely not a great time for you to be thinking about taking over the top job, but if you do accept I won’t be going anywhere for a little while so we can keep you focused on this.”

  He paused while he collected himself.

  “There is no doubt you are right to trust Mr. Roper’s instincts on this. His track record is too good to ignore. I’ve only met him the once but I have to say he is a fas
cinating man: fiercely intelligent and passionate about police work. He and Hooley make quite the pair.

  “I will also make sure MI5 is brought to heel over withholding key information. Whatever resources you need, just ask. I’ll let my PA know you now have top priority on all requests. One last thing: have you thought about just having this Yebedev arrested?”

  “We did, sir, long and hard. But, as Jonathan said, we don’t have anything on him apart from a photograph. If we arrested him on that his lawyer would have him free within the hour, and probably launch a claim for wrongful arrest.

  “We believe the best thing to do is to keep him under observation. It’s not going to be easy because he is either at home, on his yacht or spending time in some of the most expensive hotels and clubs in London. But it feels like our only choice.”

  28

  Paul Moss was a great bear of a man, with unkempt hair and a luxurious black moustache that made him look like a South American bandit. All that was missing was a gun and a string vest straining over his generous stomach.

  That stomach was now helping to compress most of the air out of the DCI as he was wrapped in an enormous hug. Roper found the display so alarming that he had backed into a corner of the large room which, in a few hours, would be filled with people come to hear Moss talk. He couldn’t keep the horror off his face as he watched Hooley struggling to free himself from the embrace.

  Somewhat reluctantly, Moss briefly let go before grabbing the detective’s shoulders in two meaty hands. Hooley staggered slightly under the downward pressure, only retaining his balance because he was being supported while Moss closely studied his face. He was so close the DCI could smell the coffee the man had drunk recently.

  “It’s been too long, Brian. Until I saw you just now I hadn’t realised quite how much I missed you. You’re one of the few senior policemen I’ve come across with a decent sense of humour. The young ones now are so serious, but then I suppose we live in a serious world, more’s the pity.”

  He glanced over at the cowering Roper and grinned in a sly way.

  “I see it’s true what they say about him. Can’t stand being touched and needs to be given plenty of space. But then anyone who can come up with something like the Rainbow Spectrum is unlikely to be one of the normal bores.”

  He pointed his right hand at Roper and curled his fingers in a come-hither gesture.

  “Don’t worry, I only squeeze people who really want me to do it. Your DCI denies it, but I know how much he likes it really, especially now he has been forced from the loving embrace of his wife.”

  The DCI started spluttering. He’d totally forgotten what a genius Moss was for collecting gossip so his remark about his marital status had taken him by surprise. Behind him an equally amazed Roper was wondering how this scruffy-looking giant could know about the Rainbow Spectrum. He ventured a little closer but was still some twenty feet away and was trying to maintain that distance.

  “You’ll need to come closer than that. We can’t be shouting at each other while discussing top secret matters. Who knows who might be listening outside the doors?”

  They were in a basement conference room of a central London hotel. In a few hours it would be full of people here to listen to Moss talk about the latest terrorist threats. What neither detective realised was that this conference was connected to the COBRA meeting that the Commissioner attended after his meeting with Mayweather.

  Moss was now giving Roper a very direct look.

  “I’ve had someone from the Commissioner’s office telling me I have to give you two everything you need about a matter that couldn’t be explained over the phone but would be when we met.

  “So here we all are, at our meeting; the very least you could do is come over here and meet me properly rather than trying to vanish into a dark corner. By the way, your black suit helps you blend into the shadows but that bright white shirt of yours really works against it.”

  The words were washing over Roper like a wave and, in other circumstances he would have left as quickly as possible - but there was something about Moss that not only kept him there but actually drew him in; he even found his feet slowly walking him forwards.

  Finally, he was just four feet away and Moss was holding up a hand again, this to suggest he stop where he was.

  “Any closer and people would say we were friends,” said the giant, giving him a theatrical wink.

  Roper was so nonplussed by the performance that he blurted out: “What would be the best ways of bringing weapons-grade plutonium into the UK?”

  “I take it you mean some outside group would be doing this and would be doing their best to avoid detection?”

  A quick nod from Roper. He had become instantly focused and didn’t want to waste time.

  “And I’m thinking that since you’re with the great Brian Hooley, you want to know how things have changed since the Litvinenko poisoning case?”

  This time it was Roper who provided the affirmative with the briefest flicker.

  “Well, you wouldn’t try sneaking it through Heathrow again - things have got a lot more sophisticated since then - but there are still enough ways of doing it to make the hair fall out of those tasked with stopping it.

  “I can give you a bit of a heads-up, but I am not going to give you all the details. I know you have the highest clearance but, in these matters, we try to keep it compartmentalised. So, a lot of people know a small bit and a much smaller number of people know a big bit and then there’s me, who knows an awful lot.”

  Hooley glanced at Roper to see how this was being received and was relieved to see the younger man didn’t look as though he was going to argue.

  “From what you’ve just said, would it be reasonable to suggest that main ports of entry to this country are probably well-protected?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. Look: I’m not going to be giving away too many state secrets when I say that technology has really jumped in the last few years and it is possible to install radiation scanners at airports. Not something you could have done at the time your boss and I first met.”

  “Before we go any further, are you two here because you think there is a genuine threat? You’re not asking me for some game-playing exercise - you think something might actually happen?”

  Now it was the turn of the two detectives to shrug their shoulders.

  “Well, I’ll be. No wonder I was woken in the middle of the night. Well I guess the best way I can help you is by pointing out the problem areas - and be prepared to get even more worried.”

  By the time he finished talking, Hooley thought he had a distressingly long list of possible ways of smuggling plutonium into the country. Moss tried to cheer him up with a teeth-rattling slap on the back. While it failed to do that, it did have the bonus of taking his mind off his troubles - at least until his body stopped vibrating.

  “Look, guys, I don’t want to know who you’re up against here. But the only time I would be getting really worried was if it involved brilliant Russian scientists with a history that stretched back to the KGB and the old Cold War days.”

  The way the pair reacted to this statement made even the ebullient Moss go pale.

  “Oh dear. I was only joking but now it looks like the joke’s on me. I’m thinking that may be exactly what you are up against. Now I can see why you’ve been a little anxious since you got here.”

  29

  Georgi Yebedev was alone in his Sloane Square mansion. It was constructed from three neighbouring homes he had knocked through over a five-year period. From the moment he had arrived in London this was where he had wanted to live.

  He was sitting in his second-floor study, a space that other people would have called an apartment in its own right, given that it was a suite of rooms which allowed him specific areas for work and play. He had even recreated a London pub with original fittings, including a beautiful polished oak bar and brass railings.

  Satellite allowed him to access live ice hockey matches
from Russia, a real passion of his, and of course football from the English Premiership. While he wasn’t close to the Russian owner of Chelsea the two men enjoyed a cordial relationship and liked to compete over who had the biggest yacht. Yebedev was about to take possession of a newly constructed vessel that would give him bragging rights by 10 metres.

  The door that led into his personal zone had red and green “traffic lights” in a panel. Today the red light was blazing telling his staff to keep out. Only his head butler could come in, and even then only if there was a crisis.

  The children were away at school and his wife had gone to the South of France, taking a friend with her, after complaining that spring was late coming this year, meaning London was damp and grey. She’d even pined for the crisp, clean coldness of Moscow, still emerging from the grip of winter.

  He was mulling over his instructions to organise the importation of the various bomb components to the UK and to do it without gaining attention from members of the Russian mafia, many of whom seemed to operate in London with apparent impunity.

  Vasilev had been very clear on this last point. Her information was that the British were aware of the outright gangsters in their midst, and preferred to keep them under observation. That way they had some idea of what was going on.

  She had advised Yebedev that he too was on the radar - his extreme wealth was enough of a draw to merit that - but his behaviour over the last 20 years made it unlikely he was under close watch.

  “Their best people are looking at our best people,” she had told him, before choking on the tea she had swallowed laughing at her own joke. He had cautiously patted her on her back and she made a quick recovery.

  “The point is that you are not a criminal, so you will be way down their list of priorities, so long as you are careful.”

  She’d rummaged around in her bag and produced a hardback book which she passed to him. He saw it was a spy novel by John Le Carre, titled Call for the Dead.