“I want to hear your version of the task.”
It was an order, plain and simple, and he didn’t delay, repeating the story as he had just two days earlier in the Ritz. He was glad that he had held nothing back then because he was certain that he would have been caught out: and possibly met his doom in the back of this van.
When he finished the man glanced briefly at Sokolov and then spoke to Yebedev.
“I will help you. My fee will be five million pounds. Half now and half on completion. There will also be a bonus of five million payable immediately after we have finished.”
Yebedev didn’t hesitate; there was something about this man that suggested he wouldn’t negotiate.
“I accept. I will make the arrangements to pay you the first instalment the moment I get back home.”
The man suddenly leaned forward, taking him by surprise. He shrank back before he realised the man was holding out his hand, on his face the faintest hint of a smile.
He reached out and took the proffered hand, expecting his to be crushed, but in fact he was surprised at how gentle it was.
“You may call me the Courier. I have one rule: I make all the rules. Sokolov will be the point of contact and you must agree any additional fees with him.”
He reached into a bag on the bench next to him and pulled out an ordinary looking mobile.
“This can only be used once, and only if there is a life-or-death emergency. The number you need is pre-programmed.” He handed it to Yebedev. “Remember, this can never be used twice.”
There was a scraping noise behind him and suddenly the van was filled with daylight as the driver had opened the door. Without a word the two Russians clambered out and watched the van pull away.
Yebedev said: “I don’t know about you, but I could do with using the facilities before we head back into London.”
43
Brian Hooley had been frowning at his screen for such a long time that even Roper noticed something was amiss.
“Have I said something wrong?” The question was genuine since he was aware that on occasions he could be direct to the point that even the DCI could become deeply irritated.
His comment seemed to snap the older man out of introspection and he stretched out his arms to try and ease a knot of tension that was building in his back, a problem that wasn’t helped by the way he often sat slumped awkwardly in front of his computer.
“Sorry, Jonathan. It’s nothing you’ve done - it’s just Bill Nuffield. I’ve sent him three messages now and he’s not getting back to me, not even to say he’s busy at the moment and will get in touch as soon as he can.
“I’ve been thinking it’s important we talk to him after our discussion about focusing the investigation between ourselves and his team. Things like that can get horribly difficult so I didn’t want it to go wrong because we hadn’t spoken to each other.”
He picked up a pen and tapped it on his desk, the rapid-fire movement seeming to mirror his frustration.
“I hate it when people do this. One minute they are all over you and offering to help, the next you can’t even get them to respond. I really hope that he’s not trying to prove something here, like he’s in charge and holds all the aces. If he is playing that game, then he will come to regret it.”
Now it was Roper’s turn to frown.
“Do you think it might be because he’s got something which he can’t tell us about?”
Hooley thought he followed that, but decided to wait for more.
“He could be worried he will give himself away if he talks to us.”
“I don’t think he will be worried about us gleaning something from his behaviour. At the risk of sounding like you, his counter-training is probably better than our training. He’s not going to fall into that trap.
“For some reason he’s messing about. I suppose I have to give him the benefit of the doubt and respect his right to do what he needs, but he should at least remain in touch, even if it’s only at arm’s length. I’ve sent him yet another request - if I still hear nothing by the end of the day tomorrow I may have to get Julie Mayweather to lean on him.
“I hate going over people’s heads but if we don’t all play by the same rules then it will go wrong and given the stakes we’re playing for, I’m not prepared to take the risk for much longer. It works both ways because people will ask why I left it so long.”
Hooley knew that he was partly looking for a justification for his actions. Getting Mayweather involved would help the situation, but it would also open him to accusations that he’d gone running to his boss at the first sign of trouble.
Everything about this was making him cross. He hated it when things became bogged down and was cross with Nuffield because, as a long-serving officer, he should have been very aware of the potential for trouble. And not talking always led to trouble.
He decided to go for a walk and clear his head. It was a gloomy day, with a light drizzle that felt like it could easily become heavy rain. The weather matched his mood and he stamped off grumpily, not sure where he was heading but just wanting to walk.
After about five minutes it dawned on him that he had made a schoolboy error. He had pushed what was at stake to the back of his mind, but all this did was let the tension build up; that’s why he was getting cross at distractions.
Not exactly feeling better, but at least refocused, he turned on his heels and headed straight back to the office. Stopping at the cafe to pick up coffee, he hustled in and automatically checked his email.
Sitting at the top of a list that seemed to be mainly HR-style exhortations to work harder was one from Nuffield. For some reason he couldn’t decide whether that made him feel crosser or better, a reaction that brought a wry smile as he realised he was being contrary.
He opened the message “Brian, as you Brits might say, a million apologies for not getting in touch. I hope that what I have got for you will take your mind off my disappearing act. Can you guys make it here this afternoon?”
Hooley read it again and fired off a response. “We’ll be there at 2.30pm.”
He rubbed his hands together in anticipation of finally having something new to get his teeth into, and turned to Roper to tell him that Nuffield had finally got in touch and was promising developments on the hunt.
*
The Century House security team were back to type and seemed a little too keen on their work.
He gave himself a mental slap. He really was going to have to calm down. It felt like any little thing was tipping him over the edge and he needed to rein himself in before he became a liability.
His mood improved when he saw Nuffield. At least he hadn’t sent one of his minions. His authority saw them moved through, and they ended up in yet another room. The building was so large he could imagine people being lost forever.
As they pushed through the door Hooley saw a functional metal desk with drawers either side, a telephone, computer screen and keyboard. There was no printer, and the closest to a personal item was a ubiquitous framed photograph of Queen Elizabeth II. It was hanging lopsidedly, a bit like this case, he thought.
Those thoughts vanished when he saw that the room dog-legged round to the right, opening up to reveal a large conference table with eight chairs around it. One of those was occupied by a man wearing what Hooley thought of as the standard issue “spook suit”, an inexpensive dark grey off-the-peg number. But what interested him was the pile of photographs he had in front of him: he could make out the top one, a picture of Georgi Yebedev walking down some steps.
Nuffield motioned his guests to get comfortable.
“We’ve had some progress with our surveillance teams. Before I show you the pictures let me talk you through what has been going on. I know you have Yebedev under observation in London, but we were pursuing another angle when we got this.”
He nodded at his assistant who pushed the top picture towards the two detectives.
“This was taken by us, early yesterd
ay morning.” He nodded again, and a photo of a gleaming black Mercedes was slid across. “This car, which we were following, picked him up and took him to a rendezvous.
“That car was carrying a very well-connected Russian fixer called Arkady Sokolov. You can’t see from these pictures, but he was sitting in the back. He’s an interesting character, as nothing major comes out of Moscow without him having some sort of involvement.
“Fortunately, he’s a man of habit and always stays at the Ritz, so when he flew into London we put a team on him. They were following him when they caught Yebedev being picked up. There is more to show you.”
Another nod and three more pictures were slid across. The first showed the Mercedes alongside the van; someone who may have been Yebedev was climbing in with someone behind him.
A second picture, taken moments before the door was shut, showed the outline of a heavily-built man, but his features were unclear. The third photo showed the two clambering back out of the van.
Nuffield said. “These were taken at a service station on the M25 at Cobham. We believe the middle picture may show the man they met, but we can’t be sure and even with our lenses we couldn’t get a clearer shot - something to do with the dark interior, or so I’m told.”
He stopped talking and looked at the two detectives. They were engrossed in the pictures, but it was Roper who first voiced what was in their minds.
“Do you think this could be the man we are looking for?”
Hooley held up a finger to stop him saying more.
“We need to give Bill the background first.”
He carefully explained the meeting with his contact, and the suggestion that there was one “super smuggler” who was the person many turned to when the work was especially demanding.
“My man was a bit vague about it and quite honestly wasn’t that keen on talking at all, but he told us this man was once famous for delivering trafficked children inside suitcases and taking them to addresses all over London. He had a big reputation in those sorts of circles apparently.
“Obviously we don’t have any real details about him, or a description of what he looks like, but we were told that he made a point that he offered a personal delivery service for the wealthiest contacts. My contact reckons he was known as something like the Butler.”
He nodded at Roper, who started talking immediately.
“What we do know is that this man is said to be highly organised, which is certainly something suggested by this meeting. But I think there is something more important than that.
“He is a big player in the smuggling world and yet we never once became aware of him until we were told about him by Brian’s man. He is said to be clever and cautious. He sounds like the sort of man who summons people to come to him, not the other way around. Everything done on his terms or not at all. At least that’s the way I read it.”
“That’s a very interesting analysis,” said Nuffield. “It sounds highly plausible from the way you’re telling it. We’ll keep an open mind, but I think we need to start building our first scenario. This guy, the Butler or whatever - I just hope he’s not the Joker - is being lined up to bring in the bomb equipment.
“My only reservation is: why aren’t they bringing this stuff in using diplomatic cover? That would be the easiest.”
“Jonathan has a theory about that which has convinced me.” Hooley turned to Roper. “You’re back on stage.”
Fifteen minutes later and Nuffield was nodding respectfully.
“I think you may be right. And as you say, we watch the diplomatic side anyway, but the real action is going to be elsewhere. Actually, that all sounds like the kind of double bluff you Brits, and the Russians, are pretty good at.”
44
There was nothing ironic about Tommy Dougherty’s nickname of “Big Tommy.” He was a giant of a man: six feet, seven inches tall and weighing in at twenty-three stones, or three hundred and twenty-two pounds in his socks.
A few brave souls even referred to him as “Mad Tommy”, although rarely to his face. He’d earned that one early on in his career as a prawn fisherman based in the Port of Peterhead in the north-east of Scotland.
Taking his trawler Jenny, named after his wife, out for only his third fishing trip as a skipper, he ignored a storm warning in pursuit of a big catch. He was one hundred miles out to sea when the weather turned, leaving him no place to go. He’d wrapped his giant hands around the wheel and howled his defiance against the fifty-foot waves that came smashing down on his seventy-foot boat.
Amazingly, he and his four-crew survived and the legend was born, although years later he confided he had been so terrified and so convinced they were about to die that all he could do was shout at the top of his voice.
He never ignored a storm warning again, something that seriously pleased his crew, and they had all survived for more than twenty years in one of the most dangerous industries in which you could work.
Today he was returning to his home port with the hold barely half-full of the prized prawns, most of which were snapped up by Spanish buyers before they were landed - the skippers radioed ahead with details of what they had and when they would be landing.
The sun was beating down as he slowly headed for the quayside and he was pleased with the look of his boat. His wife said it was his one true love, and there was some truth in that. Six years ago, he had upgraded his engines to the latest environmentally-friendly ones. While his power output had dropped from 500kw to 400kw, his annual fuel bill had dropped by fifty thousand pounds.
He’d invested some of that money on paintwork and the Jenny now gleamed in a dark blue livery that was a match for the jerseys worn by the Scottish rugby team: his tribute as a proud and passionate Scot.
They’d been at sea for ten days and his phone had been pinging for a while with incoming messages that loaded as they came back in range of the telephone signal. With the boat tied up and his crew supervising unloading, he checked to see who had called him.
As always, his wife had sent him a welcome home text and that was mirrored by ones from his two boys, neither of whom intended to work in the fishing industry. And then, right at the end, one that made his heart turn over.
There were no words, just a yellow sun emoji. He scrolled down and sure enough there were two more, three in total. That meant they had come from the same person. The Courier was back after an absence of years.
The signal meant he needed to be ready to move within three weeks. More information would follow over the next few days, so it seemed he couldn’t have timed his return from the North Sea better.
He’d made a decent living from the prawn business, but it was the work he’d done for the Courier that had made him a wealthy man and made sure his family was well taken care of. It was why his sons were soon heading to America to study degrees in law and medicine respectively.
He didn’t do many jobs for the man, but he was a good payer and had never reneged on his promises. He looked at his crew through the cockpit glass and smiled as he anticipated their pleasure at the news. They too had shared in the bounty over the years.
*
Astrid Olsen wiped her greasy hands on her blue boiler suit as she stood up from examining the engine of the dilapidated twenty-foot inshore boat tied up at Stavanger, Norway. While the thick cotton outfit did nothing for her figure, it could do nothing to hide the fact that she looked like a Norse goddess - albeit one with a smudge of oil on her forehead.
She was almost six feet tall, with blonde hair and blue eyes, and her passion was fixing boat engines. It was said that, thanks to her, the hulls of many a fishing boat had worn out long before their propulsion units were ready for the breakers’ yard.
As she went to get back to work her phone pinged with an incoming message. She looked and saw it was a yellow sun emoji. She didn’t realise it but, as she waited, she was holding her breath, so it was fortunate that the next two emoji arrived within twenty seconds.
She’d sta
rted to wonder if she would ever hear from him again and was thinking she probably wouldn’t. She wondered what had brought him out of wherever he’d been, but then she shrugged.
The whole point was that she didn’t need to know. Olsen just needed to be ready to move. Within the next forty-eight hours the marine engineer would receive the means by which she could establish communication for what needed to be done.
Like “Big Tommy”, she smiled at the thought of the money that would be heading her way. It had allowed her to remain as a small, independent engineering company at a time when so many were merging to try and save costs.
Olsen was in such a good mood she allowed her two apprentices to go home early, a rare treat as she was normally a stickler for timekeeping, frowning at lateness and normally refusing requests to leave before the time was due.
After tidying up her workshop - it was always immaculate - and making sure everything was in its right place, just as her father had taught her, she headed out. A hot bath and then a lovely dinner, cooked by her husband, awaited. The extra money had allowed him to stay home and pursue his passion as a writer and he loved cooking almost as much as putting words together, so they all benefitted from the extra cash, even if she needed to go on a run every morning.
Olsen arrived at work early the next day. She’d slept well, but had woken before dawn and her busy mind wouldn’t let her get back to sleep - so she had slipped from the bed, enjoyed a coffee in the kitchen and then left to get on with the day’s tasks.
Twenty minutes after arriving she heard the deep throb of a motorbike and went in to her office just as the rider, clad from head to toe in black leather and wearing a black helmet with a black visor that hid his face, walked in with an envelope.
She knew the drill and had her passport in her pocket, which she now handed over to the man who studied it carefully before handing it back along with the envelope. The rider turned and walked out. Seconds later she heard the noise of his bike receding into the distance.
The Long Reach_British Detective Page 16
