Running Scared (DI Mike Nash Book 10)

by Bill Kitson

  Why had Mike suddenly decided to take Daniel to France and for the whole of the summer holiday? It wasn’t as if the little boy had any special fondness for his French home, other than his great aunt Mirabelle who he visited regularly.

  She remembered the first time she met the boy, on the day Mirabelle had brought Daniel from France to Mike; the father that Daniel had never met, although he knew every detail of Mike from his now dead mother. Daniel, the son Mike was unaware of. That aside, how on earth would Mike amuse himself for the six weeks he would be away? What could he possibly find to entertain himself with when he wasn’t even able to watch cricket, live or on television?

  Clara sat bolt upright, her mind racing. Cricket, there was something Mike had told her about cricket this summer. What was it? She cast her mind back to earlier in the year in the office at Helmsdale. It was a day when the county was being buffeted by gale force winds and lashing rain. The last item she thought would come up for discussion on a day like that was cricket. Then Mike had come in, a triumphant smile on his face. When asked why he was so happy, he’d announced with some pride that he had been lucky enough to obtain a couple of tickets for himself and Daniel to watch one of the test matches during the summer.

  Clara got up and strode through to the lounge, fired up her laptop, and found the website she wanted. There it was, commencing during the first week of August. Under normal circumstances there was no way Mike would miss that, having paid good money for the tickets. Even if he was prepared to forego the pleasure, Daniel would certainly not be happy. Had her initial thought after he announced his leave been correct? Was Mike more affected by Becky’s death than any of them believed? He was prey to deep emotions and Clara wondered if grief stronger than they imagined had taken hold of him. But surely, if that was the case, wouldn’t a prolonged visit to France to stay in the home that Daniel had inherited from his mother with all the painful memories only make things far worse?

  Clara shut down the laptop and wandered restlessly around the flat. She looked at the whisky decanter on the dresser, but shook her head. ‘Not on an empty stomach,’ she told herself firmly.

  She sat down on the sofa, still clutching her empty coffee mug. As she glanced down at it, she remembered that her coffee had been the source of many insults from Mike over the years they had worked together. For some inexplicable reason, this silly memory acted as the tipping point and she burst into tears.

  Mironova’s sleep was unsettled but she was still first to arrive in CID the following morning. Her dark mood of depression from the previous night had lifted, there was work to do, and the sun was shining. She set to work reviewing case files, and had just finished making notes on the final one when her colleagues arrived.

  She wandered out of Mike’s office, which she was occupying for the duration, into the general office. ‘Whose turn is it to make coffee?’ she demanded.

  Viv Pearce glanced across at Lisa Andrews, on secondment from HQ. ‘I told you,’ he remarked. ‘She’s getting more like Mike every day.’

  ‘I’ll make it,’ Lisa said hurriedly.

  As they were waiting for the drinks, Clara phoned Netherdale.

  Tom Pratt divided his time between the two stations. Helmsdale only operated on a part-time basis and unless there was a major incident, closed overnight. Today Tom was at their headquarters. Clara explained what she needed. Pratt listened in silence.

  ‘That’s a task and a half,’ he said. ‘It could take weeks to get all that information, and even then I couldn’t guarantee that I’d got all of them.’

  ‘Start with DVLA. I don’t want every HGV; all I’m after is those that are in use for transporting livestock. I’m not sure, but isn’t there some way of finding out if they’ve been converted for use as cattle wagons?’

  ‘I don’t honestly know,’ Tom admitted. ‘I can give it a shot, but I’m not promising anything. What’s behind all this anyway?’

  Clara explained her theory of the deer poachers’ involvement in sheep thefts. ‘It may turn out to be the only way we’ll get some clue as to who killed PC Riley.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll get straight on with it,’ Pratt promised.

  Shortly before lunchtime, Clara took a call from the manager of Good Buys supermarket. ‘How can I help?’ she asked.

  ‘I have a suspected shoplifting case, but I’m not sure whether it’s one we can prosecute as we don’t have the culprit in the store.’ He explained the circumstances.

  ‘I’ll send DC Pearce over to talk to you,’ Clara promised. She put the phone down and instructed Viv.

  ‘Shouldn’t uniform deal with that?’

  ‘By the sound of it, this is quite unusual, so see what you can make of it.’

  The store was busy. Pearce walked across to the enquiry desk and discreetly showed the assistant his warrant card. He was obviously expected, because only moments later he was shown into the manager’s office, where they were joined by another man in the livery of the security company on duty in the store.

  ‘Tell Detective Constable Pearce what happened,’ the manager instructed him.

  The guard began hesitantly. ‘I thought there was something suspicious about two women, but I couldn’t be sure. The company policy is not to be over-confrontational in situations like these. It was after we reviewed the CCTV footage that we knew we’d been done over.’

  ‘It’s a bit different from the national stores,’ the manager explained. ‘Being a local company, we’re mindful not to upset customers because that way our trade can suffer badly. On the other hand, we can’t simply turn a blind eye to people stealing from us. If nothing else comes of this, at the very least the women concerned will be watched next time they come into the store and if they try the same trick, they’ll be gently escorted out – without their shopping,’ he added with a wry smile.

  ‘Tell me exactly what happened.’ Pearce nodded to the security guard.

  ‘They came into the store around mid-morning. Nothing unusual in that, a lot of mums drop their kids off at school or playgroup and then come in here. Like I said, I wasn’t able to prove anything at the time but when we looked at the CCTV we were able to track them as they went round the aisles. They loaded their trolleys with identical items then one of them set off for the tills. She paid for her goods and left the store whilst the other one continued to wander around. She was over in the far corner, on the face of it looking at clothing. Incidentally, after the first woman left her, the second woman didn’t put anything else in her trolley.’

  The guard paused, collecting his thoughts, and continued, ‘The woman still in the store then got a call on her mobile. As soon as she got that, she set off towards the tobacco and service counter. At that point, shopper number one came back in, minus trolley, and passed shopper number two her till receipt for the identical goods. Number two then strolled out without paying, and number one went over and bought a packet of cigarettes. In other word, they got a couple of hundred pounds worth of goods for half the price.’

  ‘That’s a new one on me,’ Pearce admitted.

  ‘Me too,’ the manager agreed. ‘But I spoke to someone from head office about it and they had a similar case reported a couple of days ago from one of our other branches, but the CCTV evidence on that occasion was inconclusive.’

  ‘Makes you wonder if this is the same couple of women. In which case they’re probably under the impression they’re onto a really good thing. I’ll need a statement from you’ – he looked at the guard – ‘and a copy of that CCTV footage. I take it you intend to press charges if we can identify the women.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ the manager confirmed. ‘We have to let the criminal fraternity know that although we’re a friendly, local company that doesn’t mean we’re a soft touch.’

  Pearce headed back and told Clara about the duplicate trolley scam. She listened with growing interest.

  When he’d finished she shook her head sadly. ‘Sometimes I wonder how successful such people would be i
f they put their minds to something legal. But they seem to get more pleasure out of finding ways to circumvent all the security measures people put in place to defend their property. It’s almost as if they regard it as a challenge.

  ‘When you’ve finished your lunch get some stills taken off the CCTV footage. I want them distributing to uniform branch and putting on all the notice boards. Make sure copies go to all the supermarkets in our area together with a warning. Ask them to display the photos prominently. Even if it doesn’t result in arrests, the photos might act as a deterrent.’

  Tony Hartley looked up as Ron Mason entered the makeshift office in the rear of an industrial storage unit. ‘What have you found out from our “guests”?’ Hartley asked. ‘Have they told you what they did with our drugs they stole from our courier?’

  Mason smiled faintly at Hartley’s description of the two men from Kovac’s gang they had abducted. ‘Yes, and more besides. What I did get out of them could prove useful. Certainly something I got right at the end, before the second one went beyond talking. I’d already confirmed the information we had about where their distribution centre is, but then I also found out how they get the stuff into the country. It’s quite a neat arrangement really, all to do with lobsterpots.’ He went on to explain and saw Hartley’s eyebrows rise in appreciation.

  ‘Interesting. I suppose they didn’t tell you where the package they stole from us has gone, did they?’

  ‘They did, but it’s far too late for us to be able to retrieve it. They told me that piece of information early on, when they were still very cocky and arrogant. That was before I started applying pressure. Their attitude soon changed, believe me.’

  Hartley did believe him. He’d seen Mason at work before, seen the results of his interrogation techniques too. ‘Where did it go?’

  ‘The cheeky bastards sent it out to their own dealers. By now it’ll be up for sale or on the street.’

  ‘I take it you’ve already disposed of them? Have you found a suitable hiding place for the bodies?’

  Mason smiled, but it was a cold expression that contained little humour. ‘No. In view of what they’d done and the need to establish our position and reputation, I thought it better to send a message to, Euro-trash I believe you call the opposition, that we mean business. So I made sure they were left in a place where they’re certain to be found. I also asked our men to spread the word, whenever they get the opportunity, as to how they died – and why.’

  Hartley nodded. ‘Yes, I suppose that was a better way of doing it. Right, now we can move on. There’s another shipment due soon. That means I’ll need to brief our fishy friends. Have them come in, will you?’

  The four men were dressed identically, neat collar and tie, smart white coat, as befitted their work as salesmen. ‘Are the vans ready?’ Hartley asked.

  ‘Almost,’ one of them replied. ‘They’re all fuelled up and the refrigeration units need to be brought up to temperature, we just need to know the timescale. Have you had word yet when that will be?’

  ‘In a couple of days. Mason will let you know when. You’ll need to be on the quayside, stocked up by the wholesalers and ready to move by first light. The special delivery items will be in the fish boxes. There will be two packages for each van. When you reach your sales territory, flog your fish around the villages exactly the same as normal. That in itself is starting to become quite lucrative, so don’t neglect it. At some point in your rounds you’ll be approached by someone whose enquiry will identify them as being one of our dealers. The wording they have been told to use is quite specific, so listen very carefully. They will ask if you have any green-lipped mussels, the freshwater variety. Your reply should be that you only have frozen ones. They will then say that the frozen ones will have to do, and they will ask for a kilo of them. At which point you handover the product in exchange for the cash. There should be twenty grand in each bundle, so when you return here, you should have one hundred and sixty thousand for me. Is that understood?’

  Chapter five

  Ivan Kovac was growing more and more worried. Two of his men were still missing and the possible threat posed by the missing reporter and the information he believed she carried needed resolution. Despite Stanley and his other men reporting no untoward activity around any of their business premises, he waited impatiently. He was reluctant to authorize and continue major operations until he had absolute certainty they were safe.

  Thirty-six hours after he received the private investigator’s e-mail, Kovac heard from the man detailed to check on the chief constable’s house for any sign of Becky Pollard. ‘There’s nobody here except the woman copper and her husband.’

  ‘How can you be sure? They’re hardly going to show themselves at the window, are they?’

  ‘I’m sure because, like you, I didn’t expect them to be visible. So this morning, after they both went to work, I got into the house and had a good look round.’

  ‘You broke in? You idiot, that’ll flag up that something’s wrong.’

  ‘I didn’t say I broke in, I said I got in. They won’t even know I’ve been inside. I’ll tell you one thing, for a senior police officer, her security’s crap.’

  ‘So you reckon the Pollard woman isn’t staying there? Any evidence she’s been there and moved on?’

  ‘No, I’d plenty of time to look round. I went into every room, checked all the spare bedrooms, toilets, bathrooms, wardrobes, the lot. Not even an extra toothbrush, no clothing, suitcases, nothing. If she has been there at any stage she’s long gone and taken everything with her.’

  To be fair, the O’Donnell house had always been Kovac’s less favourite option. He was more convinced than ever that the woman would prove to be found hiding out with the detective, Nash. He’s probably screwing her silly in lieu of rent, Kovac thought, remembering the comments on the private investigator’s e-mail about Nash’s reputation. He glanced down at the photo of Becky Pollard. Hardly surprising if he was, Kovac thought, she’s a good-looking woman.

  An hour later, a second phone call left him more mystified than ever. This time it was Stanley who reported to him. ‘I decided that rather than entrust Nash’s place to anyone else, I’d do the job myself,’ Stanley told him. ‘I thought that if the answer was positive it would save time if I was already on site. Then I could do two things at once, so to speak. Before I set off, I rang Helmsdale nick and asked to speak to Nash. They told me he was on leave and offered to put me through to some detective sergeant with a foreign sounding name. Needless to say I declined their kind offer, but I’d found out that Nash wasn’t at work so I didn’t have to waste time hanging around the nick watching for him. They’re not my favourite places at the best of times. Can’t think why.’

  Stanley was being humorous. That wasn’t a good sign. If he’d had anything positive to report he’d have been more excited, more businesslike. Not cracking jokes.

  ‘So you went to his home,’ Kovac encouraged him. ‘What did you find?’

  ‘He lives out in the wilds just outside a small village, really remote. The house must be worth a packet, but that’s not all. I saw Nash’s car on the drive. And guess what, he’s got a bloody great Range Rover. I tell you what; it’s a scandalous waste of public money giving gas-guzzlers like that to middle-ranking coppers. Either that or they’re overpaying him something wicked.’

  ‘Stanley, this isn’t Top Gear. I couldn’t give a toss what car Nash drives. Did you see a woman?’

  The more impatient Kovac became the more it seemed to amuse Stanley. ‘There was a woman, certainly,’ Stanley conceded. ‘She was helping Nash load his car with luggage, so I reckoned they might be off on holiday.’

  ‘Becky Pollard? Please tell me it was Becky Pollard?’

  ‘No, I don’t think it was. Not unless she’s changed her appearance radically.’

  ‘So, she knows she’s in danger. It makes sense she would dye her hair, perhaps put on some fake tan to disguise her fair complexion.’

&nb
sp; ‘She could have done all that, I suppose,’ Stanley admitted. ‘However, I doubt if the best make-up artist in Hollywood could have changed Becky Pollard into the woman I saw with Nash.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because they would have had to change her skin colour completely, and add four inches or so to her height.’

  ‘High heels could....’ Kovac began to say when the significance of Stanley’s earlier remark hit him. ‘What was that about her skin?’

  ‘Not only is the woman taller than Pollard, she’s also black. Incidentally, she’s about the fittest-looking bird I’ve seen in a long time. The thing is, I thought if I asked around discreetly I might get a bit more info. So I went into the village shop, and dropped a casual remark about the woman I’d seen. A lovely coloured girl, I described her as.’

  ‘And, what did they tell you?’

  ‘I think you can count Nash out as being Becky Pollard’s protector,’ Stanley told him, obviously enjoying drawing the story out. ‘I found out the reason he’s on leave. Apparently, it came as a surprise to the shopkeeper, but he’s just got engaged. The girl I saw him with, Alice or Alicia, something like that she’s called, is his fiancée. The grocer, who in addition to being a randy old bastard is also an unstoppable gossip, told me all about it. Apparently, they’d been in to buy supplies for their holiday yesterday. By what the shopkeeper was saying they couldn’t keep their hands off one another. He said Nash introduced her and was really proud of her, told him they’re off on an extended holiday.’

  ‘That’s all very well, but none of that stops him hiding Becky Pollard at his place, does it?’