by Bill Kitson
‘I am pleased to say that we also have a suspect in custody who has been charged with the recent spate of sneak-in burglaries and knife-point muggings in and around Helmsdale,’ Fleming announced. ‘A considerable amount of stolen property has been recovered from the man’s home.’
The pressmen wanted to know what progress was being made on the murder cases, and here both officers had to admit they didn’t at that point have any good news to report.
‘However, there still remain several lines of enquiry to follow up,’ Fleming stated, ‘lines that look promising.’
The vague nature of her remarks left the reporters baying for clarification. O’Donnell intervened. ‘You will have to be patient a little while longer to avoid prejudicing the effectiveness of my officers’ inquiries. I’m aware that you’re all as keen as we are to see the guilty parties arrested, if only to enable you to serialize their partners’ memoirs in your Sunday editions.’
The pressmen laughed at the chief constable’s remarks, which signalled the end of the briefing. O’Donnell didn’t consider herself to be any sort of prophet, but she was to remember her closing remarks when reading one of the more lurid Sunday tabloids several months later.
The next morning’s edition of the Netherdale Gazette devoted several columns to the media conference and the background to the various aspects of both the chief constable and Fleming’s statements, which was only natural, as these were the most important local news items they had covered in months. Their staff photographer’s images of the derelict house and the sad procession of bodies being carried from it, together with smaller photos of the picnic site and the scene of PC Riley’s murder were vivid reminders of what their reporter referred to as the surge in violent crime that had beset their normally tranquil region.
At Morag Caravan Park, Ivan Kovac was incandescent with rage. Stanley had presented him with a copy of the paper and although there was no mention of any of the arrested men by name, he knew from Stanley that Patrick Newsome and Lee Machin had been detained. Kovac also knew beyond doubt that his distribution network had been severely damaged, possibly beyond repair. His kneejerk reaction was unequivocal. ‘Stanley, I want you visit each of our dealers, find out who hasn’t landed in jail and find out who’s been talking out of turn. In the meantime, I’m going to check everyone staying on the park. I need to know how the police suddenly got clever enough to start arresting our people. I want you back by lunchtime so get moving. Oh, and one other thing. If you find out someone has been talking out of turn, deal with them. If it’s someone here, you can help me find out what else they know.’
For the people staying in the motorhome parked on stand thirty-four, early breakfast was a leisurely affair. A dinner plate piled high with croissants sat on the centre of the small table ‘We need to visit the site shop today. Although I don’t for one minute think they’ll stock any of these.’
‘You never know your luck.’ He turned from watching through the window as the site came to life. ‘These places must get a fair number of visitors from the Continent. What else are we short of?’
‘Milk, butter, and fruit are the main items, although if we can’t get croissants, we’ll need bacon, eggs, and bread. The milk is running out because you insist on coffee that’s milkier than latte even.’
‘Do you want me to go?’
‘No, I’ll take my time and have a scout about while I’m out.’
‘How long will we stay here for?’ Shakila looked from one to the other for a reply.
‘That’s not easy to say. As long as we need to be here, we just stay put. It might happen today. If a delivery arrives, that’ll be it; we can leave. On the other hand, we could be here another week.’
‘And what about afterwards? After we leave here? What will happen to me? Suppose the man on the boat saw me, he would know I can identify him. Suppose he comes looking for me, to shoot me like my friends.’
‘I told you, it will be taken care of.’
She wasn’t convinced. Why were they keeping her with them? Would they really let her go when their business here was over? She stared out of the window, her attention not really on the scene outside. A movement in her peripheral vision caused her to turn her head slightly. As she did, the man walking down the line of parked mobile and static caravans came into plain view. She stared at him in disbelief then gasped; a sound that was half-sigh, half-muted scream, all terror.
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
‘That man there!’ The girl pointed. They all looked out of the window, but the man, if there had been one, had vanished behind a caravan. They waited, but no one reappeared. ‘He was there, I tell you. He was walking that way.’ She pointed towards the shop and the reception lodge. ‘I wasn’t dreaming. I did see him.’
‘OK, so you saw someone you thought you recognized.’
‘How could she? She doesn’t know anyone in England.’
‘You don’t understand. It was him: the man from the boat. The man who shot my friends.’
The two looked at one another. ‘I believe you.’ He glanced up at his partner. ‘The thing we have to decide is what we’re going to do about it.’
‘I’ll text the boss. Let him know he’s on site.’
Elsewhere, the article in the Gazette was scrutinized closely, but even more interest was taken in the local radio and TV bulletins that contained a report of bodies found in a cabin cruiser that had sunk off the North Yorkshire coast.
Tony Hartley had known his shipment of drugs would be hijacked, one of the benefits of having bugged the opposition’s office. The news of the addicts’ deaths at the squat following his arranging for the adulteration of the consignment was unfortunate, casualties of war, as was the murder of the couple on the boat who had carried the deadly cargo. What was more important was the continued escalation in the conflict between his group and the gang controlled by Kovac. The time had come to end all that. End it in the only way Hartley knew how. He called the sergeant into his office. ‘Have you seen this?’ He pointed to the newspaper.
Ron Mason glanced at the headline. ‘I have, and heard the local radio. What are you going to do about it?’
Hartley knew it was more than a simple question; it was a challenge, a test of his determination. ‘I was thinking, we ought to stop this once and for all.’
‘How do you plan to do that? Sit round a table and draw lines on a map; launch a takeover bid perhaps?’
Hartley shook his head. ‘I was thinking of something a little more direct, a little more radical. I’ve already got someone snooping around, now tell me, how much do you know about country life?’
Mason shrugged. ‘About as much as the next bloke, I guess.’
‘Do you know, for example, how you go about killing chickens?’
‘You chop their heads off, and then.... Oh, I get you.’
‘Yes, once the head is chopped off, the chicken runs around a bit, if allowed to, then dies. Have you still got that pea-shooter of yours?’
Mason grinned at Hartley’s description of his highly sophisticated and extremely expensive sniper’s rifle. ‘I do, and I’ve plenty of peas too.’
‘Right, you know the targets, and you know their location. Execute!’
Stanley had finished his visits to the dealers. Apart from those now occupying cells provided for them by the local police, all their contacts were in place, and even when faced by the threat of Stanley’s unique brand of persuasive tactics, could shed no light on how their organization might have been blown. As he returned to Broughton-Le-Helm, he was forced to the conclusion that the source of the information leak had to be from within the park.
He was so deep in thought that he failed to notice the vehicle that followed him up the little-used country lane that provided a short cut to the caravan park. Stanley took this route, although it was several miles longer than the main road, to avoid getting stuck behind caravans that would slow his progress.
He had almost reached the caravan par
k before the car behind his turned off, to take an even quieter road; one that circled the top side of the park, before wending its way across the head of the dale towards Black Fell.
If Stanley was oblivious to the presence of another vehicle, Ron Mason, who was driving close behind him, was just as ignorant of the identity of the driver ahead. His objective was to seek out the best place to position himself for the job he had been tasked with; to kill the two men heading up the gang that was causing them so much trouble. It was ironic that this would be the closest he would come to the man he had been told to eliminate.
Stanley reached the site, parked alongside the office, and walked in. ‘I’ve checked everyone, all our contacts. Nobody knows anything more about the arrests,’ he told Kovac. ‘Two of our drivers have been nicked, a couple more I couldn’t find, maybe they’re in the cells. None of our dealers had the faintest idea how word got out, not even when I threatened them. So I think the leak must have come from here in the park. Which is interesting, because apart from us, there’s nobody else here who could have told the police, or is there?’
‘If you mean anyone resident or working here on a permanent basis, I agree. However, I’ve been talking to the receptionist. I asked him about visitors to the site, and he told me something I found very interesting. I was waiting for you to get back, I think you should come and look at the CCTV tape.’
Jackie Fleming was sitting with Clara in Nash’s office, reviewing the evidence files they had compiled when the phone rang. She answered and listened for some time before replying. ‘Very well, ma’am, Clara and Viv are here at the moment, we’ll move out straightaway.’
She replaced the receiver. ‘That was the chief. She’s had an urgent call from the DIU. Their undercover officer is at Morag Caravan Park following up on the lead supplied by Viv and Lisa. Apparently the officer requires urgent assistance. There’s a double ARU team already en route along with a Territorial Support Group from York, and the chief wants us to head there immediately. We’ve to expect extreme resistance as it’s believed the people identified are extremely dangerous. I want everyone in flak jackets and you’d better have paramedics on standby.’
Chapter twenty-four
Outside the entrance to the caravan park Fleming deployed the members of the various teams. ‘I want one ARU team inside the park, with me. Clara, I want you to take the other armed officers and secure the perimeter.’
Mironova looked disappointed, but Fleming insisted. ‘From what little the chief told me, this could be extremely dangerous, so it would be rash to have both senior officers in close proximity. Now,’ she turned to the TSG leader. ‘I want you to leave one of your men on the gate with DC Pearce. Nobody enters or leaves – clear? Fortunately, most of the tourists will be off site at this time of day. The rest of you, inside the park with us. Armed officers go first, spread out, and the minute you see anyone acting remotely suspicious, detain and restrain, OK?’
The caravan park was on a hillside. That in itself was not remarkable, given the location of Broughton-Le-Helm at the head of the dale. Although this had severe disadvantages, they were outweighed by the spectacular views of some of the most picturesque scenery in the whole county.
One of the advantages the gradient provided was the excellent field of vision provided for a marksman. Settling down into the bracken overlooking the park, one such officer from the ARU team had a clear sight of anything and everything that moved. He wriggled a little to make himself more comfortable and used the telescopic sight on his weapon to get a closer view of the scene. For a few moments he noticed nothing of interest until a slight movement to one side, almost at the periphery of the lens, attracted his attention. He refocused on the place he had identified and stared at what was there for several moments.
‘Well, well, well,’ he said after a while, ‘what’s this all about, then?’ The officer wasn’t renowned for talking to himself, but with no one else within a quarter of a mile, this may have been an exception. As he continued his surveillance of the man he had seen, something about his posture struck him as unnatural. He adjusted the focus again, and this time was able to make out what the man was holding. A rifle! And he too was settled into an optimum position for firing, directly at one of the motor homes. This was certainly unexpected. The ability to react to rapidly changing situations had been an essential part of his training. He could almost hear his tutor’s voice echoing in his ear, ‘It’s what marks the professional out from the amateur’.
That was all very well, in theory, and on a range where the targets were dummies, not living, breathing people. It was vastly different in practice, on a deserted hillside. Here, choosing the right course of action was essential. He waited for a moment, then pressed a button on his radio. He began to talk, his voice little more than a whisper. He prefaced his remarks with a warning. ‘I don’t want you to reply to, or acknowledge this. Do nothing that would give my position away. I’m on the hill above the camp. I need back-up; now!’
Inside the motorhome, a mobile rang. It was answered with protests at some of what the caller was saying. ‘But we haven’t finished here. It could still be tricky.’ It seemed that the protests were falling on deaf ears for the call was ended with a reluctant statement of acceptance. At that moment the door burst open. The man framed by the doorway was a stranger – to two of them at least. The intruder quelled any protest at this invasion of privacy by waving a pistol at them as he stepped inside.
Hard on his heels, a second man entered. His appearance was less threatening, the only object he carried being a roll of duct tape. The holster on his belt and the tool therein hardly seemed dangerous, at that point.
‘I own this site,’ the gunman explained, ‘and I make it my business to ensure all visitors to Morag Caravan Park have everything they need.’ As Ivan Kovac spoke, he gestured to the man by the window to sit down.
Obedience was compulsory. He returned to his place; his arm slipped protectively around the young woman’s shoulder.
‘So when my receptionist told me someone had booked in, I thought I’d better come over and greet you. Especially after my colleague here’ – he indicated Stanley – ‘was able to confirm that someone he’d seen a few weeks ago was in the site shop this morning. I simply had to satisfy my curiosity about such a strange coincidence. By the way, I feel I ought to apologize for not introducing him earlier. This is Stanley. To be fair, that’s only a nickname. Show them how you got the name.’
Stanley produced his trademark knife and laid it on the table, extending the blade as he did so. If the sight of the blade alarmed them, the expression on his face chilled them to the bone. All three stared at it. Their faces left no doubt that they could guess that however he used the knife, it wasn’t going to be good news for them.
‘Now, Stanley is going to bind your wrists and ankles with tape. He is also going to use it to gag two of you. Please don’t attempt to resist, as a bullet often offends.’
On the hillside, Ron Mason had been watching for some time before he spotted the men he was after. He watched Kovac and Stanley disappear round the side of a motorhome. Now, he was puzzled, had been since he saw Kovac striding across the caravan park carrying a pistol. Why did Kovac feel he needed to carry a gun on what was his home ground? If he felt safe anywhere, surely Kovac would be secure in the middle of his own property. Using his telescopic sight, Mason watched through the large side window that was directly facing him as the two men moved into the motorhome. He wondered what the owners had done to offend Kovac. Hartley had told him he had a man onsite, the Soldier must be inside. No matter, from where Mason was he could relieve the occupants of at least one of their tormentors, possibly two. He was unable to see Kovac clearly, but he could take Stanley out and with luck that would force Kovac out into the open; then he could finish the job.
Behind him the officer was watching; saw the movement as Mason looked to be taking aim. He whispered into his radio again.
Jackie Fleming reacted; al
l the radios sprang to life. ‘Our target is one of the motorhomes. Stand thirty-four!’
Mason’s attention was totally focused on his field of fire, to the exclusion of all else. Nor did he bother to look behind him. He didn’t for one minute think anyone else would be on that hillside. He lined up the shot. Sniping is, at best, an inexact science. Too many variables stand in the way of a higher success rate. The long range accounts for most of these. Invariably, the target being human, their behaviour can influence the outcome drastically. A sudden movement would be all it took to render a perfect shot harmless. Then again, a sudden gust of wind can affect the bullet’s trajectory. Windage they call it, and it is the sniper’s curse. Last, but not least, an obstacle in the bullet’s path can ruin his attempt.
In this instance, the range was not a problem, nor was there even a slight breeze, but there was an obstacle; a window. All he could do was hope that the bullet’s velocity would be sufficient for it to maintain its original trajectory, even after encountering the glass. He lined up Stanley’s heart in the cross hairs and squeezed the trigger, not once, but twice.
Stanley had stepped forward, duct tape in hand, when the window alongside him exploded. Kovac watched in horrified shock as Stanley slumped forward, blood spurting from a wound somewhere on his upper body. The sound of the first shot was still echoing in their ears, when they heard a second report. Instinctively, they ducked.
Mason had got both shots off, but was uncertain how successful they had been. He waited, hoping for a reaction. But before he could see if that was going to happen, his attention was claimed by a sound from behind him. It was that of a human voice; the message it conveyed was stark. ‘Armed police; drop your weapon and place your hands on your head.’
Mason looked round, saw the marksman was only a few yards away, saw he was standing in the classic firing pose, and weighed up the chances of his rifle against the officer’s automatic weapon. At that short range there was no chance of the officer missing. The only question would be how many times Mason would be shot before he could lay hands on his rifle. He decided the odds were too long for him to chance a bet. As he obeyed the instructions, another armed officer appeared from one side, underlining the wisdom of Mason’s decision. Within seconds, he had been handcuffed.
