by Iain Cameron
‘That sounds a good plan but I’d like to introduce a little... alteration.’
‘What do you have in mind?’
‘I want you to go out to Portugal and shadow Cope, make sure he gets on that plane.’
‘I don’t understand, sir. I thought we were trying to save money.’
He waved his hand dismissively. ‘Don’t you worry about that as there’s enough in the pot to pay for this trip. I’ll spend whatever it takes to get that man into custody.’
He was about to throw in another objection but he stopped. If Harris wanted to send him to Portugal, why would he complain?
‘My secretary has already booked the hotel and airline tickets,’ he said, pushing a small pile of papers towards him. ‘She’s booked you and DS Hobbs into a nice little place, close to the seafront at Portimão and not far from the resort where Cope is staying. Your flight leaves at five tonight.’
THIRTY-EIGHT
For such a dismal day that attracted few holidaymakers onto the seafront in Brighton, Gatwick Airport was packed with a rich assortment of school trips, backpackers and family groups all heading out to sunnier climes for an Easter break. Henderson and Hobbs checked in and made it through security with enough time left to stop for a beer before the flight.
Hobbs headed to bar while Henderson carried their bags to an empty table. When he sat down, he realised it was his first opportunity to relax since Steve Harris left his office earlier today. His first job immediately afterwards was to brief the team on his movements over the next couple of days and he outlined what he expected them to have completed by the time he returned. Then, he headed over to Hove with some shopping that he picked up in Asda, said goodbye to Rachel and rushed over to his flat in Seven Dials to pack a bag.
He was keen to read the transcripts of the interviews with the Brighton cab drivers that knew Cope, and photocopied as many of them as he could and took them away with him. If the investigation team took the Portugal news with an element of surprise, particularly at Harris’s uncustomary U-turn, while at the same acknowledging that it was the right thing to do, Rachel did not see it so stoically.
His quick dash around the supermarket filled a trolley with enough fresh vegetables, milk and meat to feed her for a week, never mind the three days he would be away. In part, she was pissed off that he was swanning off to the sun while she was trapped in damp and dismal Hove, where the weather was stuck in a groove like an old LP record, alternating between pissing wet and bitingly cold, but also because she was losing her main helper and companion. A few phone calls later, she persuaded a colleague from the Argus to look in a couple of times over the next few days, and as soon as the call ended, she looked and sounded very much happier.
He didn’t expect to find a decent pint of ale in a busy place like Gatwick but the dark liquid Hobbs brought back from the bar at Lloyds No1 was palatable enough and after downing half, he felt more relaxed than he did two hours ago but if his afternoon was stressful, the DS’s was chaotic by comparison.
He was the father of two young children, a surprise to him as his first marriage remained childless, but his feisty Colombian wife, Catalina was well pissed off at his disappearing act, just as schools were breaking up for the Easter holidays. He didn’t know if it was due to her Latino temperament or being spoiled as a child but she seemed incapable of adapting to unexpected changes of plan and the relentless disruption to lives and schedules that a major crime investigation demanded. Henderson often wondered if she knew what she was letting herself in for when she married Hobbs and if so, why the hell did she do it?
‘So you’ve got to, repeat, got to, make sure I bring her back something nice and not something I grabbed at the last minute in the bloody duty free. Otherwise, I’ll be in the spare room for another week.’
‘What, like a sexually transmitted disease?’
‘That’s not funny mate. If I did that, she and the kids would disappear to Columbia and I would never see her again. If you know your international law, you’ll be aware that the UK doesn’t have much in the way of bilateral treaties with Columbia and even though we have a few extradition treaties, it would be impossible to get them back from a place like that.’
‘Where did you pick up that little nugget, your interview with Alan Stark?’
‘No, but did you know he’s married to a Lithuanian?’
‘Is he? Well at least they’re in the EC. That comes from being a smart lawyer, he puts practicality before the untidy stuff like love or relationships.’
‘Yeah but don’t let me forget the present.’
‘Hopefully we’ll get some time for sightseeing and shopping in Portimão as Harris has made it clear he doesn’t expect us to watch Cope all day. We’ll go to his place morning and evening and make sure he’s still around.’
‘I know you said Harris thinks this is the best way to nail Cope, but don’t you think there’s something else behind it?’
‘Like what?’
‘An apology.’
‘For what?’
‘For him being so gung-ho about Mike Ferris.’
‘A lot of people were convinced about him.’
‘He went over the top in my opinion and convinced Walters and a few others into the bargain. Did he agree to the news blackout?’
‘When Samuels was nicked, we told the papers we had arrested a man in connection with the university murders but we didn’t give them his name as at that point, he was only charged with the dog and driving offenses. When he wouldn’t come clean in the interview, I was all set to throw the book at the smarmy bastard, but I’m glad I didn’t. His name’s not out there as far as I know and Harris will downplay any statements he makes until Cope’s in custody.’
‘It could be tricky keeping a lid on things after the big deal all the papers have made of it.’
He shrugged. ‘Nothing much we can do about it now. They know we’ve arrested someone but they won’t get his name until other enquiries are complete. With the rest of the senior management team behind it and a severe bollocking promised to anybody that steps out of line, I’m sure they’ll give it their best shot.’
‘Well, hopefully that’ll be enough to keep Cope in the dark because he might be thick, but if he finds out that his mate’s up for murder, there’s no way he’ll come back to England.’
Their flight was called and after draining their glasses, they headed down to the gate. En-route, he picked up a newspaper while Hobbs bought a couple of his favourite chocolate bars, a treat rarely enjoyed at home as his kids demanded their share or nabbed it before he did. Ten minutes after take-off, when the seat belt signs were switched off and they had learned what to do if they landed on water, as if a hundred and twenty tonne plane could land on water anyway, and were informed about all the offers available from the trolley that would be passing through the cabin shortly, Hobbs borrowed his newspaper and unwrapped a chocolate bar while he sifted through the cab driver interviews.
In time, a picture began to emerge of a large, helpful man who could turn aggressive if crossed and unlike many of his colleagues at the cab firm, preferred to work at night. He was once involved in a fracas with another driver and the injuries he inflicted put the other guy in hospital for a week, but the cab company declined to involve the police as he had been goading Cope about a scarlet birthmark on his face and the general consensus was that he deserved it.
Aside from the conscientious driver stuff and stories about a man that could fix engines and was handy to have around in a dispute with a non-paying passenger, what was missing were the strong and considered opinions of someone who knew him well. This was in part because all the drivers were self-employed, paying the cab company a fee for the radio system that sent them on jobs and allowing them to use the company colours and logo, but also due to the nature of the work which meant they didn’t get to know one another unless they were former schoolmates or if they socialised together, neither of which applied to Cope.
The fligh
t landed on schedule and after a quick passage through Passport Control and Customs, they found a cab outside the airport and directed it towards the Vau Hotel, in Enconsta do Vau. Harris promised it would be close to the beach and true to his word it was, but he wasn’t planning to go there, as even though the air was warm, it obviously wasn’t warm enough for an early evening swim as both the hotel’s two swimming pools were deserted.
When he reached his room, Henderson dumped his bags on the floor and headed into the bathroom for a shower, as he knew if he stretched out on the bed for only five minutes, he would be sound asleep for the next few hours. Feeling refreshed, he descended the stairs and walked into the bar.
He turned his phone off before getting on the plane for fear that Steve Harris would call and cancel the trip and not because signals from his little un-smart device would interfere with the aircraft navigation systems and send them to Norway. He ordered a beer and just as soon as it arrived in front of him, a picture-postcard straight glass, one-inch head of foam, patches of condensation clouding the sides, droplets joining together and slowly cascading down, he switched it back on.
He didn’t understand many modern gadgets, as they often seemed to have a life of their own, such as his own laptop that took ages to boot up, the Sky-box that refused to switch on until the ‘on’ button was pressed three or four times, and the broadband box which winked provocatively, but failed to provide an internet connection. Now it was his phone making tiny whirring noises as it went through its boot-up routine, or whatever it was called in the mobile world, but rather than stare at it like a geek with no friends or a man that couldn’t bear to look unimportant in a public place, he slipped it into his shirt pocket and let it get on with its business, while he took a look round at his fellow travellers.
The bar was large and modern and slowly filling with residents after their evening meal; small family groups, elderly couples and overweight men, clearly knackered after a day’s golfing or an evening’s drinking, as many were slumped back in large and sumptuous armchairs looking as though it would take a crane or a fire to shift them.
A succession of pinging sounds from his shirt pocket indicated that even in this far-flung corner of Europe, he was able to receive new messages. Ah, the wonders of modern technology never ceased to amaze him. He placed his drink on the beer mat and fished it out. There were three. Two were from the local phone company, Optimis welcoming him to their network and a third from Carol. ‘Angus, call the office ASAP.’
He dialled, half-expecting to find the trip was now cancelled after Harris found a large hole in the budget or forgot to tell him about a memo banning all foreign travel. He was not a natural pessimist and regarded the beer glass sitting in front of him as half-full, not half-empty but for once he was involved in a trip that didn’t require a huge amount of work and was looking forward to enjoying a little bit of relaxation and chill after the intensity of the last couple of months and to give his ugly sores and scrapes a chance to heal in the warm, southern sun.
‘Hi Angus. How’s Portugal?’
‘It’s sunny and warm. The hotel is clean and well located and before you ask, I’m in the bar having a nice cold beer. Jealous?’
‘Of course, I wouldn’t expect anything less.’
‘So what’s the big panic?’
‘Are you sitting down?’
‘I am, but why?’
‘We’ve released Dominic Green.’
THIRTY-NINE
On Friday morning, the day after they arrived in Portugal, DS Hobbs and DI Henderson made their way to the local police station in Portimão in a rental car. To Henderson, it made sense to inform the local police of their presence as not only was it being polite, he felt he needed to warn them that a wanted murderer was in the area and to nobody’s surprise, Harris the great networker that he was, knew which cop they needed to talk to.
The waiting room of the large police station in Avenue Zeca Afonso was muggy, save for a large, slow moving ceiling fan that merely circulated the warm air and was doing a fine job keeping them warm and sticky and at that moment, he knew what it felt like to be a suspect. They waited for fifteen minutes and far from relaxing him and easing him down to the more leisurely pace of Portugal, he was edgier than ever and itching to get out there and do something.
The release of Dominic Green from custody dominated their conversation the previous evening and even though he was resigned to not seeing him in court, he vowed to get him back inside at the earliest opportunity, especially if it could be proved he had some connection with this case. They should have anticipated that the driver of the car John Lester, Dominic Green’s right-hand man and an ex-bare knuckle boxer who was built like the proverbial brick shit-house and feared no one but Green, would deny that Green was ever in the car. This was echoed by John Spicer, aka Spike and Green’s wife, a late-forties, ex-beauty queen whose loyalty to the Green cause was unwavering in over twenty-five years of marriage.
It was a small consolation that Lester and Spike were still in the cells but no matter how many of his compatriots they nicked, nothing would give him, and many others in Sussex House, the satisfaction that nicking Dominic Green could offer. With him inside, a large part of the drug trafficking, prostitution and illegal gambling in the city would temporarily cease, giving the police a window of opportunity to clean it up before some plucky chancer decided to try his luck.
They both agreed more should have been done to hold Green once he was in custody even if that meant blowing the overtime budget on analysing CCTV pictures, searching for witnesses, forensically analysing the car they were using, the whole nine yards. George Rudd was apparently no worse for his encounter with Green and the lack of visible cuts and bruises may have made assault charges harder to stick but if they could prove that Green was involved in the kidnapping of Rudd, that would have given him some serious jail time.
Inspector Giraldes of the Policia Judiciária led them into his cool office at the rear of the building and it was a relief when they were served with chilled lemonade as Henderson was parched, although more likely due to the rich Douro they were drinking in a bar the previous night, than the warm and slightly oppressive early April weather outside.
Giraldes was casually dressed in an open-necked, white shirt with light brown trousers and looked cool in the heat. His jet-black hair was short at the sides and longer on top, parted to one side, and in combination with a clean, well-scrubbed and tanned face, which sported no scars or marks other than a well-trimmed moustache he looked younger than the ‘Inspector’ title suggested.
Henderson explained the purpose of their visit, laying heavy emphasis on their instructions only to shadow Martin Cope and ensure he made the return flight home on Sunday, where a reception party would be waiting. On no account were they to approach or apprehend him and he asked for the Portuguese Police to do the same.
‘When I spoke to Chief Inspector Harris,’ Inspector Giraldes said in a deep guttural voice with just a trace of American twang, ‘he made that point clear and I complement you on what I regard as a sensible approach, although as you can no doubt appreciate, we are not comfortable with such a man in our midst.’
Henderson nodded.
‘Chief Inspector Harris and I met, as you probably know, at a Perpetrator Profiling Conference in San Diego two years ago and I was able to show him around this beautiful city, as I used to live there and in return, he taught me a lot of things I didn’t know about French wine.’
‘That’s interesting, Inspector as many people in our office will tell you that he doesn’t really drink.’
‘He doesn’t drink?’ he said, waving his arms in the air theatrically and sitting forward in his chair, which creaked with every movement. ‘Every night I would be as drunk as a skunk and fall asleep at the table and he would still be there, glass in hand, trading funny stories with whoever was still awake.’
Hobbs recalled hearing a similar story from a Dutch detective and soon the little office was
filled with drunken stories about madcap conferences and legless bosses and was only interrupted when the desk telephone rang.
While waiting for Giraldes to finish his call, Henderson looked around his office and quickly came to the conclusion that his job in Brighton didn’t look so different from this, as there were piles of files on every surface, no doubt a mix of cold cases and recent unsolved crimes, a bulging in-tray with numerous thick circulars from bosses on-high, Health and Safety warnings and copies of crime scene reports, and a computer that pinged every thirty seconds or so with yet another email. When he looked out of the window, the similarities were rammed home again as they shared the same boring view over a grey car park, although the sun was shining over this one.
No matter how similar their jobs looked on the surface, there was a point where they diverged. Portugal was one of the safest countries in Europe with an enviable low incidence of serious crime. With a population of less than eleven million and only two major cities with more than one million inhabitants, it was markedly different from a densely-packed and ethnically diverse island like the UK, with a population of over sixty-one million and in London, if outer environs were included, a city as populous as Portugal.
Giraldes finished the call but his large jovial face suddenly turned serious. ‘I am sorry gentlemen but I have an urgent case to attend to and I am going to have to cut this meeting short.’
‘That’s fine, Inspector,’ Henderson said standing up, ‘we just wanted to check in and let you know why we’re here.’
‘I understand.’
They shook hands.
‘Thank you for coming to see me,’ he said, ‘and if I can help you in any way, please feel free to call me.’ He handed Henderson his business card and the Sussex detectives did the same with theirs.
