(Jonathan Roper Investigates Boxset

by Michael Leese

  Only last week, in the course of work, they had needed to talk to a new forensic scientist. At the end of the interview Roper had said to the woman: “You look a lot older than the picture you’ve put online.”

  Shock, rage and embarrassment flashed over her face, to be replaced by misery as she looked as though she was about to burst into tears. Hooley had frog-marched Roper away before he could do any more damage.

  Outside in the corridor he had hissed, “How many times do I need to tell you that people get distressed if you criticise their appearance, especially if you have never met them before? That very nice lady you just upset probably likes that photograph and imagines she still looks like that. It’s just a small vanity thing and certainly doesn’t need you wading in with your size-tens.”

  “It’s size-elevens, actually.” Roper had that mulish expression on his face which meant he thought everyone else was being ridiculous and there was no way he was going to climb down. The DCI, worried that the woman would appear at any moment, had grabbed the younger man by the arm and pulled him towards the stairs. “Come on, let’s go and get a cup of coffee.” The episode exemplified Roper. It wasn’t that his observations were wrong, but the way he pointed them out left a lot to be desired.

  He came back to the present as he realised Roper was holding up a tempting looking bottle of lager. A drink was a very good idea, and he gave the younger man a quick thumbs up. As he took a swig he risked a quick glance at Samantha. She was still looking at him through narrowed eyes, but he thought she looked less angry.

  Holding his hands up in an apologetic gesture he said. “My bad. I realise I should have arrived at the right time. I expect I threw all your preparations out, which must have been very annoying.”

  In truth he regarded the idea of a few minutes either way as inconsequential, but with Roper he knew that details that could cause the most intense issue. A couple of weeks ago he hadn’t been paying attention when it was his turn to get the coffee.

  Instead of a latte he’d given his colleague a cappuccino. Roper had reacted as if he was being handed a cup of poison, refusing to accept it. It had taken the rest of the day before they were back on speaking terms.

  So he was relieved as Sam broke out a wicked grin.

  “There’s no need to pretend you really understand. From what Jonathan has told me, you are more relaxed than most neurotypicals. A lot of people would have complained that I was overreacting and not given me the chance to calm down. What they can never get their heads around is that someone like me experiences a physical sensation when someone is late or early. It’s not as bad as a nettle sting but a bit more than an itch.”

  “Sounds like me when someone is slow getting their round in down at the pub.” He was pleased with that but noticed from her stony response that she wasn’t.

  “You’ve been working in America, Jonathan tells me,” he added quickly.

  “I have, or in fact I am. I’ve been working with the NSA for the last six months and it’s gone well, so they’ve offered me a two-year contract based in Washington - and you know what I love most about it, apart from the work itself?”

  She didn’t wait for him to respond. “You should see the food trucks that arrive for lunch; from every type of burger you can imagine to ceviche, creole and vegan. I love the food trucks. You can eat food from a different part of the world every day.”

  “I can imagine that Jonathan might like that, especially trying to find his favourite dish. But you two haven’t had much time together; how are you coping with that?”

  She shrugged. “It’s not as hard as people say. We both have busy working lives and then you can always talk on Skype, or whatever. I don’t suppose someone like yourself has ever tried anything other than talking, but you would be surprised by all the things you can do on a video call.”

  He had a horrible feeling she might just be about to go into detail and decided that was too much information. He jumped in quickly. “What I really meant was that you had barely got to know each other before you had to leave. That can be difficult.”

  “Not really - you just have to be disciplined, like doing some research. I think he’s the one for me and I thought that very quickly. I told him we should see how things go and then maybe in another six months, when he comes out, we can talk some more and decide what we are going to do about it. We should have the data we need by then.”

  Data or no data, he was having trouble with how quickly this conversation had become so personal but didn’t want to say anything that might antagonise her; then she said something that made him feel like she was reading his mind. “I totally trust Jonathan and he totally trusts you, so that makes you one of the good guys. In fact, it makes you one of the very few good guys at all.”

  He was very touched, but before he could reply the phone rang. It was the guard to say Sam’s Uber had arrived. She and Jonathan disappeared into the bedroom, emerging with two huge suitcases and two smaller ones for her carry-on luggage. They squeezed into the lift and made their way down, ferrying the bags out to the car where they were stowed away.

  “You can see why I needed a ride to the airport. I couldn’t decide what to take to Washington, so I think I’ve packed too much, but best to be on the safe side.”

  She walked over to Roper and reached up to kiss him goodbye, then clambered into the back of the car which took off straight away. Only as the car vanished from sight did Hooley realise she hadn’t said goodbye to him.

  He looked at Roper, who was staring at the spot where the car had turned left and disappeared from view.

  He patted his arm. “Come on, let’s get you something to eat.”

  Chapter 3

  The Courier was sitting in the expensively upholstered interior of Maxine Dubois’ Gulfstream G650. One of the fastest private jets you could buy, it was capable of just under the speed of sound. At around $70 million, only the seriously wealthy could opt to buy one, let alone afford the murderously expensive cost of running it.

  He’d been sitting here for half an hour after joining his client at London City airport. He’d been told the plane would be departing again forty-five minutes later so, with just fifteen minutes to go, he hoped she would speak to him soon.

  Dubois had chosen dark grey leather to cover the seats and the Courier thought he blended in well since he had chosen one of his many handmade grey pinstripe suits for the meeting. As he waited he looked down and admired the brilliant shine on his shoes that had been applied by the Savoy’s service staff overnight. The watch with which he was keeping track of the time with was an antique gold Cartier with a brown leather strap. It was one of his favourites and he always wore it on important days.

  It wasn’t vanity that made him spend so much effort on his appearance; it was part of the way he sought to blend in and not stand out. Today he wanted to look like any of the bankers who swarmed through City Airport on a daily basis.

  When he’d boarded the aircraft, Dubois was sat towards the rear of the cabin with her back to him and her right hand held up in a mockery of greeting. He walked forward and handed over the iPad he’d taken out of a leather carry case.

  While she settled to watching the video clip he moved back to the front of the plane and sat where he could keep an eye on events - but especially on Dubois. With less than two minutes to go she was done. Her steward went over to her and bent down so he could hear what she said. Then he took the iPad and returned it to the Courier.

  “Madame congratulates you on your choice.”

  Even though he had been expecting the outcome he had to resist the urge to sigh with relief. He had really wanted this to work and he wanted the money even more. A taste for high-stakes gambling meant he needed fuel for his addiction.

  Walking down the steps he turned his mind away from quite how much had been riding on today. Instead he congratulated himself on having the foresight to set up a lucrative business that saw clients hand him eye-watering sums of money, in return for the oppo
rtunity to indulge dark fantasies.

  For Dubois that meant the chance to get away with murder, literally. She would soon be enjoying a drama of her own devising as she watched from a ringside seat. She wasn’t one for actually doing the deed, but she loved being in control.

  He’d begun his criminal career as an arms smuggler ferrying weapons into the UK, making decent money - but he wanted more. The drugs business was too difficult to break into, protected as it was by ruthless gangsters, but there was still a niche space for people trafficking.

  As London had grown ever larger and richer, he had spotted that demand would rise and since his rivals were hampered by being too large to change quickly he had made even more money.

  His new fortune allowed him to indulge a long ignored creative side. Some people referred to what he provided as “snuff movies”, but he knew there was more to it than that. Where else could people get to act out their dreams, even if the price was a nightmare for the victims?

  Chapter 4

  “I’m sixty per cent sorry that she’s gone, and forty per cent pleased.”

  Hooley chuckled. He doubted there were many others who could describe feelings about their girlfriend in such precise percentages.

  “Why such a high number to be pleased? I thought you two were getting along very well.”

  “We are, but I’ve never had a girlfriend before and we’ve had to be together all the time. It’s funny because I want to be near her and then I want her to go away.

  “It doesn’t seem to make sense when I think about it. And to make it really confusing, when I am on my own, at first I feel better but then I start missing her again.”

  Hooley was able to buy a bit of time as a waiter appeared with Roper’s food order, an impressive looking open sandwich piled high with thinly sliced rare roast beef and served with an appetising bowl of chips; the proper English sort, the DCI noted approvingly, not those thin cut French fries.

  “I hope you don’t think I am being rude by asking questions - I was just wondering how you were able to be so precise about how you feel about it.”

  “It’s simple. Sam was with me for six days and it was the first time anyone has stayed at my flat. In fact, you and Julie Mayweather are the only people who have ever visited. We got on very well, so I awarded ten percent for each day. That made sixty per cent, the bit I feel sad about now, so the rest, the forty per cent, must be me feeling glad.”

  As a detective Hooley was used to people telling him confusing stories, usually in a forlorn attempt to try and explain how they had come to be in possession of stolen property. So he was comfortable with sifting through apparently conflicting information. This had thrown him.

  “Look. I’m really not someone who should be handing out relationship advice but I don’t think you are the only person in the world who finds relationships a bit confusing. When emotions get involved, common sense goes out the window - at least, that’s what my grandmother used to say.”

  The way Roper’s brow furrowed made him wonder if saying common sense had been ‘thrown’ out of the window was a tactical error when he was once again saved by an approaching waiter; this one had his toasted cheese sandwich.

  Roper polished off the last of his sandwich and neatly placed his knife and fork on the plate. He looked at Hooley.

  “How do you know when things are going well?”

  “In my experience it’s that you’re not being shouted at, and that’s why I may not be the best person to ask.”

  ◆◆◆

  The DCI’s decision to share his office space with Roper had been straightforward. It made life easier for everyone. His younger colleague was too easily distracted when he was surrounded by people, and that was a bad thing because it got in the way of Roper detecting patterns that everyone else missed. He needed a calm environment before he could fall into the near-Zen-like state he needed.

  It also kept him apart from the colleagues with whom he could have difficult relationships with. In the past there had been complaints, that he wasn’t a team player and had an abrasive manner.

  While Hooley felt these issues were exaggerated and used as the basis for unfair complaints it was obvious his partner would never be the most popular man on the squad. No one had ever accused Roper of being the life and soul of the party.

  Attitudes towards him had been improving since his brilliant detective work had led to breakthroughs against seemingly impossible odds. Despite this, Hooley knew it was better to keep him close and out of the bear pit.

  In a strange way he had grown to enjoy some of Roper’s more acerbic comments, especially those about his weight which had finally forced him onto a diet. He was almost twenty-eight pounds lighter even if, as Roper frequently pointed out, he couldn’t afford to take it easy as he was still too tubby for his age. But the DCI was never going to be a poster boy for the health lobby and was pleased with what he had achieved. He thought it was many years since he had looked this good and he was glad his stomach had shrunk in size.

  It was his turn to get the coffees. He plonked a black Americano in front of Roper and noticed that he was browsing through the ‘slush fund’: the DCI’s personal stash of files about unsolved cases that intrigued him. He turned to these files when his live cases were going slowly.

  After moving in, Roper had ferreted out the files and from that moment on he, too, was addicted. He was good at it, closing several cases that had been open for way too long, but it also led to one of the few serious arguments between the pair when Hooley had needed to insist that live cases should take priority.

  At the moment they had very little on so the DCI was happy to talk about the past. “Seen anything you like the look of?”

  Roper looked up and stared blankly at Hooley before blinking rapidly and seeming to come back from some distant space.

  “Sorry, I was in the Rainbow Spectrum. Just read some stuff that didn’t make a lot of sense, so I was just trying to see if there are other links around, which I think there are, but it might take a while to get it all together.”

  Hooley nodded thoughtfully. His colleague only mentioned the Rainbow Spectrum when he was on the brink of some sort of breakthrough. The Spectrum was Roper’s own creation and it was a method by which he mentally catalogued different pieces of information, assigning them notional values using the colour of the rainbow. While it was complicated, and the DCI knew he would never fully understand how it worked, it could produce amazing results.

  “Well, if it stays as quiet as this, we might need you to come up with something to stop everyone going upside down with boredom.”

  Roper pulled a face. “I can’t promise anything. You know that most of the time these things turn out to be nothing, just lots of different information without any sort of connection.”

  “Well, don’t get my hopes up with your wild enthusiasm.”

  He glanced at Roper; if he’d been hoping the sarcasm would have an effect he was wasting his time. There was no response at all. He was back in the Spectrum.

  Chapter 5

  No one who knew him would accuse The Courier of being a sentimental man, but in a small, secret part of himself, he had nurtured a dream about a happy childhood: one far removed from his own, that had been one long round of drink and drug-fueled abuse.

  He could never help wondering how his life might have turned out if he had been brought up in a family that took pride in quiet and normality. Getting up at the same time every day, the same breakfast and the same walk to school. Then, the return home to a loving mother who had prepared his favourite meal. After homework she would allow him to play with friends until it was time for a bath and getting ready for bed.

  For some reason just thinking about what had never been made him feel emotional and he liked this rare moment when he loosened the emotional shackles under which he operated. The feeling had crept up on him after he arrived at the three-bedroom semi-detached house his team had taken over for the surveillance operation in Worcester P
ark.

  These were family homes and generations had been brought up in them. They were quite unlike anything in which he had grown up. He was studying a house on the opposite side of the street and at 6.45am they had seen Anne Hudson’s husband, Tony, leave the property.

  The Courier knew he was off to catch an early train into Waterloo, where a short Tube ride would deposit him close to the office where he was training to be an insurance broker. At his last assessment his boss had lavished praise on him and told him he was set for big things.

  That night the man and his wife had celebrated with a bottle of wine. They rarely drank and, when the inevitable happened, they forgot to take precautions and nine months later an eight-pound, four-ounce baby girl arrived which they called Lilly. She might not have been planned but she could not have been more loved - although maybe a bit less so after last night. The infant had been awake from midnight until 3am, according to the night-shift who had been listening in on the recently installed equipment, so the Courier was not expecting to hear from Anne Hudson any time soon.

  He was happy to wait. He had allowed for a couple of weeks here as he sought to establish the rhythms of the neighbourhood. The house he had chosen was ideal for his plan. It was a long-established rental property, in a street that had several others, so neighbours were used to comings and goings and paid no attention to new tenants. He kept his eye on the house opposite as he reached for the cup of jasmine tea that one of his team had just made for him. It was cold in the house, so he could see the steam rising from the drink.

  The unmistakable sound of a baby starting to cry came over the speakers and he got up to walk to the back bedroom, which had its curtains tightly shut to stop anyone realising that the room was full of monitors displaying multiple feeds from the target house.