“That reminds me,” said Hooley. “They’re a pretty grim lot here. They gave Jonathan a real going over when we arrived. What was all that about?”
“I shouldn’t really be telling you this, but we had someone trying to hack into our systems earlier on today. They got past the firewall which caused a panic, and security were ordered to pay attention to anyone who looked like a hacker.”
“But just because I’m not a youngster doesn’t mean I couldn’t have been the one you were looking for.”
Nuffield grinned. “I don’t know if anyone has ever told you this, but you really do look like a cop. I can imagine you playing a part in some TV show and having a catchphrase, with a British twist, for when you were arresting the bad guys. Something like: ‘My old granny can punch harder than you.’”
Chapter 10
In the face of intense lobbying by her mother, Anne Hudson reluctantly agreed that she would move in with her parents, at least until her husband was back home. She knew it was sensible to have the help while her husband recovered but she’d been enjoying life in her own home and knew her mum would insist on getting closely involved.
As she started packing up, she reminded herself she was lucky that an over-helpful mum was her issue. The baby girl slept through all the preparations, which didn’t take long as Grandma had bought duplicates of everything that might be needed for overnight babysitting duties, including a cot.
She couldn’t help smiling as her mother made a very poor job of pretending that she wasn’t excited at her son-in-law’s accident opening an opportunity for her to get her hands on her granddaughter. Five hours after her husband left in an ambulance, the two women set off for Epsom in a small convoy.
The Courier was quite relaxed as he watched them leave. He had already ruled out any thought of grabbing the woman today, so her heading off to stay with her parents made no difference except in one crucial way: he would be losing key surveillance data.
While he probably couldn’t do much about the parents’ home, the hospital was a different matter, just so long as they were right that the husband was going to end up on a private wing rather than an open ward. He called up one of his team and explained what he was going to need, asking the man to meet him over at Epsom later that afternoon.
◆◆◆
The Courier was on the third floor of the town centre car park when a white van drove past and pulled into a parking bay. He got out and walked to the rear of the vehicle where he climbed into the back, leaving the door slightly open.
Sitting inside was another of the Courier’s team. On his way to this meeting he’d called in at the hospital where he’d stolen a security badge and was now creating a new pass with a grainy photo that might, or might not, have been the Courier.
Half an hour later, the Courier was on the private wing and looking for the father, Tony Hudson. He found him in a room at the far end of the corridor and knocked once on the half-open door before walking in.
Flashing his bogus credentials, he announced himself as “Martin, from patient services,” and asked permission to carry out a swift inspection to make sure everything was as it should be. Hudson had only just been given a dose of strong painkillers so was in no state to work out what was going on.
Had he been more alert he would have been impressed that Martin was doing such a good job, taking time to check the underside of the bed, the visitor chairs and the bathroom. By the time he left, apologising for the disturbance, the Courier had left four tiny listening devices that he was confident would pick up any word spoken in the room. It was overkill but he was cautious man.
Congratulating himself on a job well done, he walked out and nearly collided with a woman carrying a clipboard. He checked her badge and saw it identified her as “patient services”, so he mumbled an apology as he quickly pivoted and left the ward. Hudson, now firmly in the grip of the opioids, did not register that he seemed to be receiving special attention.
Outside the Courier found a spot that allowed him to check the signal strength, which he tested by listening in. Unsurprisingly he spent a lot of time listening to silence, apart from a nurse who looked in to make sure the patient was doing well. As he waited he sent a signal that activated a tiny recorder. Whatever was said would now be captured.
It was the eighth day of surveillance before he finally got what he was looking for. It turned out that Hudson’s operation was being judged a success and he was now being put through a daily routine of adjusting to his crutches before being allowed home.
When his wife came to visit with the baby that afternoon he was able to tell her he was being allowed out the following morning. To keep her parents happy, they had agreed to spend the first couple of days at their house, but Hudson made his wife promise it would last no longer than three days.
Listening to the key passages of audio, the Courier was in two minds. Part of him wanted to carry on being as cautious as normal. That would suggest he waited until the husband was well enough to get back to work, which might be fairly soon or, at worst, just a few weeks.
But these unexpected delays were making him restless and he felt only action could scratch the itch. He was also growing ever more eager to get back on the gaming tables, so he decided not to wait any longer than necessary - once the family had settled back into the routine of everyday life, they would go in. With the father out of action, it was only the woman to worry about. He liked those odds.
Chapter 11
“I suppose that when you compare Roper and I, it’s not that hard to work out which of us writes his own computer code and which of us struggles with sending text messages.”
“You and me both,” said Nuffield. “Someone once persuaded me to use my thumbs to text; all it did was sprain my knuckles. Anyway, back to business. If you are going to walk back to the office, then I’m afraid that standard procedure means I have to get a couple of armed guards to accompany you and the file I have just prepared. It might be easier if you went by car.”
Roper had been closely studying the documents and now rejoined the conversation.
“There’s nothing in here that would give anything away and the redacted material is exactly that; no one could work out what any of it meant. I don’t see why that requires armed guards - there’s nothing worth looking at. I can’t imagine why…” He stopped suddenly. “I get it. You don’t even want people to know there is a file on this Yebedev.”
Nuffield shrugged as though he was suggesting ‘what can you do?’ but Hooley noticed that the seeming apology never got as far as his eyes, which had assumed a steely look.
“I get this is a bit of overkill, but I’m afraid it’s the rules and I have to follow them, and so do you two gentlemen. But perhaps I should explain what role we are hoping you are going to play. We want a low-key operation that tracks what Yebedev is up to and who he is meeting.
“Julie Mayweather has already agreed that you can both be seconded to this job and, if you need any resources, either contact her or myself. I’ll send you my contact details while you’re heading back to Victoria. Just so you know, our main focus, as in MI5, will remain on Mr. Sopher and where he has disappeared to.
“It looks like he’s become a financial enabler for some seriously bad people, so we want to get the drop on him ASAP. It may be that our paths cross, so if you could bear that in mind, and stay at arm’s length if Sopher shows up on your radar, that would be helpful.”
Hooley felt that icy sensation running down his back again. He’d been hoping for something interesting, and now look what they had been given. His mother had always warned him ‘be careful what you wish for’ and he was thinking he should have borne that in mind.
The enormity of what they were talking about had even slowed Roper down. Normally when they started a new assignment he bounced around like the bunny in the battery advert; now his expression showed a sort of grim determination and Hooley knew there was no chance he could be pushed off this particular hunt.
“Well we’d better get started and, unless my colleague surprises me, we’ll be walking back, so armed guards it is.”
As they arrived back at their own building he noted security had been stepped up since they’d left with a couple of policemen guarding the entrance. They walked in to their office and Hooley had an overwhelming urge to scratch at a point just between his shoulder blades. He contorted himself as he reached behind to hit the perfect spot and send relief flooding through his body.
“If you were a senior member of the Royal family you would have to get used to it.”
He turned to stare at Roper. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“That if you were Prince Harry, there would be no use getting all wound up because you had an armed bodyguard. You kept looking at where they had their guns holstered under their jackets. It was obvious you were worried about it; even I could tell.”
Hooley shrugged. “I belong to that generation of coppers who don’t like guns and I never will like them. I know we live in different times now but that’s how I feel.”
He sat down and immediately started tapping away at his keyboard, about to start digging into whatever background material he could lay his hands on. This was one of those occasions when he envied Roper his single-minded approach.
For the DCI it was proving a bit more complicated than just another case. He’d liked Nuffield, but the man was also a member of the clandestine services and the one thing you could be sure about was that you were never told everything they knew.
Chapter 12
A restless night at home, sleep punctured by vivid dreams of being threatened, left Hooley in poor shape for a productive day. His mind kept wandering the moment he tried to do anything. In the old days he could have taken himself out for the day, claiming to be meeting informants or following up on clues. But now he was the boss and that option was closed off to him.
The idea of a quick pint was lovingly contemplated and then dismissed before he finally accepted there was only one avenue that was realistically open to him.
“Fancy a coffee and a doughnut?”
If he’d wired Roper directly into the building’s electrical pathways he could not have produced a faster response.
“Get me three doughnuts, the sugar frosted ones only, nothing with chocolate on it, and an Americano with cold milk on the side.”
Order delivered, he snapped back into studying the documents he had on screen. Roper was definitely more of a thinker than an action man. Not that he lacked courage, but he did prefer reading to guns.
Hooley walked out, shaking his head. Where some people might have found the abrupt set of commands borderline rude, he knew the younger man considered he had been “maximising his economy” by issuing a set of precise demands that didn’t use wasteful words like “please” or “thank you.”
He was halfway through the door when his colleague called out. “Don’t sneak a doughnut in while you walk back. I saw the jam on the corner of your mouth the last time you went. For you it’s just wasted calories that will make you fatter and kill you earlier. I’ve got a list of all the damage sugar can do - you should read it.”
Hooley gritted his teeth, his irritation compounded by the feeling he’d just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Working with the most eagle-eyed investigator in London did present a number of challenges.
On the way back from collecting the order he enjoyed a pleasant sense of defiance as he stopped to eat a contraband doughnut, although he very carefully wiped his mouth when he had finished.
As he walked back in Roper gave him a suspicious look.
“You took your time. Did you sneak a doughnut in before coming back?”
Hooley feigned a nonchalance he didn’t feel.
“It was busy; you know how they can get down there.” He rummaged in a bag he was holding and produced a small piece of chocolate brownie. “I did get this for myself though. It’s the smallest thing they do.”
He quickly handed over Roper’s share and sat down at his own desk quietly congratulating himself on fending off the accusation. He ate the brownie slowly, savouring each mouthful as though he had won first prize in a lottery.
His sense of triumph was short-lived. “You did eat something on the way back. You’d never have been able to eat that brownie so slowly unless you’d already had something to take the edge off your appetite.”
A good detective has many skills. Knowing when you’re beaten is prime among them. It was time to surrender, otherwise this could go on all day.
“OK, you got me. I confess, but I really felt the need for something sweet. Ever since you got me to cut down on the beer I get these strange cravings from time to time. Anyway, the odd doughnut is not going to do me too much harm, and I did enjoy it.”
Roper looked less than convinced but let the matter drop, something the DCI had hoped would happen, reasoning that, at this early stage, the younger man would be intent on reading everything he could about Yebedev. He needed to be quick about it as all the surveillance photos taken by the MI5 team would start arriving from tomorrow morning.
After a couple of false starts the DCI finally got stuck in. If he spent the rest of the day in research, he would treat himself to a couple of pints at his local pub. All good deeds deserved to be rewarded, he thought.
As the day wore on he found the work more interesting than he had expected; but then people worth several billion pounds do have a sort of fascination, and everything was spiced with the mystery about how exactly Yebedev had managed to earn such riches.
According to the MI5 research, he had risen without trace. One minute he was a relatively minor manager working in the state-run energy sector, the next he controlled vast assets. It was obvious that he owed his wealth to his contacts, but who were they?
He was also surprised to learn there was some doubt about whether Yebedev was the ultimate controller of the assets or was acting as a sort of guardian on behalf of a third party.
Along with a great many wealthy Russians, he had a home in London, but unlike many he seemed to spend most of his time actually in the UK while his fellow oligarchs enjoyed life flitting around the world or spending time on luxury yachts.
It appeared that the only time he regularly left the country was for summer holidays in the South of France. He owned a fabulous villa close to one belonging to Sir Elton John, and the odd trip back to Moscow where he maintained a palatial flat in one of the most prestigious and heavily-guarded buildings in the city.
Wealthy people like London for a number of reasons. Great schools, restaurants, stable democracy, easy property laws - but above all were the services devoted to making sure rich people stayed rich. It was the mix of lawyers and financiers that did it.
As noted earlier, what really marked out Yebedev was the way he threw himself into life in London, participating in a wide range of high-profile social events as well as being a generous giver to various charities that took his eye, although none that advocated more financial transparency amongst the very rich.
Many Russians tended to be clannish, partly because of language issues, but it was also a question of trust. They preferred to keep relations with the British on a professional level, treating them as servants - trusted servants, to be sure, but rarely true friends.
A smaller number kept their distance because they regarded themselves as a cut above, their only contact with the locals being to hire them, as butlers, guards or nannies and other domestics. These jobs were sought after because they were well paid, although the employees soon learned they would earn every bit of their money.
In this sense Yebedev followed the rule of thumb. He even had three butlers, which Hooley thought was ridiculous: a senior butler with two junior butlers as his assistants. While the top man stayed close to his boss the under-butlers would be sent on ahead if the family was moving between homes in London and the country, or to the south of France.
But, while Yebedev lived a life of unimaginab
le luxury, there was nothing, until now, to prove he was involved in anything remotely criminal. He even paid some tax in the UK which, while nothing like representative of his fortune, was still a six-figure sum. He let it be known that since he spent most of his time in England he should at least make a financial contribution.
The briefing document finished with a list of charities to which he had made donations and it did seem that he was very generous, although the cynical side of Hooley couldn’t help noticing that Yebedev made sure people were aware of what he donated.
Reaching the end, the DCI thought it was surprisingly light on real detail and was similar to one of those lengthy features that are carried by certain types of magazine: the pictures of glamorous wife, lovely children, fabulous homes and expensive cars all being used to hide the paucity of information.
He turned his attention to the redacted document, which he gave up in disgust after just ten minutes. As far as he was concerned, the amount of stuff that was crossed out with thick black stripes turned it into gibberish. He looked over at Roper. If there was anything to be had out of it then he was the only man for the job.
Glancing at his watch, he saw more time had elapsed than he had expected. It was time to head off.
“I’m going to call it a day. What about you - are you sticking around much longer?”
The younger man looked up and scratched his head.
“I think I will finish now. I couldn’t see anything worthwhile in the folders we’ve been given so I’ve set up a search on the dark web to see if that produces anything, but I can leave that to run.”
As well as his Met terminal, Roper had an ‘air-gapped’ laptop that meant he could access material that might have compromised the security of the police system.
(Jonathan Roper Investigates Boxset Page 48
