by Mari Hannah
‘My name is Karin Ullman.’ She sounded local, young. Her English was impeccable. ‘I work in human resources at QiOil.’
‘How can I help you, Ms Ullman?’
‘I have information you need to hear.’
‘Then I’d better put the phone down and call you back.’ Hanging up, explaining to the others what was going on, Ryan apologized for holding up proceedings. Dialling the number of QiOil, he put the phone on speaker so they could listen in. When the call was answered, he asked for Ullman.
‘A moment please.’ The phone went down on a hard surface and words were exchanged.
Karen Ullman identified herself.
‘Ms Ullmann, you’ll understand the need to be careful when talking to witnesses.’
‘Of course,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘My work is also confidential, DS Ryan.’
‘You said you have urgent information?’
‘Yes, I don’t work on Sundays so I only just heard about you and the local police carrying out investigations into my company at the weekend.’ Ullmann paused. When Ryan didn’t admit or deny it, she carried on. ‘In the course of those enquiries, you will have been told that there was no contact between QiOil and a company called Claesson Logistics. Is that correct?’
‘That’s a subject I’m not prepared to discuss on the telephone,’ Ryan said. ‘Can I swing by later and chat face to face?’
O’Neil was waving at him, shaking her head.
‘Hold on, please.’ Ryan muted the speaker. ‘Guv?’
‘I’m detecting a little nervousness,’ O’Neil said. ‘I know it’s not how things are normally done, but run with it, Ryan. We don’t have time to mess about. Matthews will be done soon. We need to confer with him and head back to the UK. We’re cutting it fine as it is. This woman sounds well informed. What she has to say might concern Freberg’s correspondence.’
‘Knut can take a formal statement later,’ Nystrom said.
‘It makes sense,’ Svendsen added.
Ryan pressed the speaker button, returning to his call. ‘On second thoughts, why don’t you tell me what you have and we’ll take it from there.’
‘I’m not sure if it’s relevant—’
‘I’ll tell you if it’s not.’
‘I thought you should know that a Claesson Logistics employee tried for a job in our company and was unsuccessful. It’s our policy to destroy all applications once a prospective worker is turned down, so you wouldn’t have found any mention of it in our records. This same man applied no less than three times, on each occasion to Anders Freberg’s department. He was even interviewed one time. I remember it because Anders wasn’t very keen on him.’
‘I’m listening …’ Ryan was doing more than that. He was becoming increasingly intrigued, as were the others as the exchange continued. ‘Do you have a name for this man?’
‘Michael James Foxton.’
‘He’s English?’
‘Yes. Many British engineers work in the oil industry here in Norway. They are very good at what they do, highly trained and efficient.’
‘Go on.’
‘Anders Freberg’s team are dedicated professionals, all of them handpicked by him. He was very suspicious of Foxton. He didn’t believe the man had the qualifications he professed to. I was given the job of checking him out. In the course of my enquiries, I found that much of his background and qualifications were false. That’s why I remember him. Our security is tight here at QiOil. Even if he’d got the job, we would’ve discovered he was a fraud before he started work.’
Nystrom took over the conversation, thanking Karin Ullman, advising that Politibetjent Svendsen would visit her place of work and take a statement, warning her not to repeat what she’d said to anyone. Then she hung up.
‘That sounds highly suspicious,’ O’Neil said.
‘A mole?’ Ryan suggested.
‘Sounds like it,’ Svendsen said.
‘I reckon Foxton was trying to get close to Freberg to find out what he knew or destroy evidence,’ O’Neil added.
‘I agree,’ Nystrom said. ‘That one needs to be found and interviewed as soon as possible.’
She picked up the phone, called QiOil and asked for Karin Ullman again. Speaking in Norwegian, in a tone that sounded like she meant business, she asked the woman outright if any evidence existed on his application to join Freberg’s team. She listened for a while, scribbled down a note, and then put down the phone.
‘It’s amazing what you find out if you ask politely,’ she said. ‘Despite company policy to destroy all records, Ullman kept some hard copy information in case the fraudster applied again.’
‘That explains her nervousness,’ O’Neil said.
‘This is the email address he gave on his application.’ Ullman handed Ryan the note.
He checked it out but, as they all suspected, it was dodgy. The best they could hope for was to trace the IP address when they returned to the UK. O’Neil led the discussion that followed, tying up loose ends, putting forward suggestions on how to divide up responsibility, what parts of the enquiry the Norwegians would handle, what to retain for action by British police. Nystrom was a breath of fresh air: no squabbling over finances, no trying to score points, an ideal situation all round. It was unusual to find such unconditional cooperation – even on matters this serious. By the time the meeting drew to a close, word had come in that Matthews had news and was ready to reveal his findings.
‘I’ll get him.’ O’Neil stood up. ‘I could do with stretching my legs. Is there another office I can use to interview him, Eva?’
‘The one next door is free,’ Nystrom replied.
O’Neil looked at Ryan. ‘Can you move our stuff? I’ll see you in there.’
He nodded and she left the room.
Scooping their belongings off Nystrom’s desk, O’Neil’s mobile rang in Ryan’s hand as he picked it up. He walked to the door and stuck his head out. She was already halfway down the corridor, so he took the call on her behalf.
Maguire didn’t bother to introduce himself. He started talking the second the connection was made. ‘I have good news and bad, guv. Which do you want first?’
‘I don’t care,’ Ryan said drily. ‘Knock yourself out.’
‘Is that all you’re good for, answering her phone?’ Maguire chuckled. ‘Put her on.’
‘She’s indisposed. It’s me or no one.’
The line went quiet.
Nystrom and Svendsen got up and left him to it. A fag break, Ryan assumed. With Mouth Almighty on the other end, he could do with one himself. Either that or the Norwegians had picked up on the animosity in his voice and were being discreet.
Ryan waited for them to close the door. ‘C’mon, Maguire, stop buggering about and start acting like a grown-up. Give me what you’ve got.’
For once, Maguire acquiesced without a fight. ‘Trace evidence from the Clio has been matched to a little scrote from Kenton Bar – Brian Platt. I made an arrest and he’s been in custody overnight.’
The name wasn’t familiar to Ryan. ‘Is he talking?’
‘Not at first, he wasn’t—’
‘And now?’ Ryan sat down.
‘He started to cough when he realized the trouble he was in. Claims he met two guys in a pub. They offered him money to nick a motor and follow Irwin’s security van when it left the Crown Court – a bit risky, bearing in mind the idiot isn’t surveillance savvy. Swears he had no idea what was going down, not until they pulled out the shooters, and by then it was too late—’
‘Bollocks!’
‘That’s what I said. He’s dim, but not stupid, if you get my drift. He obviously thinks I am, though. Alleges these men were strangers. That much I was prepared to accept until I searched his fleapit and found a letterhead from Claesson offering him casual work as a driver. He nearly pissed himself when I showed it to him. He’s got more to tell us. I’ve applied for an extension to keep him in until you get here.’
That was the correct move until O’N
eil decided what substantive offences might be on the charge sheet. The way the enquiry was going it could conceivably be multiple murder – and that was just for starters. In his early career, Platt might have been a lowly twoccer – car thief – but he’d since joined the big league, aiding and abetting a very serious hijack, assisting offenders who later killed Jack. Further enquiries would have to be made. This was not something the police would rush. And no judge in his right mind would refuse a request for a lengthy remand in custody.
‘Result!’ Ryan said. ‘I’d buy you a pint if I was in the UK.’
‘I’m choosy who I drink with, pal.’
‘Don’t be like that. You deserve a pint. Two even. What you told me should earn you some brownie points with your guv’nor when I tell her. What’s the bad news?’
Maguire climbed down. ‘It ain’t good.’
‘It doesn’t concern Wardle by any chance?’
‘It does. I met him off the plane. Drove him home, interviewing him on the way. He seems kosher to me, totally upfront and honest. Anyway, his flight was delayed and I’m dying for a piss, so I go and use the bathroom as soon as we get to his place and what do I find? A fucking hole in the window, that’s what. Professional job. Glass cutter.’
‘Seriously?’
‘‘Fraid so.’
‘The guv’nor said his place was locked and secure.’
‘It was, on the ground floor. The numpty we sent round obviously didn’t look up. Actually, to be fair to him, you could hardly see the small circle of glass missing from street level. Wardle was really hoping that his car had been cloned and would still be in his garage. I was with him when he unlocked the door expecting to find the keys to his vehicle on the hall table. He wasn’t faking it when he saw they were gone. He was genuinely shocked when I told him that the Audi had been used in a hijack. Unless you know different, I figure that rules him out.’
‘Does he have any connection with Claesson Logistics?’
‘Yes and no.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Knows of them, doesn’t rate them.’
‘How come?’
‘They approached him some time ago. Wardle’s a bit like me, a first impressions man. He didn’t like Claesson from the off. Claims he’s a smooth operator with no morals and even less finesse. A bully, he called him. Suffice to say, they didn’t hit it off. Their paths cross at conferences and so on. I gather they’ve had some lively exchanges of views on more than one occasion.’
‘Sounds familiar.’
Maguire wasn’t laughing. ‘If you ask me, Claesson knew Wardle was out of the country and tried being clever by getting one over on him, making it look like he might be involved in Jack’s abduction. As I said, there’s no love lost between them.’
‘It might be his downfall,’ Ryan said. ‘You did good, Maguire. I’ll pass it on. Things are hotting up this end. The guv’nor and I have one more person to see. After that, we’re on the next plane home. In the meantime we need everything you can muster on Michael James Foxton. I’ll email the details. I gotta go. If you find him, lock him up too.’
‘On what charge?’
‘Think of one.’ Smiling, Ryan put the phone down and went to find O’Neil.
66
Alan Matthews had been working on the documents for three hours. He was a British OIM – offshore installation manager – former project manager and multi-linguist, working and living near Rotterdam, a man who came highly recommended. On Ryan’s suggestion, O’Neil had flown him in with the sole purpose of consulting on what they had found on Anders Freberg’s computer.
Taking off his reading glasses, rubbing his eyes, Matthews stifled a yawn as he sat back in his chair and looked at them. ‘Apologies, I had an early start,’ he said, placing his specs on the desk.
‘Ready to rock ‘n’ roll?’ Ryan asked.
Matthews nodded.
‘Can I get you anything while we talk?’ O’Neil asked. ‘Coffee? Water? Cake? This station seems to run on cake.’
‘No, I’m good, thanks.’ Matthews looked at his watch. ‘My return flight leaves in just over three hours. I’ll give you the feedback, then I’m on my way. Svendsen has kindly offered me a lift to the airport. I’ll eat there and get some shut-eye on my way home.’
Ryan picked up a pen. ‘Take it slowly. We’re coppers. That means we have trouble understanding technical terms. We may no longer be in uniform but don’t let that fool you.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ O’Neil said.
‘Well, it’s all here –’ Matthews pointed at Freberg’s computer. ‘Email correspondence and notes relating to safety concerns raised by a third party, a Russian engineer, Vladimir Pirotsky, who worked out of Moscow for AMKL. Apparently, he broached the matter with his company, who weren’t interested. When he did so a second time, they demoted him and brought in someone less experienced and with a bad safety record. Pirotsky was too scared to go to the law and terrified to blow the whistle to the Russian press.’
‘Which is why he turned to Freberg?’ Ryan said.
‘Yes. Reading the correspondence, it wouldn’t be too big a jump to intuit that they were friends. At great risk to his livelihood, Pirotsky cited a specific case to demonstrate the extent of the problem. The correspondence between the two men relates to a purchase order for eleven-thousand-volt switchgear from a sub-supplier and what happened from that point on. Normally, a subcontractor would send all the relevant drawings to the purchaser along with what we call a type test certificate.’
‘The purchaser being AMKL?’ Ryan asked.
‘No, that would be a subcontractor,’ Matthews corrected him. ‘There’s nothing sinister there. That’s perfectly normal procedure.’
‘Go on.’ O’Neil invited him to continue.
‘When equipment is built, a factory acceptance test is requested by the supplier on the Bus Bars—’
‘Whoa!’ Lifting his pen from the paper, Ryan looked up. ‘And they are?’
‘They’re copper bars that transfer voltages between different sections of switchgear. If all is satisfactory, the test is then accepted by the purchaser and end user.’
‘In this case, the Russians – AMKL?’
The engineer’s confirmation came as a nod. ‘The switchgear is then taken apart so it can be shipped to the final location, where it’s reassembled on site ready for installation. Other checks are carried out before a mechanical completion check record can be issued.’ He paused. ‘Still with me?’
Ryan nodded, even though he suspected that he’d have to read his notes to the engineer half a dozen times before they were done.
Matthews told him he’d go over it again if they were in any doubt and answer any question at the end of his verbal report. ‘I’ll write it up at the airport,’ he said. ‘You’ll have it via email before I board for the Netherlands. The important thing to remember here is this: whatever the project, you can always guarantee that senior management want the switchgear energized ASAP. It supplies pumps that are needed to get production up to maximum.’
‘Time is money,’ O’Neil said.
‘In my industry?’ Matthews said. ‘Always.’
‘I imagine production stoppages cost billions,’ Ryan said.
Matthews was nodding. ‘The Russian economy is heavily dependent on natural resources. Anyway, an RFCC,’ Matthews lifted his hand, a gesture of apology.
‘Ready for commissioning certificate?’ Ryan suggested.
‘He’s catching on.’ The engineer grinned at O’Neil. ‘I’m beginning to think you guys don’t need me at all.’
‘Yes, we do,’ O’Neil said.
As Matthews had been talking, the acronyms contained in Jack’s notebooks were finally beginning to make sense to her too. FAT, meaning factory acceptance test. MCCR, meaning mechanical completion check record.
Hindsight was a wonderful thing.
She was keen to move on. ‘You were saying?’
‘This is the important bit,’ Matthews
said. ‘The case Pirotsky highlighted was similar to the one where Jack Fenwick’s brother lost his life, exactly the same in fact. An RFCC was issued so that powering up could proceed without a high-voltage test being carried out – a test that you should know would take three hours max. In ideal conditions, if results are acceptable, there’s no problem. You issue the certificate and away you go. If there is a problem, investigations are required until it is resolved and retested. If everything is hunky-dory, what we call a livening up notice is issued.’
‘And if the problems aren’t resolved as they should be?’ Ryan asked.
‘Power is put on the switchgear and it explodes, killing anyone in the vicinity.’ Matthew’s expression was sympathetic. ‘This is exactly the area where Oliver was working seven years ago. I checked the accident report. It’s a matter of public record. The case Pirotsky cited, not so. There were twenty deaths in that one. It could have been an awful lot worse. Anyway, the Russian couldn’t live with it – and you know the rest.’
The room went quiet.
‘Why would the switchgear explode?’ O’Neil asked.
‘Because non-visible dust had accumulated on the bus bars over many months of being in storage,’ Matthews said. ‘The same can happen if equipment is left in the construction area for an extended length of time.’ He paused, took a sip of water from a bottle, allowing them time to process this before continuing. ‘When eleven thousand volts is applied to bus bars in that condition, the voltage jumps, or flashes over from one phase to the other, causing ultra-high temperatures and ultimately an explosion. Arc flash temperatures can reach in excess of thirty-five thousand degrees Fahrenheit, nineteen and a half thousand Centigrade.’
‘Jesus!’ Ryan bit down on his teeth so hard his jaw set like a vice. ‘So you’re saying both of these industrial accidents were preventable.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘Entirely.’
A dark shadow crossed Matthews’ face. No wonder. The man had spent the last twenty years of his working life dealing with safety issues. Bad housekeeping was inexcusable, tragic for all concerned. Men had died unnecessarily, leaving behind distraught relatives. Hilary and the kids were minor ripples on the edge of a pool of sorrow that resulted from an oil-rig explosion in the Ukraine before Lucy Fenwick was even born.
