by Peter Damon
Stan nodded to himself. Three less, but still the remaining list was over a page long. Stan had suggested stopping Chinese people in the street to verify their credentials, but Sir Arthur had vetoed the idea. “You can’t invoke Stop and Search legislation on 5% of the population on the Cambridge streets, for God’s sake man! 90% of them will be bona-fide students, and I’d never hear the end of it!” he had cried.
At least the Russians seemed to have quietened since he’d detained the three who had been in the car that had picked up Michael Bennett. Of course, they were all members of the Russian Embassy and immune from prosecution, but it had still been a victory. A small victory, Stan reflected, that had cost time, and kept him from his other information gathering sources. He’d not read the emails from his operatives for two days now. Such small items were hugely important, and he’d just have to find the time to go through them all, just as he would also have to find the time to review Michael’s activities. Even with a British Service tail, the man was dangerous, of that, Stan was certain.
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Frankie waited until Paddy had a chance to shake hands and welcome his cousins from Chelmsford before he stepped forward to introduce himself and the rest of the team.
There were four, the car in which they had arrived visibly rising six inches on its shock absorbers as they climbed out. They were all large men, clearly weightlifters, their friendly manner and welcoming grins relaxing the tense mood that had been rising inside the warehouse ever since Rolle’s death had been reported. It hadn’t improved when, two days later, they heard of Mrs Rolle’s death.
He admitted to hardly knowing the woman, and yet her death had hit him harder than the professor’s. Perhaps it was because Claire Rolle hadn’t done anything to deserve such a death. Whatever the reason, he was going to take steps to help protect his new friends.
He told the four what he knew, and what he suspected and they nodded and shook his hand. They would do what they could, they told him.
June 5th
Michael took the bus to the Cambridge Business Park. The short ride by public transport gave him a few minutes to concentrate on the threads of his life and the project. The two men following him had dropped to one, but being followed, whether by one man or two, no longer worried him the way it would have just days ago. Now, if they were following him, then they weren’t following anyone else, which was a good thing in his mind.
Like Heather Wilson, he had heard stories of the gypsies having moved onto the business park. The other journalists on the Chronicle were full of it, from stories they’d heard in the shops, to stories the cabbies had passed on. Unfortunately, there was a deep rooted hostility between gypsies and journalists, with the result that few, if any, journalists were willing to meet with gypsies, certainly not alone, and certainly not on the gypsies’ own turf.
Michael walked onto the business park and looked around at the various companies. He popped into those that displayed a reception sign and, showing them his Press card, spoke to a few of them regarding their new neighbours. Had they had any problems? Were the gypsies’ noisy or dirty?
When he got to the warehouse, he knocked loudly on the metal roller door, well aware of the police surveillance car that sat across the road in one of the adjoining unit car parks. The man’s camera lens glared for a moment as he brought it up to use the camera, capturing Michael as the rollers went up and Frank Hill stepped out.
“Hello,” Michael told the weasel like man, shaking his hand while needlessly telling him that he worked for the local paper, even showing him his Press card. “Can we go inside and talk?” he asked for the benefit of anyone who might be listening.
The roller door went down behind him, and Michael turned his little black box on, causing Leanne to complain from within one of the coaches.
“Won’t be long,” he told the student before turning back to Frankie. “How’s it going?” he asked.
Frankie shrugged. “Alright,” he admitted. “Matt and Jake left yesterday in the van,” he said as Leanne came over, wiping her hands.
“Yeah. We’ve given them a control yoke from the Playstation 6, so they should be able to tell Up from Down,” Leanne chuckled.
Michael nodded and turned to the thin, weasel like man. “Can we lift early if we needed to?” he asked.
“Early? Shit Michael. Now you tell me!” Frankie grumbled.
“It’s not like I planned this, Frankie. You know you got the police watching this place, don’t you?”
“Sure, but there’s not a lot I can do about it, except act like a legitimate company doing repair work on vehicles. Anyway; you should talk, walking around with an ex SAS man on your heels.”
“That’s because I’ve got Russian service men stalking me and big Chinese men trying to beat my brains out!” Michael pointed out.
“Hey, give me the word and I’ll have a couple of my lads sort them out, truly,” Frankie told him.
“Yes, that would certainly help your image in the community,” he pointed out sourly. “What’s the earliest you could have the vehicles ready?” he asked.
Frankie looked towards them and fingered the small gold rings in his ear while he considered. “Four days,” he decided.
“That will have to do,” Michael agreed.
“How many of your family are coming with you?” he asked.
“About fifty, I think,” Frankie stated. “There’s still a few to make up their minds,” he admitted.
“You know they all have to be able to read?” Michael asked.
Frankie nodded. “And I’ve told them no kids, and no animals either,” he added with a sour laugh.
Michael nodded and reached out to shake their hands. “See you soon,” he promised, and turned off the little black box.
+++++++++++++++++
Leanne left that evening carrying just a backpack. She took the bus to Heathrow leaving good time for her flight to Taiwan where she had an all-expenses two week holiday booked. She hoped she’d be able to catch the next flight out of Taiwan for Japan and arrive unnoticed with plenty of time to assist with the electronics on board ship. She wouldn’t feel comfortable until she’d checked every circuit. She was going to be extremely busy over the next few days.
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Detective Inspector Heather Wilson looked at the board on which their evidence was pinned. The photos taken discretely at the warehouse being rented by Frank Hill were there, including pictures of the visitors, one very clearly showing Michael Bennett shaking hands with the proprietor.
Heather’s team had done their due diligence on Frank Hill, known as Frankie and, lo and behold! his name was in the police database. He had a record as long as his arm and only 12 years shorter than his given age. From what she read, he involved himself in any petty crime from which he could make a living. Unfortunately, the list of suspected offences was almost twice as long as the proven list.
Heather phoned a detective in the Chelmsford police-station and discussed Mr Hill with him, learning that he was part of a large gypsy family well known to the authorities. She idly wondered if pressure from the police in Essex had pushed Frank north, especially since he seemed to have quite a few of his extended family with him, all working at the warehouse. If she had thought this was the bulk of his family then her friend in Chelmsford dispelled the idea; a further fifteen members of the family had gone for as visit to Japan as part of a rugby squad. They were due back in late June.
Heather’s team returned with the documents Mr Hill had completed for the lease of the warehouse, and to register at the Cambridge City Council offices for business rates.
All the forms Frankie had completed showed he had set up a legitimate business repairing vehicles, and certainly, the vehicles in the photographs showed number plates that matched the same type of vehicles that he had recently bought in auction at Dagenham. Only a look at the chassis numbers would confirm their true origins, and Heather didn’t have enough cause to obtain a warrant
to check those details, yet. Further photographs from the surveillance team showed vans coming and going, predominately from within the motor trade as spare parts were delivered. For all intents and purposes, the warehouse was operating as a legitimate business.
There was one photograph that was interesting, however. A few stills from the CCTV outside Rolle’s house on the night of his murder showed Frankie Hill, in an overcoat far too bulky for the warm June evening, walking surreptitiously towards the Rolle’s front door, his eyes casting glances from one side to another as he waited uncomfortably at the door before being allowed in.
Heather chewed on her thumb as she wondered what the connection could be. She went to her desk and pulled the keyboard towards her to begin completing the form to request the surveillance of the business property be extended to a 24-hour surveillance operation. “Let’s see what else we can find out,” she murmured to herself as she pressed the enter key.
Her sergeant, seeing Michael Bennett had visited the warehouse, ran his name through the database. No one is above suspicion, he kept reminding himself, a manta for all police officers.
June 6th
Stan Charway’s day veered from boredom to excitement and back to boredom once more. It was going to be one of those days, he reasoned.
The day had started interestingly enough. He had entered his small and plain office to put the kettle on, always his first job of the day, and then wiggle his mouse to bring the screen awake so he could offer up his password.
He opened his email and, as usual, there were at least three offers for Viagra to discard first. He idly wondered how they chose their recipients, or perhaps they knew of something he didn’t. The next entry wiped away such idle thoughts, as it was an automatic flag-raiser; an automated alert that a query had been made against Michael Bennett from outside his own offices.
The tea forgotten, Stan quickly traced the request to Cambridge’s own police force, and sat back to wonder what would have caused such an enquiry. Rolle’s death, perhaps? He shook his head; they were family, which left the question unanswered, for the moment at least.
Wondering if perhaps Bennett had physically wandered into suspicious locations, Stan finally got around to making his tea, before sitting at the terminal to begin browsing Bennett’s travels.
After a couple of hours of watching Bennett going about his business, Stan’s attention was starting to wander. Trouble was, he was certain the journalist had something to do with whoever or whatever it was that was launching objects into space. Where better than a university than to keep something like new technology under wraps, he reasoned.
The knock on the door was practically a relief, and he called out while still watching the screen, half aware of one of his men entering.
“What is it Ken?” he asked, watching Michael cross the street, and then lean against one of the folding seats at the bus stop, his tablet appearing so he could begin reading from it.
“Sir, we appear to have an intermittent fault on one of the bugs you planted,” Ken told him.
“Really?” Stan asked, his interest awakening, his eyes moving from the screen. Since a new design had been implemented about five years before, the little listening devices were practically faultless. If and when one failed, it totally failed. Intermittent faults were unheard of.
“Which one?” he asked.
“The one in the Vice Chancellor office,” Ken told him, and offered a printed journal for the device in the office.
“Well I never,” Stan murmured, noticing practically immediately that the device failure occurred when Michael Bennett was in the vicinity.
“Go check the others and find out if there have been any other failures recently,” he told him. “In particular, I want to know the date and time of each occurrence,” he said, his excitement starting to build.
Stan finished reviewing Michael’s movements during the preceding day, his early excitement dulled by the man’s tedious travels across Cambridge, and moved on to reviewing the daily entries from his network of correspondents.
All spoke of the crowd of gypsies who had moved into Cambridge. Stan’s excitement rose once again as he recalled Michael visiting them earlier in the week, and yet there was no reason to suppose his visit had been anything other than a call from an interested journalist. He reviewed the CCTV and the written report from Michael’s bodyguard, wanting to find something and disappointed when he didn’t.
Stan’s momentary excitement left him and he continued with his reviews. Ultimately, he’d find what he needed. He just needed to continue his searches.
June 7th
There had been no increase in burglaries or vandalism as far as Michael could see, and yet there was a verbal anti-gypsy campaign travelling through Cambridge at the speed of word-of-mouth. He only had to show his Press card, and the immediate question was, ‘Is this about the gypsies?’
Knowing the concerns were groundless didn’t mean he couldn’t go back out to the business park for another chat, however, and so he walked down to Hertford Street to catch the bus. He took the opportunity to buy the Times and let the crossword take his mind from other matters for a short while, well aware that he was being watched.
The bus was busy, which suited Michael. He sat near the exit and watched as the crowd of passengers forced his bodyguard further down the inside of the bus. He then continued with his crossword until, half-way to his destination, he suddenly stood and exited the bus, just before the doors closed, capturing his bodyguard inside.
Chuckling at the success of his manoeuvre, Michael threw the newspaper away and continued his journey on foot, arriving at the warehouse some minutes later to see the camera being raised again inside the car across the way. He smiled, containing his desire to wave towards the camera, and pressed the door bell instead.
“You don’t need them all now, do you?” were Frankie’s first words as Michael shook hands with him.
“No, Frankie,” he chuckled, and went into the warehouse to turn on his little black box before discussing details. A lot was going to happen over the next few days, and Michael would not necessarily have the opportunity to check on Frankie. He’d need to know enough details to be able to act on his own if the need arose. So Michael went through the schedule with the gypsy, making sure Frankie knew what vehicles were to go where, and when.
Their conversation complete, Michael turned off the box and Frankie led him out onto the floor of the warehouse and to the tall and black Range Rover sat against the far wall.
“What’s this?” Michael asked, eyeing the dark vehicle appreciatively. It was less than a year old and the top-of-the-range model. Its windows had been tinted to match the glossy black bodywork and the whole vehicle stood a good seven feet tall, easily capable of negotiating any type of off-road terrain.
“It’s fully legit,” Frankie told him, grinning from ear to ear as he held out the keys to the journalist.
“Fully?” Michael questioned. The recent Green Transport Bill effectively stopped any private citizen from using a private vehicle for private purposes. But looking at the corner of the windscreen, Michael could see the electronic tag and bar code that indicated that this vehicle was a legitimate workhorse, authorised and approved by the local council as a company vehicle.
“A courtesy car to be lent out to clients while we work on their own company vehicle,” Frankie chuckled.
“Jesus. Shame we’ll have to give it up so soon,” Michael murmured, once again casting an appreciative eye across its steep sides and huge cabin. Opening the door, he admired the contrasting black and cream leather upholstery.
“You won’t,” Frankie pointed out with a sly grin. “This is your ride to the Annex. It’s been fully converted. There’s a red button on the dash that converts one set of controls to the next. Then it’s a piece of piss,” Frankie chuckled.
“As Jake and Matt would say; awesome, Frankie, totally awesome!” Michael grinned.
Michael drove out and turned right, wav
ing with a smile at the Secret Service bodyguard who had just managed to catch up with him, and was now being left at the side of the road, bewildered, and probably just a little bit angry.
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“Ma’am,” Detective Constable Loughton called from outside Heather’s office. Heather looked up to see her DC holding an USB memory chip and grinning from ear to ear. “We’ve got a partial transcript of Michael Bennett and Frankie Hill talking.”
She waved her hand for the chip and inserted it into her PC. “Only partial?” she asked.
DC Loughton nodded. “The first bit is inaudible. We think they may have gone into the caravan he has parked inside the warehouse, and the techies reckon there may be something about its build that interferes with out listening devices,” he explained.
Heather nodded and double clicked on the icon that appeared on her screen.
“What’s this?” Michael was heard to say said.
“It’s fully legit,” Frankie answered.
“Fully?” Michael questioned.
“A courtesy car to be lent out to clients while we work on their own company vehicle,” and Frankie could be heard chuckling.
“Jesus. Shame we’ll have to give it up so soon,” Michael murmured.
“You won’t. This is your ride to the Annex. It’s been fully converted. There’s a red button on the dash that converts one set of controls to the next. Then it’s a piece of piss.” Another chuckle from Frankie.
“As Jake and Matt would say; awesome, Frankie, totally awesome!”
Heather took the chip from her PC and put it into an evidence bag while she considered what she had just heard.
“Ma’am?” DC Laughton asked.
“This could indicate a possible offence under the 2014 Green Transport Act,” she agreed. “Use of a vehicle for purposes other than those specified in paragraph 2 of the Act.”
“Ministry of Transport may be interested in any conversion they’ve done, Ma’am,” DC Laughton pointed out.
