'I called Rosenburg.'
'Why?'
'His wife is my cousin. She runs the disposal company.'
'How many guns have they faked the destruction of?'
'Hundreds. Not all in one go, but a couple in each consignment. '
'What did they do with them?'
'No idea. Sold them, I assume. Don't know who to.'
'Wait here. I have an idea.' Theresa stood, leaving John where he was. He didn't have much choice but to wait for her to return.
CHAPTER 39: HONEY TRAP
The plan was fairly simple. Rosenburg was being watched closely, as was his wife. If he made an early move to the guns they'd simply catch him red-handed and arrest him.
If he didn't then Theresa's plan would come into play. They would use the cousin as a sting by having him offer to help ditch the guns, and then Rosenburg would be arrested in the process.
It didn't take long to set up. John readily agreed to go through with it. They had him bang to rights for perverting the course of justice, and would have added accessory charges to heap on the pressure if needed. It hadn't taken long for him to cave; he was a simple man and not clever enough to even ask for a lawyer. If he had, then the lawyer would almost certainly have put the kibosh on the sting.
He was to be at the ARM Disposal plant at ten that evening. Rosenburg wanted a sentry on the gate as a lookout while he brought the guns back on site from his illicit stash, and once he had he would work the immense shredder the company used to destroy guns. It took a while to fire up, so he would need a large period of time uninterrupted.
The Internal Investigations Unit wanted Rosenburg bang to rights. Anything less and it would probably be swept under the carpet. Rosenburg would simply be fired in light of his service record. Theresa wasn't going to settle for that.
She positioned cameras at the gate to the property. Recording him going in would prevent any argument that the guns were on site, and that the destruction had simply been delayed. Telescopic lenses would catch him as he unloaded them. They would then let him fire up the machine, and wait until he disposed of the first gun. At that point an armed response unit would take him in.
It was a simple plan, and hinged on the guns' not being stored on site already; but Theresa was confident that Rosenburg wouldn't simply leave the guns lying around the property to be found. It wasn't a large building, so it made sense that they would use an external site to hide them. If Theresa had known where it was she might have been tempted to simply stake out the site, but that information wasn't forthcoming.
***
'Surveillance team, in position,' a voice crackled over the radio.
It was ten minutes to ten, and John had been stood at the gates for around ten minutes. Surveillance were in a building a short distance away aiming their lenses through the window. As the lights behind them were out they would be hard to spot even if Rosenburg was looking.
The images they would capture wouldn't be perfect. The distance combined with the low light levels would make for a poor-resolution picture even with high-quality kit. Anything more would be intrusive and obvious though. For the same reason John wasn't wearing a wire, as handy as it would have been.
'Charlie!' John called out as his cousin's wife approached in a pickup. Tarpaulin was stretched taught over the back, secured with nylon cord. Surveillance wouldn't get an image of the guns specifically, but the team waiting to arrest Rosenburg would find the weapons in it later on.
Charles stepped out of the pickup, a bronze key in his left hand. The gates swung open with an almighty creak, and he gestured for John to wait inside while he moved the pickup inside the fence.
Once the pickup was inside, with the rear of the vehicle nearest the door, he stepped out again.
'John. Appreciate the call the other day. I need you to wait with the truck. I'll lock the gates, but if you see so much as a shadow move out there then shout for me.'
'OK. Mind if I wait inside the truck? It's cold out here.' John mock-shivered as he made the request.
Rosenburg shrugged, but tossed him the keys anyway.
He disappeared inside the building with the key to the fence. It didn't matter; the police already had a team inside. They were in the attic, monitoring the building with infrared guns that let them see an outline of a warm body below. Soon, another heat signature appeared as the shredder began to warm up, rows of diamond-tipped teeth whirring at dizzying speed.
It was almost time to make their move. A small camera was aimed at the feeding tube for the shredder, with the feed coming over Bluetooth to their smartphones. Once they saw the first gun go in the shredder there would be an exodus from the attic. It would almost certainly cause a ruckus, but another team would have moved into place outside the building by the time he could react and run.
Rosenburg went back out to the truck, pulled back the tarpaulin and started to unload. With a nod to his lookout, he went back inside with one box. The team watched his heat signature until he reappeared on the camera. When it became evident the box was full of weapons they began to creep towards the attic hatch. It was a pull-down ladder, and as soon as they moved it he would hear them.
Rosenburg had just placed the first few guns in the shredder – only a few at a time to prevent the machine's jamming – when he heard the creak. He knew he wasn't alone, and thanked God he had left a lookout by the truck.
'John! Start the engine!' He paused just long enough to chuck the rest of the box in the shredder. They would take a while for it to churn up into metal dust, but at least it would destroy the evidence.
Seeing the heat signature move, the team sent two men to pursue him out of the building, with the last man dropping behind to stop the shredder and save as much evidence as possible. Rosenburg was quicker than them and jumped into the passenger seat of his getaway vehicle.
'GO!' He screamed. Instead, John hit the driver-side button, locking both doors to the cabin. Charles Rosenburg was going nowhere.
By the time the team inside had caught up with him the team outside was prying Rosenburg off John's limp body. In such cramped confines John took a beating, and was bleeding profusely when the police rescued him.
'Good work, John. Get him to the hospital.'
Teresa turned to the dirty cop in disdain.
'Detective Inspector Rosenburg, you are under arrest. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.' She had just bagged the biggest collar of her career in the Internal Investigations Unit.
'Spare me.' Rosenburg spat at her feet as a uniform cuffed him. She shoved him roughly into the back of a waiting squad car. Today had been a good day in the fight against police corruption. His wife would be picked up momentarily, and both would be going to jail for a long time.
***
Morton was off duty when his phone beeped. He and Sarah were out having a quiet coffee in Kensington.
It was a text from the duty sergeant: 'Come in to the office. Big news'.
He showed it to Sarah.
'Go, I've got to get my hair done anyway.' She flicked her hair as she spoke, and David realised she had an ulterior motive in coming out for coffee. It had seemed excessive to spend money on Kensington parking for the sake of a cappuccino. She must have had it booked for weeks.
'Thanks. See you at dinner?'
'Sure, what do you fancy?
'Steak?' he ventured.
'Again? No. How about Chinese?'
'Yuck. Italian?' It was the old standby.
'Sure thing, Giovanni's at eight.'
He grabbed his coat from the track, drained his coffee cup and left Sarah to finish his lemon slice.
***
'Dave! Wait up!' Alan Sheppard jogged to catch up with Morton as he stepped into the elevator.
'Hey, Al.' Morton's voice was overly chirpy, trying to hide his jealousy that his friend was still actively
investigating crimes while he lingered over data-entry work.
'There's something you need to know. I don't know all the details but Charlie Rosenburg has just been nicked. I hear he's been caught flogging seized weapons.'
'Shit. Does the press know yet?' Morton knew better than anyone that there would be a whirlwind of camera vans on site as soon as the press could muster them.
'It's only a matter of time. The whole building seems to know about it already; thought you'd want a heads-up. Anyway, this is my stop.' Alan stepped off the elevator as Morton rode to the sixth-floor briefing room.
As he walked into the briefing room he found out the exact details from WPC Stevenson.
'His wife had inherited an arms company and ran it legitimately for a number of years under her maiden name. A lawyer for the gang he busted with a few hundred weapons approached him seeking their return, having spotted the marital connection. For the six years since, the police have been funnelling the seized guns back to the criminals they were seized from. The lawyer took a cut for organising the sale, but they still cleared thousands.'
'Don't we witness the shredding?' Morton was aghast. He'd confiscated many of those weapons himself.
'Sort of. An officiator sees them start the batch, but they didn't nick the lot. They just keep back a few from each job. I guess it's how they afforded the nice flat with the view of the Thames. I figured they'd just inherited a few bob!'
'Damn. At least we caught it. Bet the press will have a field day. 'Scuse me, I need a word with the Superintendent.'
The Superintendent's office was upstairs, and he had an army of secretaries and support workers guarding the door to his office. Normally it would take at least a week to make an appointment and get past his guardians. Today Morton knew that they'd all be cowering. The Superintendent hated it when the press caught wind of anything negative, and he was liable to yell at anyone who dared enter his lair.
The coast was clear when Morton made it to the top of the stairs. It was six flights up, and he had to pause a moment to catch his breath. A secretary came scuttling past.
'Here to see him?' she jerked her head upwards towards the Superindent's office. 'I wouldn't bother today, love.'
Morton rolled his shoulders in a laissez-faire shrug. He wasn't scared of a tongue-lashing. He had nothing to lose by going in there.
'Superintendent?' He rapped smartly on the open door three times in quick succession to announce his presence.
'What?!' he growled. He looked rough, like a man possessed. The arrest had happened late the previous evening, and it didn't look like the Superintendent had slept. His jaw sported a day's growth, giving him a somewhat shady appearance. A press conference was due that afternoon, and he needed to go home and freshen up for the cameras.
'Sir, with Inspector Rosenburg gone the murder investigation team is incredibly shorthanded.'
'You'll have to make do without him, Morton, get back to work.'
'Sir, HR put me on desk duty after I was injured last month.' Morton indicated his leg, where a scar would have been visible had he not been wearing dark trousers.
'Get back to work. I need an experienced hand in charge, and you're it. Tell HR to pull a sergeant if they need someone to work the desks.' With that, the conversation was over. Morton practically skipped as he headed to the Director of Human Resources' office to relay the news. Unsurprisingly he wasn't impressed.
'You aren't fit for duty!' he practically screeched when he heard the order.
'Sorry, sir, but duty calls.' Morton suppressed the grin that wanted to remain plastered across his rugged features.
'Fine, but take WPC Stevenson along with you at all times. No excuses. She sticks on you like a limpet, and if you lose a criminal because you aren't fast enough I'll have your badge, and your pension. Do I make myself clear?' The director's tone suggested the threat was deadly serious.
'Yes, sir!' His hand snapped to his face in a sharp salute. He'd have to sell Sarah on his return to active duty, but then the Superintendent had been most insistent. He was back.
***
His first morning back and his office had already been invaded by the time he had grabbed his morning coffee. A well-dressed gentleman was sat in his chair, his feet up on his desk, well-polished Italian loafers marking the wood. He bolted upright as Morton entered, extending a manicured hand to the Inspector.
'Who are you?' Morton demanded, ignoring the outstretched hand.
'Michael Burrows. Financial Services Authority.'
Morton winced. It explained the suit. The man was probably paid twice as much as him, but still thought of him as a colleague.
'What are you doing abusing my chair?'
'Sorry about that, bad habit. I believe one of your cases may be tied up with one of mine.'
'I doubt it. I'm a murder investigator.'
'I know that. I believe you are investigating the death of a Mr Peter K Sugden. He was found floating in the Thames.'
'That case is closed.' Morton knew that much had changed while he was out of action. He still had a huge number of cases to catch up on, once he had his office back.
'Oh. Well, just to satiate your curiosity I'll tell you anyway. Sugden was under investigation for insider trading.'
'Wasn't curious, and could have guessed as much. You are FSA after all. Now, can I have my office back?' Morton had enough live cases without getting bogged down in the closed ones.
'Don't say I didn't try and be courteous.' The man turned up his nose, grabbed a leather briefcase at his feet that Morton hadn't noticed, and left.
CHAPTER 40: TO SEA
Pierre had seen Barry get on the ferry after him. It was an LD Lines service, and should take a little less than five hours to get to Le Havre. Pierre knew that the kill would take mere minutes, and he wanted to make sure that the execution took place towards the end of the voyage to minimise the chances someone would find the body. He needed to be off the ship by the time that happened.
It was a shame that it was such a small ferry. Barry had not paid the premium for a private cabin, so the possibility of simply killing him there was out of the question. Similarly the cabin Pierre had rented was a no-go as it would lead straight back to him. Instead Barry would need to be ditched somewhere that no one could potentially find him.
Pierre was fortunate that Barry had chosen a place so early to spend the voyage. The Dirty Duck bar had a 24-hour licence, and served alcohol to the many travellers from the moment they disembarked from Portsmouth. Barry had made a beeline straight for the bar, and was quietly sipping a solitary pint washed down with a bag of crisps. It was clear to Pierre that he was trying to keep his outlay down. His clothes were peppered with crumples, and he hadn't shaved for at least a week. The other customers were avoiding sitting too close to him, despite competition for stools at the bar which led Pierre to deduce he probably smelled as bad he looked.
As Barry tucked into his crisps, Pierre took a seat in the back of the mock pub. He was dressed conservatively in chinos and a sweater, and knew he was at home among the middle-class crowds on board that day. Peering over a copy of the Financial Times, Pierre surveyed the area. There were cabins nearby, but they were of the shared four-bunk kind. Ditching a body in there would be too risky. He could try and get Barry drunk, and then blame his lack of communication on the alcohol. It would also keep Barry suggestible. The problem was that Barry clearly couldn't afford to get drunk on his own funds, and to buy his drinks would arouse suspicion from the barman.
Pierre would have to resort to his backup plan if he couldn't get him alone. In his pocket was a microscopic vial of taipoxin. Extracted from his personal farm of inland taipan snakes, it was the most easily concealed weapon Pierre owned. It didn't set off alarms, had no odour and was small enough never to be found even during a frisk. It took great personal effort to milk the number of snakes required, and even longer to extract the taipoxin by gel filtering it, and then using a process called electrophoresis to dis
perse the unnecessary particles in the raw venom. At the dose contained within Pierre's pocket the venom would, within minutes, stop the victim's producing acetylcholine, the neurotransmitter needed to move muscles. In short, the victim's muscles would all cease to function, including his heart.
The plan was pretty simple. As it was a five-hour journey it was likely that Barry would go to use the bathroom. When he did, Pierre would inject him with taipoxin using a needle-free delivery system. A stream of high-pressure liquid would deliver the taipoxin in less than a second, so all Pierre would need to do is brush past him to inject him. He would never see it coming.
It took over an hour before Barry's bladder got the better of him, and when it did it was sudden. He bolted round the corner from the bar for the disabled bathroom, which had been left unlocked.
Pierre didn't follow immediately. Instead he looked in his bag, in which he stored numerous items that might come in handy. One of the items he was carrying was a Radar key that would lock the disabled bathroom door. Pierre slid out of his seat, and stretched languorously before heading towards the corridor. It was empty, and Pierre knew that the moment for him to strike had come.
He waited outside the bathroom, nonchalantly pretending to look out of the porthole at the view. When he heard the door behind him he turned, quickly pulling Barry with his right hand, forcing him back into the bathroom before he could move to go back to the bar. With his left he injected Barry with the taipoxin. Immediately Barry's limbs began to go slack. Even with the best medical care in the world he would never survive now. Pierre cast him to the floor. He wouldn't be able to get up any time soon. He tried to rasp a question.
Pierre leant in to hear him, not fearing a surprise attack as he knew Barry's muscles would not respond to his commands.
'Why?' Barry rasped.
Pierre turned his hands upside down in an 'I don't know' gesture. He had to get away quickly. He applied a line of superglue to the inside of the doorframe, closed the door and locked it with his Radar key. He doubted anyone else on board had one of the keys issued to the disabled, but the line of glue was an extra precaution. Any casual user of the bathroom would simply use another bathroom. By the time Barry was discovered the ship would have pulled into Le Havre.
Dead on Demand (A DCI Morton Crime Novel) Page 16
