Going Dark

by Neil Lancaster

  Tom left his coffee and panini behind and left the café, surprised to see a phone box a short distance outside. Finding a working payphone was a rarity, so Tom felt that at least something had gone his way today. He went into the booth, fed a coin into the slot and dialled the number for Neil Wilkinson, knowing that the number of the payphone would be visible at the other end.

  ‘Neil Wilkinson, can I help you?’

  ‘Neil, it’s Tom.’

  ‘Jesus, where are you? Everyone’s been crapping themselves.’ The emotion in Neil’s voice seemed genuine.

  ‘Never mind where I am, who did you tell I was going to Holborn?’

  ‘Just witness protection, Simon Taylor, and the Borough Commander.’

  ‘How did they get to me then?’

  ‘We’ve no idea; we don’t know how you’ve been compromised. Look, just come in, we can keep you safe.’

  ‘I don’t trust you, Neil, I don’t trust anyone.’ And he hung up, his presence now marked for everyone to see.

  Tom crossed the road and re-entered the Town Hall, smiling at the receptionist as he passed her on his way to the lifts. Making his way up to the first floor, he unlocked room 125 and entered a small meeting room, which had a large central table and a spider conference-call phone in the middle. The projector and big screen marked the room’s purpose as the home of many a pointless meeting.

  He went to the window and surveyed the scene in front of him about 100 yards away. He had a perfect view of the café and the phone boxes. Now he just had to wait.

  *

  He didn’t have to wait long.

  He recognised the blue Audi Q5 pulling up outside the café, clearly unconcerned about traffic wardens, as the one Martin Green had tried to force him into.

  He raised the camera and began snapping away as he saw ‘Martin’ leaving the driver’s seat, a hard look on his face. He was joined on the pavement by two other males, both Slav-looking with jutting cheekbones. One had short, cropped, blond hair; the other collar-length and untidy hair. Both looked lean and had a military bearing. Tom continued to snap away as they entered the café three abreast, looking as tough as possible.

  Tom checked the photos he’d taken in full zoom, giving him good headshots of all three men. Other than Martin, the men were not familiar. He noted the registration of the Audi: brand new and, he guessed, rented.

  While the three were out of sight in the café, a large, powerful, motorbike arrived in the front of the café and mounted the pavement close to the Audi. The leather-clad rider dismounted and removed his helmet, revealing a middle-aged man with cropped blond hair and a rough Slavic face. Even at that distance Tom saw the piercing blue eyes. He zoomed the camera in and snapped a full-face shot. He paused, a flicker of recognition itching a corner of his brain as he lowered the camera and watched the man surveying the scene in front of him. At one point it seemed to Tom that the man was staring straight at him, those pale blue eyes impassive and tinged with cruelty.

  His reverie was broken when the three men came out of the café and joined motorbike man on the pavement for a short conversation. Motorbike man seemed to be the boss; the body language of the others was certainly deferential as he barked orders at them. Motorbike man then produced a mobile phone from his pocket and spoke on it for a minute while the others stood by, scanning the area carefully.

  A distant siren seemed to spook the four men. A decision made, Martin and his cohorts got back in the Audi and sped off. Motorcycle man paused for a moment, looking at the phone in his hand before pocketing it, replacing his helmet, and roaring off. Tom photographed the retreating motorbike, capturing the number plate as it disappeared down the Broadway.

  Interestingly, no one took any notice of the payphone Tom had used. That could have been an indication that Neil Wilkinson wasn’t involved, although he’d need more conclusive evidence to be sure.

  Tom smiled to himself. Putting his head above the parapet had been worth it: photos of four of his pursuers and registration numbers for two vehicles.

  14

  Michael Adebayo sat in his office in Ilford with his brother, Emmanuel. The atmosphere had been thick with tension ever since they received the call from Zjelko Branko. A dense fug of cigarette smoke hung in the air as both men chain-smoked in a forlorn attempt to dissipate the stress.

  As soon as he’d heard about the situation with the undercover cop, Zjelko had taken charge, coming over to Adebayo’s office. He was an overpowering character and, frankly, he terrified Michael. He had pale blue, ice-cold eyes that barely concealed the venom from within. Michael had heard all about his past as a suspected Balkan war criminal: a high-class jewel thief with a direct line into the Serbian Mafia, a terrifying thug who had accepted Adebayo’s contract to silence Novak.

  ‘One hundred thousand pounds, Michael,’ Zjelko had said. ‘No one else will be able to do it. We have a tame senior cop who has access to all the databases, banks, phones, the lot. Only we can find the bastard and silence him for good. Good people don’t come cheap and the cop isn’t cheap; neither are we,’ he had said with a sneer. ‘If you’d have kept your cock in your pants, you wouldn’t be in this situation, would you?’

  Adebayo had said nothing, just looked at his brother who met his glance evenly.

  ‘If you find him and silence him and get me the SD card, then £100k is okay; just do it quick.’

  That was yesterday, and they’d just received a call from Branko.

  ‘He’s just surfaced in Ealing. Used his credit card and phone in a café. We’re going after him now.’

  Adebayo couldn’t hide his excitement.

  ‘Once he’s gone and we have the card, then we’re home and dry. Just the bitch to deal with—and she’ll say fuck-all, she’ll be so scared!’ he said animatedly to his taciturn brother.

  An hour later, another call came in from Branko.

  ‘He wasn’t there. No sight of him and the staff didn’t recognise the photo of him. The cop assured us that he’d spent seven pounds on his credit card and his mobile phone went live and received some messages. It hit a cell phone mast close to the cafe so, unless it was someone else using his card and phone, he was there.’ Branko spoke in a matter-of-fact tone that infuriated Michael.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, I thought you had him. This isn’t what I’m paying you for, you fool. He must be caught now!’

  There was a pause that seemed endless to Michael.

  ‘I would advise you not to speak like this to me, Mr Adebayo. I don’t like being insulted. It makes me sad.’

  The tone was full of menace and immediately Adebayo regretted his words.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m just stressed.’

  ‘We are on the trail and we have some other options to bring him out of hiding. Don’t worry, we’ll find him.’

  15

  Tom returned to his hotel room at about 6pm, after a circuitous route back using public transport to make sure he hadn’t been followed. He felt secure in the hotel for the time being, knowing it could have no links back to him.

  Feeling uncomfortable in his cheap suit, he ripped it off and hung it in the wardrobe before taking a long, hot shower, grunting as the jets washed away some of the stress of the last few days. He towelled-off and dressed in his casual clothes to await the arrival of the CIA consultant.

  He switched on the TV and turned to the twenty-four-hour rolling news programme. Nothing of any interest was showing; the usual threats of terror and political malfeasance. It always amazed Tom how quickly deplorable situations became the everyday norm in the UK.

  His burner phone buzzed on the bed. He picked it up and answered with a ‘Hello?’

  ‘Tom? Stan. You free to speak?’

  ‘Crack on, mate. I’m clear.’

  ‘Right, your friend Martin Green doesn’t exist. There’s only two in the Met, neither of which are your man. The warrant number is a dead one from a PC who transferred to North Yorkshire a good while ago. Her name was Jill Buchanan. With
me so far?’

  ‘Yes, mate. Go on.’

  ‘I made some calls and called in a favour or two. The warrant card was issued first thing this morning. My mate knows the main man at the Passes and Permits Issue desk at the Yard. He’s let me know that a guy came in with all the paperwork present and correct and a temporary pass was issued. He can’t remember where the temporary pass was issued or who countersigned the paperwork. This stinks, Tom. Someone with a bit of clout has organised a genuine pass to be issued to a fucking imposter. I could find out more: my mate is the head of security at NSY. You want me to?’

  ‘No. I want to keep this tight until I know more.’ The more people who got involved, the greater the risk of him being exposed, especially if they got New Scotland Yard involved. ‘Any luck with a car?’

  ‘Of course. I thoroughly enjoyed relieving our favourite DCI of that car he likes to monopolise. He wasn’t pleased, but I convinced him it needs servicing. It’s yours for a few days at least; just don’t crash it.’ Tom could almost hear the delight in Stan’s voice. ‘Where do you want it? I can leave it anywhere. It’s a newish VW Passat with covert blues-and-twos. It really irritates me that Glenda monopolises it.’

  Tom knew that Stan lived in Greenford, not that far from his hotel.

  ‘Can you park it in McDonald’s car park at the roundabout off the A40? Leave the keys in the exhaust pipe and I’ll get a cab up to it,’ said Tom.

  ‘Consider it done, dear boy. You take care and call me if there’s anything else I can do. Some bastards have it in for you and I don’t want you coming to any harm.’

  Tom smiled to himself at his friend’s concern.

  ‘Just give me the heads-up on this number on anything you hear, mate. And mention to no one that we’ve spoken. I’ll call you soon.’

  16

  The senior police officer sat in his office with the door shut, worry etched across his features. He reached into his bottom desk drawer, pulled out a half-bottle of Jameson’s whisky, and poured a large measure into his empty coffee cup. He took a sip and felt the comforting burn of the liquor sliding down his throat and into his stomach. The stress of the last day had been unbearable ever since the Brankos called him about Novak’s activities. They wanted help, and lots of it. They wanted evidence stealing and information about Novak. He initially refused, told them to fuck off and no mistake.

  That was a bad idea. They got hold of him as he had left the police station; worse still they had their father with them. He was a nasty bastard who scared the shit out of him. He looked dangerous and what the officer had since found out about him—a Serb paramilitary and war criminal suspected of multiple killings over the years—meant he was right to be scared. A mate on Interpol had looked into him and what he found out was shocking: Branko was a sadistic psychopath.

  It was fine when he used to just keep the Branko brothers informed of any police activity into their brothels, but this was different; this was big league.

  He had got caught up with the Brankos when he found himself invited to one of their party nights. It was just so decadent that he couldn’t help himself, and he recalled the incident with the impossibly-young girl who had sidled up to him after a brief conversation with Mira.

  ‘Hey, baby. Mira tells me I show you good time,’ she whispered sexily, showing even, white teeth in a broad smile. He had pretended not to notice that her pupils were as wide as saucers, evidence of recent use of a stimulant. He recalled the lurch of excitement in his stomach as she spoke. He just couldn’t believe he’d allowed himself to be so weak; in his heart he knew they were trafficked girls and he was behaving like a fool.

  He shuddered at the memory of one of the big minders, Aleks, smiling at him while studying the warrant card that he’d plucked out from his discarded trousers. ‘Well look what we have here: we have a Detective with us, and a senior one, as well.’ He had guffawed drunkenly, showing his crooked teeth.

  ‘We won’t tell a soul, my friend. Just keep us informed of any interest in us and maybe check out an enemy if we need you to,’ had said the big, ugly bastard Aleks.

  It had gone on for a little while; he would periodically check the databases but got no signs of them being investigated, which reassured the brothers. Once or twice they had asked for vehicles to be checked, but nothing too serious and he had started to relax. He had even allowed himself a couple of visits with one of the prettier young girls, Ana, who always made him feel wonderful and who the brothers allowed him to visit for free. More recently he had tried to pull away from the Brankos and hadn’t visited any of their brothels for a few months. He had started to believe that maybe he was free of them, as he hadn’t heard anything for a while.

  And then it happened. Out of the blue the father, Zjelko, had pinned him to the wall outside the police station in a side street.

  ‘You’ll help us find Novak, as you didn’t tell us about the operation into my wife and sons.’

  ‘But it wasn’t a police enquiry, it was immigration looking at the solicitor,’ he had whined, his lips quivering in fear.

  ‘You will help us or your bosses will see this.’ Branko had produced a smartphone and played a section of video back to him. His heart had sunk as he watched.

  The pin-sharp images on the small screen were of him, naked with Ana, clearly snorting cocaine from her tanned belly. The scene was so seedy it almost made him want to weep. Why was he so weak? He knew how the scene would be viewed. A saggy, middle-aged man with a barely-legal prostitute; the drugs would just be the icing on the cake. He could all-too-easily imagine the headline in the red-top press: ‘Senior Cop in Seedy Drug Vice Sting.’ He had shuddered at the prospect, feeling a cold sweat breaking out. His career would be finished and he could even end up in prison, his pension gone.

  ‘You either help us find Novak or these go to your bosses and the newspaper,’ Zjelko had growled, his blue eyes boring into him. ‘I don’t care how you do it; you get him for us. You have the connections, you’re a senior officer. Tap his phone and get into his bank accounts, whatever. Just get us leads on where he is. Adebayo will even pay you if you succeed. But if you don’t, you’ll have me to answer to, little pig.’

  So that was it. He was fully committed and in way over his head. He didn’t feel that bad about Novak: the stupid little refugee had brought it upon himself. His motivations were the preservation of his career, avoiding imprisonment, and even worse: after all, he couldn’t imagine Branko letting him live if he didn’t find Novak.

  He’d made the calls, called in favours and misled a few people into tagging extra phone and account numbers onto intercept applications and account monitoring orders. Fortunately, he had a friend at Ilford who he’d partied with in similar situations to that which had caused his predicament. That friend was able to take care of the SD card.

  His other friend, at the National Crime Agency, was very helpful once he led him to believe that Branko had images of them both at the brothel. They shared similar tastes in women, so he was scared into helping him, and he had access to more intrusive tracing methods.

  He’d passed on the information when he realised Novak was going to Holborn, but then the bastard had escaped and disabled the hit man. The Brankos insisted he kept looking but Novak had gone dark and off the radar completely.

  So he felt huge relief when, earlier that day, he had got the call that Novak’s phone and bank card had been used in Ealing. He’d phoned Branko immediately with the news and was fervently hoping they’d get him.

  His mobile phone rang causing him to jump out of his daydream.

  ‘He wasn’t there: no one seen him, not even the owner. Are you wasting our time?’ Branko growled down the phone.

  ‘All I know is what I’m told. His card was used, his phone was switched on, and it was for you to find him.’

  ‘I’m not interested in your fucking excuses, piggy! Find out where he is or you’ll be fucking sorry. We know where you live, we know everything about you. Find out now or y
our life collapses.’

  ‘I tried my best, I tried everything, I promise.’ But he realised he was talking to a dial tone.

  His face crumpled and he began to weep, his shoulders heaving, tears spilling through fingers that covered his eyes.

  He rubbed his hands through his thinning hair and sat up straight. He looked up at the line of commendation certificates and photographs on his ego wall in front of him. ‘For dedicated and resourceful leadership in a complex murder enquiry.’ The photograph of himself shaking hands with the Commissioner a few years ago on his Senior Command Course. All would be for nothing if he couldn’t locate Novak. He’d need to think of something new.

  17

  Tom lay on the bed in his room, his eyes closed but not sleeping as he contemplated the events of the past few hours.

  The test at the café had shown that they had access to his bank accounts and, in all probability, his mobile phone and cell site data.

  As always, the basics of an investigation came to the front of his mind.

  Motivation: either financial or duress?

  Opportunity: who could it have been?

  How was it done?

  From what Tom had seen of Michael Adebayo, he easily had the necessary finances to bribe a corrupt police officer. He and the Brankos may also have had enough dirt on someone to coerce them into doing their bidding. But who was in a position to access the SD card, tap phones, access bank accounts, and obtain a brand-new warrant card for a hit man?

  It had to be someone senior who not only had serious influence, but also had knowledge of ongoing major crime investigations. So probably a senior detective. Probably more than one person, as the processes for obtaining all that information were handled by very different departments.