Going Dark

by Neil Lancaster

  Tom could hear the Black Hawk’s engines warming up outside.

  ‘No problem. And thanks once again. I have some things to sort in London, but I reckon I can handle it from now on, maybe with a little help from Pet,’ said Tom.

  ‘Yeah, I think you have a few corrupt cops to bring down. Good luck.’

  ‘Let’s go fishing soon,’ said Mike.

  ‘I’d like that; I can teach your arse how to catch a salmon.’ With that, Mike hung up.

  The helicopter engine-note changed as the blades whirled and it took off. Tom watched out of the window until it disappeared over the treeline. He needed a shower, a change of clothes and some breakfast before setting off to London.

  The next phase of the plan was already forming in his mind.

  32

  The Next Morning

  Tom woke early, glad to be in his Kentish Town apartment after the rigours of the past few days. He rubbed at his sternum, which still throbbed thanks to the trauma inflicted by the 9mm bullet.

  The journey down from Scotland had taken over ten hours once he’d fuelled up at the tiny local petrol garage, which had the benefit of no security cameras. He’d paid in cash and didn’t need to refuel again, as the BMW X5 was surprisingly economical for such a big, powerful car. Shona had prepared some food and a flask of tea for the journey, so he didn’t need to stop other than to relieve himself at quiet locations off the motorway.

  He had driven straight to Heathrow airport, arriving just after 6pm. He drove straight to the medium-term parking close to Terminal One, being careful to keep his face away from the many CCTV cameras in the area. The tinted windows would have made any images of limited value, but he wanted to have as little connection to the vehicle as possible, as all its previous occupants were now dead and, most probably, at the bottom of the North Sea.

  He had parked on the second level in the darkest recess he could find, where he quickly switched the number plates, putting the genuine ones back on the vehicle and stowing the false ones in the small rucksack he carried that contained only the remainder of his food, flask and passport.

  Finally, he had used baby wipes to clean all the surfaces he’d touched to remove any DNA or fingerprint traces. Satisfied, he had then set off in search of a cab back to Kentish Town.

  It was unlikely anyone would take any notice of the BMW for a number of weeks and, if Mike had laid the trail of breadcrumbs he’d referred to, it would all add to the picture of the Brankos fleeing the UK.

  The switch of plates also had the advantage that, if Tom had hit any ANPR cameras throughout the journey down, the false plates would take the enquiry no further. He had broken the plates into numerous pieces which he’d disposed of in multiple dustbins on his walk from the Tube station to his apartment.

  He wasn’t worried about Branko; Tom was the hunter now, not Zjelko Branko, so he had felt safe to go home and sleep in his own bed.

  He finally got home at eight o’clock, clutching a takeaway curry which he ate sitting at his breakfast bar, relishing the spicy and delicious meal and washing it down with a bottle of beer. He’d had a long, hot shower to get rid of all the grime and sweat of the preceding hours and climbed into his bed, where he’d slept like a baby.

  Turning all the events over in his mind the next morning, he surmised that he was clean, with nothing to link him to the events in Scotland. The job was not over yet though, as thoughts of Simon Taylor and his cohorts flared in his mind.

  He got out of bed and dressed in a plain white T-shirt and blue jeans. The bruise on his chest was beginning to bloom in varying colours. He went through to the kitchen where he prepared himself coffee and toast while thinking about his next move.

  Picking up his burner phone he dialled Pet. She answered immediately.

  ‘You took your time, Detective. You wait until now to speak to me?’

  ‘Yeah, I know. I didn’t want to use the burner phone outside of London and I was too knackered when I got home.’

  ‘You’re at your apartment?’ she asked incredulously.

  ‘I wanted my own bed. There’s only one Branko left and Adebayo’s out of the country.’

  ‘Branko has left the country as well; I just pinged his phone in France. I think he ran as soon as he realised what had happened. He used one of his cards to buy a Eurostar ticket. I imagine he’s on his way back to Serbia.’

  Tom turned this over in his mind. For the moment, he was happy to have Branko out of his hair; he could wait. His priority was Taylor and the dirty, corrupt bastards he’d been working with.

  ‘So, what’s your next move?’ Pet asked.

  ‘Anything new on Taylor and the others?’ Tom asked, ignoring the question.

  ‘Taylor was speaking to Branko during the night: no new texts or WhatsApp messages. He’s hitting cell masts at the police station as far as I can see. No other contact with anyone. I doubt Branko would tell him he was fleeing.’

  That made sense: he couldn’t see why Branko would tell a serving police officer, no matter how corrupt, what his plans were. The whole criminal network was shattered, but that didn’t mean he could stop: he was just beginning.

  ‘My priority is to get evidence we can use against them. I want them in jail.’

  ‘How do you propose you do that, Detective? Everything you have so far you can’t use because of its slightly irregular source.’

  ‘I’ll tell you later. I have a plan forming, I just need to speak to a few people to get it moving. Stay out of sight and I’ll call you later.’

  ‘You’re not giving much away here,’ she said, sounding slightly hurt.

  ‘Not over the phone, Pet. You’ve done so much for me, I don’t want to expose you any more. Taylor will do anything to get off the hook and the evidence needs to be watertight.’

  ‘I was so worried about you, Tom. Is your mother okay?’

  ‘She seems more together about it than Cameron; she is very tough. She’s going to the hospital with a story of an accident with an axe and some firewood. I also want to say, Pet, from the bottom of my heart: thank you. Without you I think my family would be dead by now.’ Once again, Tom surprised himself with a slight jolt of emotion. Was this normal, he wondered?’

  ‘Tom, I’m just glad you are all safe. I couldn’t have lived with myself if I hadn’t done everything I could. You’re a good man, Tom.’ There was a pause that seemed like an eternity but, in reality, was probably just a few seconds.

  Eventually Tom spoke, all business once again. ‘One last thing: I need a number from my phone. Can you get it for me? Look up a number for “Lucky D” in my contacts.’

  Pet sighed, presumably at Tom’s slightly abrupt tone, but she read the number out to him anyway.

  ‘Thanks, Pet. Speak soon.’ He ended the call.

  He immediately dialled the number he’d written down which was answered with a cheery, ‘Hello, who’s that phoning Lucky D?’ in a light, cockney accent.

  ‘Lucky, my man. It’s Tom Novak.’

  ‘Tommy-boy, how you been? You’ve been out of sight for months! What’s up? You don’t need the services of your best-ever snitch, eh?’

  Lucky D was a career criminal. A car thief par excellence, who Tom had arrested long ago but had managed to turn into a valuable informant. He knew everyone and everything that went on in the Islington area and was happy to pass on anything he didn’t like the look of to Tom when it suited him. Lucky had a big problem with drugs and drug dealers: he couldn’t stand them, probably due to his own mother’s long-term addiction. He wouldn’t grass on anyone other than drug dealers or people connected to murders, but he’d given Tom many good leads in the past that had seen some big dealers locked up and netted many big seizures. That was not the purpose of his call, however.

  ‘I need to get into a new Jaguar F-Pace without anyone knowing I’ve been in it. Is that something you would know about?’

  ‘Blimey, you don’t fuck about, Tommy, not even: “How are you, Lucky?” You always were
a direct twat, weren’t you, Tom?’

  ‘Sorry, Lucky, I’ve had a few bad days. And it’s really urgent, as in life-and-death, so what do you reckon?’

  ‘Just teasing, mate. A new F-Pace? Big old security on them, but where there’s a will there’s a way, me old china. You want to drive away or just get in the motor?’ asked Lucky.

  ‘I just want to get in the car without setting off the alarm.’

  ‘Easiest way is to use a signal jammer. You need to be close by: when your man locks the car, you jam the signal from the key and the car won’t lock. The only problem is if the car makes a noise or your man notices. You also won’t be able to lock the car afterwards,’ Lucky said, warming to the task. He was proud of his expertise in vehicle theft, something which Tom always found amusing.

  ‘That’s not ideal; I need to lock up afterwards.’

  ‘Can you get hold of the key? ’Cos if you can then I could clone it and you could do whatever you want with it then.’

  ‘I don’t want to, it would take too long and would be too risky.’

  ‘In that case, I’d use a roll-jam. It’s a Jag so it will use a rolling radio code for every press of the key fob.’

  ‘I’m assuming that has nothing to do with sandwiches. Come on, man, I’m busy,’ said Tom, a degree of levity in his voice.

  ‘It’s a lovely bit of kit. It’s basically three radio transmitters in a box which you hide on or near the car while your owner is away. When he returns and blips the lock, it won’t work because one of the transmitters has jammed and simultaneously recorded the signal. When he presses it again, thinking there’s a glitch, it will lock or unlock as normal and he won’t think a thing about the unsuccessful blip. What he won’t know is that you have an unused code stored in the roll-jam that you jammed which you can use at any time. It won’t start a Jag, but it will get you inside and you can lock up afterwards,’ Lucky said, unable to keep the glee out of his voice at his own perceived genius.

  ‘That sounds perfect, Lucky. Can you get your hands on one?’

  ‘Depends on the usual, Tommy-Boy: what’s in it for old Lucky D?’

  ‘My eternal gratitude and the knowledge that I owe you one.’

  ‘Chuck in a ton and it’s a deal, as long as I get it back afterwards.’

  He always cut to the chase, but Tom figured £100 was reasonable in the circumstances. Usually Tom could have sourced informant rewards from central police funds, but it took a whole heap of applications and reports and would take time he didn’t have.

  ‘It’s a deal. When can I get it? Bear in mind that the answer I want to hear is “right away”. I’m in a hurry.’

  ‘How about the café on Chapel Market in an hour? You can buy me a tea?’ Lucky said cheerfully.

  ‘One hour. See you then,’ Tom said and hung up.

  He dialled another number on the burner phone, which was answered quickly. ‘My dear boy, I thought you’d never call!’ boomed Stan.

  ‘Can you speak?’

  ‘Fire away. I’m nearly at work, just in the car.’

  ‘Is Taylor in today?’

  ‘He should be. Diary says he’s in all week and he’s on-call as well.’

  ‘Is he still using the Jag?’

  ‘Yes. Especially since you nicked the Passat.’

  It suddenly hit Tom that the VW was still with Pet. He guessed he should sort that, as well as his own car in Shepherds Bush, soon.

  ‘Can you text me when he gets in? I need to have two minutes in the back yard with the car and I need you to keep him occupied and out of sight of the car.’

  ‘No problems. Soon as I see him,’ Stan said.

  ‘Thanks, speak later.’

  *

  The café was a typical North London establishment: nothing flash, no lattes, no flat whites, no pastries; just tea, coffee and fry-ups. The place was about half-full of office staff and hi-vis-clad construction workers, all enjoying the tantalisingly tasty repast that flowed over the counter all day.

  Lucky was already sitting at a booth when Tom arrived, a cup of tea and a half-eaten bacon sandwich in front of him. He nodded as Tom sat in front of him and smiled. He was a scrawny man in his early forties with sharp features and deep blue eyes that shone with intelligence and cunning. He was a good thief but deplored violence and was liked by all, which was what made him such good value as a source of intelligence.

  Tom ordered a tea from the wordless and scowling owner, who wore a stained apron and a purple rinse hair-do.

  ‘So, will this work then, Lucky?’ Tom asked.

  ‘On my baby’s life, yes, Tommy-boy. It’s a cracking bit of kit as long as all you want is to get in the car without damage.’

  ‘Last I checked, you don’t have any kids, Lucky. Who’d want your genetics?’ Tom asked with a grin.

  ‘Ouch! A dagger through my heart, Tom. You are a cruel man. You got something for me?’

  Tom reached into his jacket pocket and pushed an envelope across the table and then took a swig of the strong, almost bitter, tea.

  Lucky crammed the envelope in his pocket without checking and then slid across the table to Tom a mobile phone-sized device that resembled a small walkie-talkie with a short, stubby antenna.

  ‘It’s got a small magnet on one side. Just push the button, stick it on, and the battery is good for a few hours. I’d get straight to it, though, once the car’s been locked, so another key doesn’t override it.’

  ‘So how you been, then?’

  ‘Not so bad. Staying out of trouble, keeping quiet and not stealing shit, Detective.’

  ‘Good to hear. I’ll get this back to you once I’m done with it.’

  ‘Make sure you do, Tommy-boy,’ he said with an impish grin.

  Tom drained his tea and left the café, walking towards Angel Station five minutes away.

  He took the Tube to Tottenham Court Road, which boasted many audio-visual and electrical stores. It wasn’t a new stereo that Tom was looking for, however, as he pushed open the door of a small, grimy store and strode in.

  It was a dirty, uninviting place with a solitary staff member sat behind the counter using a magnifier to inspect a small piece of circuitry. Glass cases lined the walls displaying varying types of cameras, bug finders, bugs, and other types of surveillance material.

  ‘Can I help you, squire?’ the worker said in Middle East-accented English. He was a thick-set man with a full beard and open-necked shirt straining against a bulging stomach that a thick, leather belt was fighting to contain.

  ‘I’m looking for a small GSM listening device. It needs to be voice-activated, have a good battery life, and preferably records as a backup to an internal memory,’ said Tom.

  ‘Best is this one, squire. Takes any SIM, just dial-in. It’s got a 16GB memory card, will do five days in stand-by mode, twenty hours talk-time, and only a hundred-and-eighty quid.’ He handed Tom a small box the size of an average wallet.

  ‘How big is the actual unit?’

  ‘A bit bigger than a fifty-pence-piece, mate. You won’t find a better one.’

  ‘I’ll take it. You have any SIM cards?’ said Tom as he handed over the cash from his wallet.

  ‘I’ll chuck in a SIM, gratis. Nice doing business with you.’ The man grinned, showing gold-capped teeth.

  Tom walked out of the shop, the bug in his pocket. The whole transaction had taken about two minutes. He retrieved his phone and sent a message to Stan.

  ‘Glenda in?’

  The reply was almost instantaneous. ‘Yes. Been to the car twice already.’

  Tom dialled the number for Pet. It was time.

  33

  Tom took the Tube from Tottenham Court Road, changed at Oxford Circus, and headed up the Bakerloo line towards Queens Park Station, which was only about a hundred metres from Kilburn Police Station. Walking out of the Tube, he felt the sun break out from behind the clouds and warm his face. He felt good. For the first time in a while he felt in control and in charge of his own d
estiny. He’d still need a bit of luck if his plan was to pan out, but he was a firm believer in making his own luck, which he hoped he was doing now.

  He sent a text to Stan as he walked. ‘Still there?’

  The response was immediate. ‘In his office, doesn’t want to be disturbed car parked by the back gate in a response bay.’

  Tom typed a reply. ‘Am I clear to swipe in?’

  ‘My mate assures me you’re good to go.’

  Tom had been worried about gaining entry to the nick if his card had been deactivated. The entry card system was pretty basic and carried no other information other than entry and exit controls. He was happy that there would be no marker alerting his superiors if he entered the building.

  Tom typed a reply. ‘Nice one, mate. Tell Glenda his car needs moving; maybe get a mate to tell him.’

  Tom was well aware how many mates Stan could call up to get that done, and he needed Taylor to unlock the car while he was in range.

  Stan replied. ‘Give me 5.’

  Tom turned left into Harvist Road along the side of the red-bricked police station and towards the back yard. Ignoring the main vehicle gate, he walked further up and used his warrant card to swipe in at the staff access gate at the rear. The backyard was full of parked vehicles and he immediately spotted the large, grey Jaguar SUV, slap bang in the middle of the response vehicle bays by the back door. Parking there was heavily frowned upon, and the Borough Commander would occasionally get a bee in his bonnet about it.

  Tom walked to the back of the yard by the tall fence and got into an unlocked, marked police carrier, the type often referred to as a ‘riot van’, and sat low in one of the back seats. Tom thought it was likely that the Territorial Support Group, who used the carriers, were in the nick, probably with a prisoner. He put on a discarded Gore-Tex jacket and jammed a slightly too large police cap on his head. There was an empty space directly in front of the carrier that Tom was confident was the obvious choice of parking space for Taylor.