Going Dark

by Neil Lancaster

  She cleared the table and disappeared for a moment before returning with a freshly-filled condiment box that had new bottles of sauce and more napkins.

  ‘Just let me know when you’d like to order, sir.’ She smiled as she put the box on the table.

  Simon couldn’t stand places like that with their faux rustic themes. It was all so pretentious, but the location was perfect for his purposes that evening.

  Taylor yawned and checked his watch again: 7:10. He sighed in frustration and looked at the diners on the next table: a foursome of two men and two women, all casually dressed, all quite young, and all tucking into average looking burgers with chips served in wire baskets reminiscent of chip fryers. He shook his head ever so slightly at the whole ridiculousness of it all.

  His thoughts were halted at the sight of Jones and Albrechtsen stood looking around on the terrace, scanning for him. Albrechtsen was a huge man, overweight and sporting a bushy, greying beard. He was casually dressed in jeans and a bomber jacket. Jones was much smaller, almost petite, and was smartly dressed in a blue suit sporting small, round spectacles. He looked every inch the accountant, which had worked well for him over the years as he was a skilled investigator and ruthless operator.

  Taylor gave the pair a brief wave and they walked over, serious-faced, and sat directly opposite Taylor. Neither looked happy and both looked concerned.

  ‘So, what’s the deal then, Simon? You’ve got us worried,’ Albrechtsen said in his deep, rich voice.

  ‘Come on, boys, drinks first. I’ll have another pint.’ Taylor smiled, keen to establish control of the meeting. They had been equals at SOCA but Albrechtsen and Jones had not gone further whereas he’d been promoted.

  They scowled and went off together to the bar to get the drinks, whispering conspiratorially as they walked.

  Taylor allowed himself a small, satisfied smile at this minor display of power. It was likely that they would be a bit pissed off when they learnt the extent of the situation, so a display of control early on would prove essential.

  They reappeared after about five minutes, both clutching drinks. Albrechtsen also carried Taylor’s pint, which he set down in front of him.

  All of them took sips of their pints and then Albrechtsen and Jones sat back in their chairs expectantly.

  Taylor took another long pull on his beer, set it down on the table, and fixed each man with a brief stare.

  ‘Okay, we have a possible situation. Novak managed to rescue his parents in Scotland. I don’t know how. The Brankos took them hostage in order to get the SD card but, somehow, he managed to get from London to the Highlands in just a few hours and free them. I can’t get hold of anyone and earlier today Novak showed up in my office threatening me. He knows about you two and says he is bringing us all down,’ Taylor said.

  ‘Whoa, whoa! Back up, Simon! When did taking hostages become part of the plan? I just got the fucking SD card, and that’s it. I know fuck-all about hostages. What have you got me into?’ Albrechtsen was stunned. His beefy face flushed almost scarlet and his eyes were wide with alarm.

  ‘I know, I know. But Novak knows all about that. I’ve no idea how. He’s obviously got serious help, and he managed to get to Scotland in a matter of hours and get his hands on high-end weaponry.’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ said Albrechtsen scrubbing his face with his hands. He sat back, desolate, in his chair, staring up at the parasol they were sitting under.

  ‘Jonesy, do you know what’s happened to the Brankos and Adebayo?’ Taylor asked.

  Jones appeared calmer as he paused, taking a sip of his drink. He knew he was far more implicated than Albrechtsen, having been tracking Novak all along using highly illegal means.

  ‘Border targeting shows that all the Brankos apart from Mira have left the country. Zjelko got on the Eurostar earlier today and Aleks and Luka both got a flight out to Belgrade this afternoon. It’s not confirmed and is intelligence only, but it should be reliable.’ He spoke in a light Welsh accent and seemed completely calm. ‘Adebayo, we think left yesterday, not using his own passport but possibly using an associate’s. The CCTV has been pulled, and he got on a flight to Lagos at 3pm. He’s also moving most of his financial assets. He’s not coming back.’

  Taylor nodded at this information, expected as it was.

  ‘This, at least, is good news. They’re out of the way all apart from Mira and I don’t think she knows anything about us.’

  ‘Any ideas on who’s helping Novak?’ asked Jones.

  ‘Not a clue. They’re obviously well-placed and resourceful but also obviously not entirely lawful. He has a picture of me with one of Branko’s girls that he couldn’t have got legitimately. He’s obviously had access to phone data, which will also be illegal. If he grasses on us, then he gets himself in the shit. I can’t see any admissible evidence he has on us or it would have been IPCC not him that visited me this morning. Now that the Brankos and Adebayo are gone, I reckon we’re nearly home and dry.’ He paused for effect, taking a drink from his pint.

  ‘Well that’s a relief then at least. But where the fuck did you get off sending a kill team up to the Scottish Highlands to take out a family to get that SD card?’

  ‘Branko is an evil bastard. I had no choice; he’d have sold us all down the river. Novak would have got all of us thrown in jail for fucking ten years, minimum. I don’t know about you, Graham, but I don’t fancy that much,’ Taylor said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

  ‘So, what next, then? We just can’t leave Novak storming around with big guns, where will it end? He could decide to bloody kill us, he could get something admissible, he could land us all in jail.’ Jones spoke forcefully and somewhat surprisingly, thought Taylor.

  ‘Hang on, hang on, you’re talking about killing a cop? Please tell me that’s not what you’re saying,’ said Albrechtsen.

  ‘What do you suggest, Graham? I’m all ears.’

  The big man just sat, staring blankly ahead for a moment before saying, ‘I never thought it would come to this. I know we pulled some bad shit capers on SOCA. But Christ, never murder!’

  Taylor spoke, ‘If this comes out, best-case scenario we’re up for misconduct in a public office and conspiracy to pervert the course of justice. Worst-case scenario, it would be conspiracy to kidnap and murder: especially if Novak talks about the attempt to abduct him at Holborn nick. You knew all about Graham: there’s phone records between us on that and it was your contact at the Yard who got us the warrant card for the hit man.’

  Albrechtsen sighed once more at the knowledge that he was more involved than he’d first thought. He had made some calls to a mate at Scotland Yard and smoothed the waters to issue a warrant card with less scrutiny than usual.

  Jones stirred in his seat. ‘I have a contact. He is very efficient, he has had lots of practise, and he owes me a great big favour. He’s ex-Russian military and would probably sort this problem for us for a reasonable fee.’ He spoke evenly and calmly as if discussing a car repair, not the execution of a serving police officer.

  The silence between them now was palpable, each man realising what they were discussing.

  Albrechtsen broke the silence. ‘What will he charge?’ he said with a resigned look on his face.

  ‘He’s a professional, so he won’t be cheap, especially as it’s a serving cop. It will be at least twenty grand, and that’s mates’ rates.’

  ‘So that’s over six grand each. Can we do that?’ Taylor asked both men.

  ‘I don’t have anything like that, otherwise why would I be working as a fucking jailer at a police station?’ Albrechtsen said.

  ‘Look, let’s not talk cash now, Jonesy. Call your man and set up a meet. We can talk about the finances once we know how much he wants. You’re sure he’s capable? Novak has shown us he’s more than competent at staying alive,’ Taylor said.

  Jones nodded and then drained his beer saying, ‘Another?’ as if they’d been discussing football.

 
A new voice came out of the general hubbub on the terrace, and the three realised that they had company.

  A tall, slim, well-dressed, middle-aged woman stood next to their table, a half-smile on her face. She was accompanied by a casually-dressed, short, stocky man with a shaved head, who Taylor recognised as the man who had vacated the table for him.

  ‘Gentlemen, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Detective Superintendent Jane Milligan, and this is my colleague, Detective Constable Peter Rymes. We’re from Directorate Professional Standards.’ As she spoke, the table in front of them with the foursome Taylor had earlier observed all stood and positioned themselves strategically around their table, cutting off all avenues of escape. One of them produced a small camera and began to record the proceedings, while the diners from the other tables turned to watch.

  Milligan spoke again. ‘These are also colleagues who have been enjoying dinner while you spoke. You are all being arrested for conspiracy to murder, conspiracy to abduct, blackmail, and attempting to pervert the course of justice. You do not have to say anything unless you wish to do so, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something you may rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’ She checked her watch and then looked at each of them in turn.

  All three men seemed to shrink within their own clothes as the familiar caution was read out to them, each word a body-blow as the shock hit them like a train.

  ‘Come on, fellas,’ said Buster. ‘Let’s get you lot out of here. We’ve warm cells with your names on them.’ A wide grin split his face.

  Taylor stood and almost fainted as he did so, feeling his world fall apart, especially when he saw Buster lean forwards to pick up the condiments box and wink at him. It was all pre-planned; they’d been set up, and he knew for sure that every single word the three of them had just exchanged had been recorded.

  None of them said anything. The one thing they knew, with all those years of policing experience, was that nothing they could say at that moment would help.

  36

  Two Days Later

  Tom sat back in his chair in the interview room at Jubilee House in Putney, the HQ of the Met Police Directorate of Professional Standards.

  It was a typical police interview room, small and square with screwed down furniture, a camera in the corner and a digital recorder at the back of the room.

  Detective Superintendent Jane Milligan switched off the interview recording and smiled just slightly while her assistant, who had introduced himself as DS Naz Patel, began to secure the master disc in a numbered sticky seal, which Tom signed.

  ‘Thanks for coming in, Tom. We needed to get your account and, as the most significant of witnesses in this sorry affair, we needed to record it,’ she said.

  Tom had stayed out of the way for a little while after the arrests of Taylor, Albrechtsen, and Jones, just to let the dust settle. He’d needed to sleep properly and try to clear his mind after the events of the past week or so, as he felt seriously wrung-out and, frankly, exhausted.

  Milligan and her team had been keen to interview him straight away, making it very plain that they were only looking at him as a witness who was the victim of serious police corruption. Tom had in turn made it perfectly clear that he wanted to wait a couple of days to get his head straight and, in reality, to decide what he would tell DPS and what he wouldn’t.

  He obviously could say absolutely nothing about the CIA assistance; they would rightfully deny anything, and he could hardly confess to the five killings in Scotland and the numerous counts of illegal surveillance and computer hacking he’d been a party to.

  He kept as close to the truth as he could, starting with his undercover deployment, his cover being blown and the failed kidnap attempt on him. He then moved on to his decision to go dark as he didn’t know who had been selling him out. He did tell them about his efforts to draw his chasers to Ealing, and furnished the DPS with the photos he had taken of his chasers which he hoped would help link everything together for them.

  The main difficulty was in explaining how he had worked out that Taylor was the corrupt officer, as he couldn’t allude to his relationship with Mike or Pet. He concocted a reasonably believable story that one of the working girls he’d engaged with while undercover had shown him a photo of Taylor with her, describing the image to them in detail. When asked about why he had been speaking to the girl, he claimed that he’d bumped into her in Hackney after he’d gone dark and thought she may have had some information, given she’d worked for the Brankos. She’d as a result told him that one of her clients had been a cop, and she’d shown him the photo, leading to the link being established.

  He explained that he’d approached Buster as he felt he was the only person he could truly trust.

  Tom found it quite strange that his account was accepted almost without challenge, despite the numerous holes that littered it. Superintendent Milligan was clearly nobody’s fool and, from the look she gave him with her piercing blue eyes, she clearly did not believe he was furnishing them with the whole truth.

  Once the discs were sealed Tom asked, ‘So, where are we?’

  Milligan regarded him with those intelligent and knowing eyes that seemed to bore into his very core.

  ‘Are you telling me that Buster hasn’t kept you in the loop?’ she asked, daring him with a half-smile to deny it.

  ‘He told me a bit. He said that Albrechtsen has rolled-over and squealed, and that the evidence was looking good, but that’s about it; he said he didn’t know details.’

  ‘That’s about right. Albrechtsen has come on-board as an “assisting offender” and he is singing like a canary about everything but putting all the blame on Taylor, claiming he knew nothing about the plans to murder you or your family. He’s even talked about their time together on SOCA a few years ago and about de-railing a major enquiry. We have damning phone evidence, photos on Taylor’s computer, and we have Taylor messaging your family address to Branko. We also have large amounts of unexplained assets for Taylor and Jones that seem to have no legal basis or source. I can safely say that I’ve rarely had so much evidence against such serious offenders,’ she said.

  ‘Well, that sounds promising.’

  ‘They’ve all been charged with conspiracy to murder, conspiracy to kidnap, blackmail, and misconduct in a public office. We’ve already had tentative offers of plea bargains from all parties, such is the strength of the evidence. It’s just a shame that all the Serbians have mysteriously disappeared: the computers all seem to suggest they are back in Serbia.’ She stared her icy stare straight at Tom once again.

  Tom’s face remained blank and expressionless.

  ‘Is there anything you’d like to add, Detective Sergeant?’ She raised a well-teased eyebrow and Tom thought he could detect a touch of gentle sarcastic humour.

  Tom was about to answer when she held up a hand to silence him. ‘Before you answer, I should say that the CPS will be looking for a simple resolution to this case. They are probably going to offer to plead guilty to misconduct in a public office and conspiracy to pervert the course of justice. We may also get conspiracy to kidnap for Jones and Taylor, but I don’t think we will push too hard. I think everyone is keen to avoid a trial, particularly with the undercover aspect to this case. I’m sure you would rather not appear as a witness at court?’

  ‘I can think of other things I would rather do,’ Tom said, averting his gaze, which he imagined told volumes.

  ‘Well, all good then. As long as you’re happy I know everything I need to know?’

  ‘I think I’ve said everything appropriate, ma’am.’

  ‘Ugh, don’t call me that! I hate being called “ma’am”,’ she said with disgust. ‘It makes me feel old and like a lower grade crusty royal, call me “boss”, please.’

  ‘Sure thing, boss.’

  ‘Right, Tom, we’ll be in touch. Now, I believe that you’re expected back at Kilburn. I think the Borough Commander is
expecting you, as well as Stan,’ she said with a straight face.

  ‘Stan? How do you know Stan?’

  ‘Doesn’t everyone know Stan, Sergeant Novak?’ Her smile this time was warm and genuine.

  37

  A Week Later

  Zjelko Branko left the small bar at about 11pm, walking out onto a grimy back street in Belgrade to begin the slow journey back to his dingy hotel room in the most insalubrious area of the once great city. He had drunk far too much beer and vodka, as had been the pattern since arriving in the city over a week ago, and he staggered slightly as he negotiated the rough footway, cursing his failure to secure a woman to while away the evening with.

  For the first time ever, he felt a little lost in his home city, being, as he was, very short of available funds. The city felt claustrophobic and down-at-heel to him and he’d resolved that, as soon as his situation improved, he would move on to somewhere new.

  He had managed to hook-up with an old associate from his White Eagle days, who owned the hotel and had offered him the use of it for a few weeks until he could sort out some funds. Once they were secured, he should be good to go for a considerable time; maybe he could buy a nice Alpine retreat in the old country.

  He’d watched his incompetent boys get killed by that bastard Novak, but he couldn’t see how the man had got to Scotland so quickly: he was like the proverbial bad penny, that man. Zjelko swore revenge once his situation improved, although that was more for his shame at having failed than any particular love or affection for his stupid offspring. He realised he wasn’t even particularly upset at their presumed demise; they should have been better at their jobs, and his main emotion was one of shame at their incompetence given it had been such a simple job.

  His wife—the stupid, dowdy Mira—was still in London and she could stay there as far as he was concerned.

  His main concern was the lack of funds which was restricting his status and opportunities to build him back to where he had been before his incarceration. The trafficking game was not worth the bother and dealing with whores was far too much of a headache. He needed to get away from anywhere within the EU because of the bastard European arrest warrants that, no doubt, the UK would be seeking for him while they still could.