by Ian Robinson
Nash’s eyes snapped towards him as Harris produced a handkerchief that had seen better days and blew his nose.
‘Put some decent music on and let’s take five before we leave the car,’ she said, opening the glovebox and riffling through various CDs that Harris stored there.
She opened a box and depressed the centre of the case. She removed the disc by the edges, displaying the fact to Harris, who nodded his approval at the handling and loaded it into the slot. She sat back as she winked at Harris and turned up the volume.
The opening guitar riff to Highway to Hell thundered out of the speakers and they both stared ahead. Their heads began to nod with the beat and as Harris began to play air guitar, Nash belted out the lyrics.
* * *
Moretti turned to the Ops team leader. They were sitting in a non-descript van and observed Harris’s car. A car that now rocked and bounced. Moretti raised his eyebrows as did his counterpart, DS O’Dowd, from the Violent Crime Task Force, who accompanied him.
‘What the fuck’s going on?’ O’Dowd asked, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘Nash and Harris should’ve been in the target venue five minutes ago.’
Moretti sat back in the seat in the rear of the van.
‘My guess is she’s getting ready to rock ’n’ roll with Harris,’ he replied.
O’Dowd snorted. ‘Fucking UCs,’ was all he could muster by way of a reply, as they waited for them to finish and leave.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Nash and Harris approached the door to the rear of the premises. An external camera dipped as the security light activated – a new addition since Harris had last visited. Harris hoped the Ops team had planned for it in their recce.
The door was opened by Vesa and they entered. Kamal was, as ever, pleased to see them and the familiar charade of a search was not insisted on. Phones were placed on the table. Nash turned off her iPhone and left the Nokia as it was.
‘Why you always carry that junk Nokia?’ Kamal asked her.
Nash leaned back on her chair. She placed her hands behind her neck and let out a long breath as she shook her head. The effect was instant. Kamal concentrated on her chest, which was accentuated by her stretch, and wasn’t concerned by the lack of answer.
Kamal shrugged as he got up. He produced the familiar bottle of family-brewed spirit and poured three shots. Either Vesa didn’t drink or wasn’t invited. He’d disappeared as he always did, back to his dark room and closed the door.
Kamal clutched the glasses in a pinch. He brought the entire ensemble back to the table and set them down. They went through the formal toast and all of them knocked back the spirit.
‘Now you drink?’ Kamal questioned.
Harris wiped his mouth and motioned towards his glass with a nod. Kamal topped him up and showed the bottle to Nash. She pushed her glass in his direction, and he grimaced in a way that made her stomach turn.
Harris decided he’d compere the event and opened the performance.
‘Thanks for seeing us at short notice,’ Harris said with a raised glass.
The action was replicated by Nash and Kamal, and they settled into the meeting. The conversation was conducted with the intention of letting Kamal update them on where he was logistically, and whether this arrangement was a one-off, or if he’d set the wheels in motion for another load of phones. Nash let Harris continue as she scanned the basement in the hope of seeing anything that might assist her investigations. She felt relieved that Vesa was on the premises. She wanted the meeting over so she could depart and get some fresh air, while the joint operation swung into effect.
Harris had assured Nash he’d keep the meeting tight. Tie up any loose ends. It was also a final way of cutting Nash from the operation. Nash was moving on, and would Kamal be happy to continue working with Harris if Nash wasn’t as available to meet as she had been. Kamal had no issue. He didn’t question why Nash would be leaving, and Harris took this as a sign of professionalism at their working engagement. They’d all worked well together, even though Kamal’s world was about to cave in with no rope to claw his way out. Nash was acting as the anchor, and prepared to let it go at a moment’s notice.
It was going smoothly until Vesa reappeared. He spat out a sentence in Albanian reinforcing his words with his hands. As he continued his diatribe, he motioned with his head towards Nash and Harris. Kamal’s expression had changed from one of conviviality to confusion, and then rage. Kamal reached under the table and there was the sound of duct tape tearing. The barrel of a pistol faced both Nash and Harris. Harris reacted immediately. He forced the desk into Kamal and continued to push with all his bulk; the gun now aimed high. Nash quickly assessed Harris was in control. Despite Kamal still holding the gun, he was in no position to aim it.
She lunged at Vesa, who reached above the door frame. As he did, his hand came down. A glint of steel flashed before Nash’s eyes as he slashed out at her face using a butterfly knife. Nash parried and ducked, but Vesa was quick. He dodged and rolled out of Nash’s way. As he did, Nash could hear Harris screaming at Kamal, asking him what the fuck was happening as they had nothing worth robbing on them. Kamal spat out the words pig, and then cop.
Harris still had Kamal pinned by the table and Kamal was no match for Harris. Nash corralled Vesa, making sure she had Harris behind her at all times. If Vesa made a move for him she would counter it.
Above them came the familiar sound of the crunch and shatter of wood and metal. Nash and Harris knew that the Ops were at the back door with specialist door opening equipment. For whatever reason, they hadn’t waited for Nash to leave before starting the raid. Vesa moved his feet like a crab, while Nash remained in a loose stance, hands at her centre to protect her vital organs should he lunge at her, while she moved her feet like a boxer. Vesa kept his eyes locked on hers as he moved. All Nash could see was pure evil. A side she’d never witnessed in the brief encounters they’d had when she’d visited the shop.
Vesa rocked on his toes and feinted strikes as he did. Nash made sure her left foot was in contact with Harris’s heel as she moved her right leg. If he shifted, then she knew he’d been overcome, and she’d move with him. Nash spat on the ground and this made Vesa laugh.
‘Look at you! Acting all gangster. All you are is a cop, fucking whore, and now you are going to die, here, with my useless fuck of a father,’ Vesa said.
He continued to move in a half circle as Nash tracked him. She wondered why he hadn’t attacked sooner, and could only guess that he saw her as a worthy adversary.
‘You’ve got it all wrong, you stupid little prick. Staying down here while it’s obvious the filth are coming in is of no help to any of us. You must have another way out we can all use?’ Nash said.
But Vesa seemed intent on some kind of final stand. Why he had brought his father into his venom she didn’t know or care at this point, but she’d noted the reaction. There was rapid talk all in Albanian that originated from Kamal. He was still pinned by the table and had appeared to have given up, but refused to let go of the firearm. Harris remained in his position, harking back to his younger days as a number eight for the Met Police’s first fifteen rugby squad. Even then, at half the size he was now, he could manage the scrum well.
His one goal was to make sure Kamal couldn’t use the gun, and keep everyone on his side safe. Vesa hadn’t finished and continued in English.
‘I told him you were police the moment you came into this shop, with your scent of the West, all perfect hair and tits. He was like the cats he so loved, a pussy whenever you came around, and now look at him? A fool who always thought more of his beloved animals and women than his own son and business. Go ahead, kill him, do us all a favour, because I know who you are, and you won’t convince me otherwise.’
As Vesa finished his speech, Nash heard Kamal yell from behind her and Harris’s heel separated from hers as he pushed forwards on the table. DS Carl Harris didn’t need a legion of Spartans, he just utilised his will to preserve thei
r lives. And that was all he needed.
Kamal’s yell had startled Vesa. His eyes momentarily shifted from Nash to Kamal. Nash took full advantage. She flicked her hip and as she did so, the momentum continued in a roundhouse kick that connected with Vesa’s cheekbone and shattered his jaw. The knife he held interrupted her flow and she felt a sting on her shin. Above her, she heard the familiar and comforting yell of ‘Police stay down, stay down,’ as the operational team crashed through the basement door. Two detectives piled onto Vesa, while others did the same to Nash and Harris as well as Kamal. All of them were thrown to the floor and secured as though they were criminals. It was over. They were safe, and they had their targets secured.
Harris was the first to see the blood at the base of Nash’s trousers and shoes. He’d moved his face towards Nash. His cheek hugged the floor under the sole of a detective’s boot that secured his head. They were lifted up and the first to be taken upstairs. Nash was immediately taken to an ambulance, where she was placed inside with the two detectives who’d supposedly arrested her. Once the doors were closed, they whispered words of apology to her and cut the plasti-cuffs, while the ambulance staff treated her injury. A knife wound to the shin, that was deep enough to require stitches.
Nash said nothing and waited calmly, with the detectives sitting either side of her. They replaced the plasti-cuffs with a set of Quickcuffs that were loosely shut. The ambulance crew weren’t to know she was a police officer.
‘Where are we taking her?’ a detective asked the ambulance driver.
‘University College Hospital, St Thomas’s is too busy,’ came the reply.
Nash slowly closed her eyes, thankful for small mercies.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
The laceration had required fifteen stitches. Nash was sitting in her living room, her legs up on the sofa, a freshly laundered set of pyjamas on, along with the TV news. This wasn’t the downtime she’d wished for. Flowers and a Get Well Soon card had been sent from the team. Moretti had been the one to deliver the arrangement, and had obviously chosen the card, as it was from the value range at Wilkinson. As were the flowers. No expense spared. She loved the gesture though, and it had made her smile. She’d been home a week.
Her eyes fell on the TV as a familiar face appeared. That of DCI Carlson. It was the first time she’d seen him since Vesa and Kamal had been charged. She dug around for the remote and found it down the side of the sofa cushion. She turned up the volume. The only way she was going to establish what had happened with her jobs was from the news. Moretti was up to his eyes as acting DI and she’d left him to concentrate on the investigation. The gift of a knife wound meant she didn’t need an excuse for her absence from the rest of the enquiry.
She listened as the DCI spoke of how his team had tracked and detained a ruthless killer. A killer of three, innocent women. Women whose only crime was that they’d used the same shop to purchase phones with a home-designed, pre-installed tracing software. Software used to track and kill. The killer had targeted those who accessed their blocks and doors via an app, and they all owned a cat. Bryony Moore did not have the app installed, but she had a cat and that was enough. The DCI went on with great glee to explain how raids on both the shop and the home address of the owner revealed the software and code used to design the app, and in a bizarre twist, a trophy room of jars that contained photos and tufts of cat hair. The suspect had disrupted the CCTV system in each block by posing as a British Telecom engineer, and bluffing his way to the mains systems for each block. A set of overalls purchased on eBay, a fake ID badge, and a yellow hard hat was all that was required to provide the subterfuge necessary to delay his discovery by police. Police had been pursuing the line of enquiry, but had taken too long to make the link. When asked who’d been charged, the DCI paused while he accepted an offer of water. An act, Nash thought. He was playing up to the press.
The DCI glanced down at a sheet of paper then said the words – Vesa Ramiz. A troubled man whose rampage appeared to have been triggered by his father’s lack of interest in anything he did. Vesa was a boy who’d lacked any positive reinforcement. A boy who’d craved attention, but was always going to be second in line to his father’s passions – cats and women. Enquiries had now gone as far as Albania and the surrounding districts where they’d lived. Missing persons enquiries that were unresolved had now been re-opened. Nash turned off the TV. She’d seen and heard enough.
She felt tired and her leg throbbed. She reached for a bottle of paracetamol and realised it was empty. She gathered her crutches and hobbled towards the bathroom cabinet where she hoped she’d find another bottle. As she entered the hall, her own mobile phone rang. She’d turned her work ones off, and certainly the spy phone Harris had given her as she didn’t trust that not to be abused. She’d been thankful of it on the day of the arrests, as Harris had instructed the Ops team leader to dial it, listen, and record all the conversation.
This had pre-empted the strike on the day of the raid. They’d seen Vesa come to the rear door and talk to a group of men. Men the Ops team leader feared were about to ambush them, so had taken the decision to strike. Vesa’s early intimation of hatred towards his father had formed the basis for the interview tactics and it had paid off. Vesa was more than willing to take the attention and the credit, as well as to divulge all of his father’s criminal networks and operations, in the hope of getting a reduced prison sentence. Some hope, but the interview team made no promises, and Vesa declared he would enter an early guilty plea to murder, despite his defence team’s reluctance to support his decision. Vesa kept to his word and did just that on his first appearance at court. Vesa knew as well as the investigative team that they had everything they needed to link him to each victim, and more, by the coding used, and the records of which phones he’d installed the software on.
Vesa had accepted in interview that his record-keeping wasn’t the most criminally minded in the world, but he wasn’t thinking like a criminal. He was thinking about what he wanted, and that went beyond logic. While living abroad, he’d undertaken telecom engineer training and had used this freedom of outdoor and indoor work to stalk his victims. His activities grew from stalking to rape, and then murder. He’d practised his crimes when they’d lived in Albania and it was only the move to the UK that had suspended his desire whilst he worked with his father in the shop. A suspension that wasn’t to last.
Nash found her phone and looked at the screen. It was a withheld number. She didn’t usually answer these, but decided to on this occasion.
‘Yes,’ she said, and waited.
‘Pippa, it’s Adam. I’m calling on my work mobile hence the withheld number. I wondered how you were and couldn’t wait for you to call me and let me know,’ he said.
Nash looked in the hall mirror and the small table where she left her keys and phones below it. She moved a strand of lank hair from her forehead and tucked it behind her ear as she leaned on the crutches and tried to balance the phone.
‘Hang on while I put you on speaker,’ she replied, as she did so and set the phone down.
‘Well? Are you surviving without the thrills of detective duty?’ he asked, knowing what the truth would be, but not expecting an honest reply.
‘I feel like shit, if you must know. That arsehole of a DCI is on every TV and radio channel taking all the credit for my team’s work, while I’m here with Lorraine fucking Kelly and Bargain Hunt. How about you?’ she asked.
She adjusted her hair again and contemplated a shower as it shouldn’t affect the stitches. She sat down on a small stool as her leg began to throb.
‘I’m good, thanks. I’ve decided to take a week off… I wondered if you fancied a break too… separate rooms, or not… but you know, I’ll look after you: food, wine, films and my enigmatic charm,’ Adam Sharpe said.
He waited for what he felt was an eternity as he listened to static.
‘Where are you now?’ she asked.
‘I’m sat in the car outside your
place with both heated seats on,’ he said.
Nash’s eyes opened wide as she bit her top lip. She paused for a beat and scanned her flat. She’d seen cleaner squats.
‘Where are you going?’ she asked.
‘Wherever you like. Schools aren’t out so there are plenty of cottages available at short notice,’ he said.
‘I like Scotland. Somewhere remote where we won’t be disturbed by the TV, the radio or a phone… I’ll hobble down in thirty minutes. I’ll be travelling light,’ she said.
‘I’ll make some calls then; and, Pip…’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘I’m looking forward to being with you,’ Sharpe said.
‘I should hope so,’ she replied, a lightness to her voice as she killed the line and turned off her phone.
Nash packed light and managed the holdall without help. She got into Sharpe’s Porsche Cayenne and placed the bag on the rear seat. Once in the car, she drew the belt across her and breathed in deeply. She angled her head towards him. He raised his eyebrows and returned the smile. He activated the satnav with his voice and the screen declared their final destination: a remote getaway in Dumfries and Galloway. No Internet, phone signal or 4G. It had a landline but it was only for incoming calls and emergencies. If they needed anything the nearest shop was a three-mile drive away. Sharpe had taken a gamble and shopped for two before he’d called her. He was taking a break anyway, but whether it was with her or alone he hadn’t known.
‘Ready?’ he asked.
‘Yes; thank you. It’s the best call I’ve taken in a long time,’ she said.
Sharpe smiled back at her and with a light squeeze of her hand, they set off. Nash was happy to see the back of London. No phones, detectives or death. Only the mountains and sea air of Scotland.
