The Black Rose Conspiracy

by James McKenna

  "How do you know Sean Fagan?" Denise asked, as if she had read Victoria's unwitting message.

  "We carried out two undercover operations together."

  "You share a bed with him?"

  "Yes, it was necessary." Victoria gave a quick defensive smile.

  "I mean afterwards, for the fun of it, for the love of it?"

  "Both." Victoria took hold of her wine glass, rubbing thumb and index finger gently up and down the stem.

  "And now?"

  "It's over."

  "But you're sad about it."

  "What's over is over. Relationships need commitment."

  "Don't I know it. I loved a girl once, I still do. You still love him?"

  "Have you got all that we need for our trip to Paxos?" Victoria asked.

  "Hint taken. Alice does the ordnance, we just need sun cream, bikinis and our smiles."

  Victoria self-consciously rubbed the stem of her glass again. "When we're there, Denise, we have to play the couple. I'm not sure I can get it right."

  Denise leaned forward, took her hand and kissed it. "Don't worry, girl, I have every confidence it will come naturally. So what's on the agenda tomorrow?" She sat back as if to help Victoria's unease.

  "I want you to dig up everything you can on the infrastructure of the DJP. Tomorrow evening they have an open meeting in Stoke Newington town hall. It's an opportunity to make contact and put yourself about for introductions that might help in Paxos."

  "They chose their venue well," Denise said. "Did you know Stoke Newington is Lesbo town?"

  Victoria shook her head. "I had no idea."

  "Just take a walk round the pubs." Denise sipped at her wine then said, "Could be after the meeting I might get an opportunity for serious infiltration. In which case I'll spend the night on it, if you get my meaning. So don't expect me back 'til tomorrow."

  "Fine. Sean Fagan is off to Yorkshire tomorrow and then staying in Ipswich overnight. We'll debrief when he's back. So," she said and raised her glass. "Here's to Lesbos."

  "Try it, it's a brave new world."

  Sean arrived in Belsize Park with a takeaway and a six pack of beer. No sign of Victoria or Denise. He edged open the door to their bedroom. Two single beds occupied most of the space. Bottles, jars and perfumes stood with righteous occupation either side of the dressing table. No alluring scent, no open feminine touch as yet.

  In the living room Sean opened a can of beer and sat on the couch trying to remember how many soulless safe houses he'd lain in while undercover. How many walls had enclosed him which had no feel of human spirit or laughter? Places as empty as he felt his own life had become. He took out his mobile and began to dial.

  Sophie answered on the second ring. "Ahh, Dadda." Her voice held a touch of disappointment. "I thought it was John."

  "John, who's John?" he asked, trying to gain from her voice.

  "New boyfriend."

  "Sorry, didn't know you had one."

  "Dad, every sixteen-year-old has a boyfriend. They turn up when a girl gets into lipstick and seriously short skirts."

  Sean smiled and felt the touch of her warmth. "So this John, he's an OK guy?"

  "Flavour of the month. He's very good at maths and I need his help at the moment. Though I've got my eye on Matthew, he's brilliant at physics."

  "You keep them on their toes, sweetheart. Listen, I'm going abroad for a week, maybe not calling." He heard the huff of her breath before she spoke.

  "Well, you'd better call next week. You didn't forget, did you?"

  Sean screwed up his eyes. Shit. "Of course not. You're in the school final of the dance competition."

  "Lucky for you, Dadda. If you had forgotten then you would have been in big trouble. Even Becks is coming to watch. I'm doing the tango with Ricky. He's scrumptious. All the girls want him but he says he's gay. 'Cept I know he's not. We'll win, of course."

  "You just tango lightly, sweetheart.”

  “Don’t worry, Dadda, in school I’m known as the untouchable.”

  “Good. So, regards to your mother and love to Becky. I'll call you both next week." Sean switched off his mobile. So much for closed loop security. Victoria was dramatizing anyway. There was no one out there who knew of Operation Black Rose, no one who knew the team members and no one who had any reason to listen in to his personal calls.

  "Women," he muttered and took a swig of beer. "Give them small power and they play the Queen of Sheba."

  He turned on the TV, switched to the news and started to eat his curry. The headlines were the possible spread of nuclear weapons and the threat to world peace. US conservatives were beating their drums. Republican and Democrat senators gave opposing views, the Republicans proclaiming America must lead against any form of terrorism. Sean listened to them with half attention as he savoured his king prawn madras, then looked up when the Democrat speaker congratulated the DJP on the election of Judith Holmes. Here was a party, she said, which stood for justice, nation and freedom, a party which would maintain the coalition as America's ally in war.

  Sean sucked a prawn off his fork, wondering if this was Cobbart and Alice Sibree's real concern behind the gathering of DJP momentum. Not only Mafia influence but the covert incursion of American foreign policy into British politics. Sean took another swig of beer realising such speculation could not really be true ... could it? It certainly made for dark thinking. Just where would the grannies of middle England lead democratic freedom?

  The news items changed, read out in what the television stations believed to be preferred importance. A footballer's wife admitted she had breast implants to become a topless model in vengeance for her husband's affair with another woman. Crime figures were up for the third month running. Four hundred had died in a Bangladeshi flood and two million faced starvation in a new African civil war.

  Judith Holmes came on and Sean paid her close attention. She appeared hollow eyed from lack of sleep but nevertheless an attractive woman in her early fifties. Her manner and dress were conservative, middle English and positive in attitude. She gave no hint of one who had been seduced by dark criminal forces. Here stood a member of the Women's Institute, the golf and bridge club. A woman happy with her grandchildren.

  "See you in Paxos," Sean said. He switched off the TV, opened another beer and began to read Cobbart's file on Operation Black Rose. Most of it came from the Crime Report Information System. But he knew regional CID officers would play close to their chests. Because of the pressure of political correctness, what was reported did not always relate to what individual officers knew or felt. The gut feelings of a copper on the ground were frequently rejected as invalid due to lack of admissible evidence. But often such gut feelings, if investigated, led to prime indicators of the truth, truth which might contradict evidence and never be heard in court. Cobbart's analysis of the current situation and its political development would have been laughed out of the Chief Constable's office. Which, Sean guessed, was the real reason for Operation Black Rose being secret and off record, both in NCA and MI5. The Wicked Witch would never risk her political position without evidence to back her. Both the Norton suicide and the Portland hit and run were within a sixty-mile radius of the Yorkshire borders. The Judith Holmes case was Ipswich. An informal chat over a beer with the CID officers involved could prove informative.

  What he needed was a linking factor. If these women had murdered, he doubted they would have killed their own. There had to be someone more adept and capable, someone who would ring a common cause. Women usually murdered their husbands for jealousy, vengeance or money. Politics was a darker side. That brought in assassins, usually professional ones. That could be the link, but who provided the assassin? That became even darker.

  At 1 am Sean closed his file and headed for the single bed in the box room. For minutes he lay on his back staring into darkness. He judged Denise to be butch and wondered how Victoria would handle that. He felt guilty over their separation. It had not resulted from a discussion, just
angry words at the wrong time, followed by a mutual agreement to separate. Yet underneath he knew he still loved her and wondered if she still loved him. He wished she would go to bed with him to find out. He wished to hell his personal life had some direction.

  At 2 am Sean woke to hear their giggles as they bolted the outer door. Not normal giggles, but girlie giggles infused with alcohol. The kind of giggles derived from secrets never to be shared with men. He closed his eyes.

  Bloody Spooks deserved each other, he thought, but never mind, he had Bella. Shit! He pulled the sheet over his head and tried to sleep but sleep eluded him. Instead he put his mind to work. Start of morning he would be out of the flat and up to Barnsley. His first meeting was with CID Sergeant Ippet at 12.30pm, his second one in Leeds, then down to Ipswich where he would stay overnight for his final meeting at 9.30am the following morning. He would leave his itinerary on the laptop, not that it mattered who knew his location. Bloody women trying to organise were a pain.

  When Victoria and Denise returned to Belsize Park in the early hours, Denise suggested one last beer on account they belonged to Sean.

  They cracked open two cans, giggling as they discussed the inadequacies of men and at one point held hands. Denise yawned when it was bedtime and shed her clothes without inhibition before dressing in a pair of short pyjamas. Victoria changed into a silk nightdress whilst still in the bathroom. When she emerged, Denise lay in bed gently snoring. Victoria slipped into her own bed and turned out the light. A moment later Denise farted.

  Victoria smiled, so much for male fantasies of rampant lesbian lust. She closed her eyes and thought of Sean, so close yet so far away. Love was a bitch. Thoughts then turned to her old school friend Wendy and she found herself growing moist. When a teenager, the brave new world had beckoned for exploration and each girl had ventured forth.

  Denise rose at 7am and went to shower. Eyes closed in the pretence of sleep, Victoria went over her plans. She had a journalist friend who investigated the political circus and sleaze. It was possible he had scandal she could work on but more importantly, he might have contacts, people who could get her into the company of the inner circle.

  Victoria still feigned sleep when Denise emerged. Her face to the wall she listened as Denise dressed, hearing the snap of elasticated tights, the fumbled click of bra hooks and the defining closure of zipped jeans. She heard the jacket go on, heard the comb pulled through hair then momentary silence until she sensed Denise leaning over her.

  "Little sweetie," she kissed her cheek. "Don't worry, you'll find your way."

  The door closed, followed by the click of the outer door, then silence again. Victoria opened her eyes. She was alone in the flat with Sean. He in one bed, she in another.

  She rose, showered, cleaned her teeth and combed her hair. She sprayed perfume then put the nightdress back on. A moment later she stood in the lounge before walking barefoot across the floor. Denise was right, her feelings were a mess and totally unsure. Outside Sean's door she took a deep breath before slowing pushing it open. She stared down at his empty, unmade bed.

  "Shit!" She slammed the door shut.

  CHAPTER 9

  "It's not often we get treated." Sergeant Ippet looked to the chalkboard above the pub fireplace. "I'll take cod, chips and mushy peas."

  "I'll go for the sausage, mash and beans." DC Holtworth stood beside him, the younger man in anorak and jeans, his sergeant in tweed jacket and cords, checked shirt under a paisley tie. Both had shaved heads.

  "And a chicken casserole," Sean said to the barman. "Want something to drink?" He looked back at Ippet.

  "Tetley’s. Bob here will have fizzy water, he's driving."

  "I'll have water also." Sean paid for the order and collected his drinks. Clasping three glasses between large hands, he carried all to a window table and squeezed in opposite the two CID men. The pub walls were clad with dark wood, the ceiling crossed by timber beams.

  "So," Sean said. "Did Bernie Norton hang himself?"

  Ippet sipped from his pint. "First, if you don't mind, Sir. Why do you want to know? A Chief Inspector coming up from the Smoke and buying lunch rates a reason."

  Sean shrugged. "Someone in high places is concerned. I just wanted to mull over a few pointers."

  "You mean, Lisa Norton leaving porn for politics with her little black book of who's who," Holtworth said.

  Ippet raised a finger which instantly silenced his subordinate. "Is that what this is about? Some big knob wetting his knickers in case he's found out?"

  Sean simply nodded, no need to tell the truth. If Ippet and his constable thought they might help screw some chief constable, they would be more forthcoming.

  "Lisa Norton was a property developer," Ippet said. "But her money originally came from Bernie. He was a 'top-shelf' publisher, but on the side also ran girlie bars, pole dancing and the like. Started with massage parlours and graduated. Except his London bar had a private club within a club, catering for some very exclusive members. MPs, judges, maybe a chief constable or two."

  "That wasn't in any reports," Sean said.

  "Course not. We were investigating a suicide, not the legality of his business venture. No reason to, the Vice Squad weren't concerned and we weren't encouraged to be either, if you understand what I mean. That's why I asked about someone wetting their knickers. It's suddenly all gone respectable. Lisa Norton into politics, the DJP gaining seats in Parliament." He fell silent as a waitress brought their food.

  DC Holtworth removed a knife and fork from his rolled napkin and attacked the sausage and mash.

  "No pressure on you from any quarter to look at Norton's death as anything other than suicide?" Sean asked.

  Ippet shook his head and began to eat sedately, pausing periodically to speak. "No, he had money worries, the normal stress of all businessmen, but it funded a good lifestyle. A decent house, pony for the kids, a boat in the marina. But then the sex game has some dodgy characters. Who knows what external pressures he had?"

  "What about his wife?" Sean asked.

  "She's since sold up," Holtworth said and stabbed a sausage. "Made a killing," he grinned. "She's got her kids in public school now."

  "No suspicious circumstances at the crime scene?!

  "None acceptable to a coroner. Norton left a note saying he loved his wife and children but was tired of life and what he had become. He drank too much and was well over the limit when he died." Ippet sipped at his beer. "Norton took a rope from his garage, went to a wood two miles away and strung himself from a tree. He stepped off a log which twisted over so he couldn't get back on. Nothing indicated anyone but himself was involved. Everything pointed to suicide and that was the verdict the coroner returned. Widow Norton wept at his funeral."

  "What was your gut feeling?"

  Ippet shrugged. "Uncomfortable both with our findings and the verdict, but evidence is evidence, you got to fill in the paperwork."

  Holtworth shovelled potato and spoke over the contents of his mouth. "Except he could have been a paedophile."

  Sean chewed quietly on his chicken, looked back at Ippet and waited.

  "Not a detail you put into a report," the Sergeant said. "Least not without some kind of proof. The man was dead and his family grieving. Two days before his demise, Norton's secretary was out shopping when she saw a schoolgirl get into his car. Not one of his own kids. She also spoke of rumours he liked very young girls. His wife refuted it, but she would."

  "How did she know it was a schoolgirl?" Sean asked.

  "Witness never saw the face, only that the girl wore white shirt, tie, short fitted skirt, thick tights, blue blazer and school backpack. The daily wear for a million schoolgirls across country."

  "The woods where he hung himself are used by the public and crisscrossed by muddy paths. At the crime scene footprints were everywhere. His own prints were underneath the tree, set in a pattern which indicated he struggled or staggered. His clothes and face were muddy so he'd fallen several tim
es as he made his way through the woods. He had a cut on his head where he may have hit a tree trunk."

  "He was pissed out of his box," Holtworth said.

  Ippet ate a fat chip. "Doesn't mean he didn't hang himself, except some of Norton's footprints had been over trodden. Two sets, both small, so both probably female. One set only size four and possibly a child's."

  "Or two schoolgirls," said Holtworth. "They might have watched him die, helped him, or came afterwards. We have no evidence either way."

  "Could be they came on the scene, got scared and ran."

  "What was the name of his London club?" Sean asked.

  "The Black Pad. Plain door. You'd never know it was there," Holtworth said. "I went to look. The new owners are Americans. They had the builders in and the place gutted. No list of past members available."

  "By the sound of it, the coroner could almost have returned an open verdict," Sean said.

  "I would have been happier." Ippet pursed his lips. "His suicide note was on a personal computer, not handwritten. His wife didn't know the password and it took our high-tech boys to crack it. I don't trust what's on computers and I wonder about people in high places."

  Holtworth scrapped the back of his fork across the plate and removed the last vestige of potato and gravy. "I reckon he was into little schoolgirls and getting them to play kinky games. Either pretending to hang him or helping him. Save this one went wrong and turned into a real hanging." He clattered his fork onto the empty plate.

  By 3pm Sean was on his way to Leeds. Esther Mills, the DS who investigated the Portland hit-and-run met Sean at Leeds Central Police Station and offered him coffee in the canteen. She was broad of base and broad of shoulder with wide hazel eyes and an uncertain smile.

  "I have fifteen minutes, Sir. I know you'll understand," she said over the clatter of activity around them.

  "I know the pressure, Sergeant, and I appreciate your time. May I call you Esther?"

  "Please do." She looked at him over the rim of a cup held with both hands. Her smile softened. "How can I help?"