No extradition from Cuba, probably lax banking regulations.
Could Priest have been stockpiling money there?
Chapter 61
Chris Priest parked his car.
5.30am; dark, damp and depressing but at least he was early.
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his reefer jacket, sunk his neck into the collar and walked towards the clubhouse, surprised to see a dim light illuminating the end of the building nearest the entrance. Maybe he could get a hot drink.
He pushed the door open, stepped inside and breathed in the seductive aroma of percolating coffee.
‘Morning Chris,’ Sam said, moving from behind the door as he closed it. ‘Going somewhere nice?’
Priest jumped, spun around.
‘Bloody hell, Sam. What a fright!’
Two North Yorkshire AFOs, Ed a step behind them, emerged from the shadows at the far end of the club house.
‘Thank God,’ Priest said. ‘I thought he’d got away.’
He moved towards Sam.
‘Stay exactly where you are Sir,’ one of the AFOs shouted.
Priest raised his arms above his head.
‘Sam, I don’t know what you think is going on here,’ he said, slowly letting his arms drop, ‘but Whelan’s the subject of an ongoing investigation into police corruption and needs taking into custody right now.’
‘You cheeky bastard,’ Ed stepping forward before the AFO barked the same warning he’d given Priest.
‘This is ridiculous,’ Ed shouted. ‘He’s the bent one not me.’
‘The only thing ridiculous is how you’ve got away with this for decades,’ Priest fired back.
Priest rocked back on his heels, put his hands in the pockets of his dark blue jeans, turned to Sam.
‘Think about it. I’m a Superintendent. Over thirty years in the job. Access to sensitive material. I’ve passed the highest standards of vetting, every background check, financials, the lot. Can you say the same about Boy Wonder here?’
Ed didn’t move, blood flooding his cheeks, his anger alive and prowling like something hungry in a cage.
Sam looked at the AFOs.
‘Relax, but I need you to stay here for a little longer.’
The AFO with blonde hair in a pony-tail nodded; the other, black beard surrounding lips that were a line pressed tight together, kept his eyes fixed on the three of them.
‘What did you think had kick-started the new corruption inquiry Sam?’ Priest said, cool and confident.
Sam said nothing. Waited.
‘I’ll tell you what started it. Paul Adams, that’s what?’
‘Before we do anything else,’ Sam said, ‘I need to speak with the firearms commander, give him an update.’
‘At least you won’t need a negotiator,’ Priest said, the sarcasm lead heavy. ‘Ed’s already here.’
Sam’s next sentence was an order: ‘Both of you sit down opposite each other and keep your hands on the table where the AFOs can see them.’
Ed’s eyes blazed, the anger scratching at the cage bars.
‘You’re not seriously listening to this bullshit, are you?’
He yanked out the wooden bench and sat facing the AFOs, palms on the long, dark, wooden table.
Priest put his left leg over the bench opposite, sat down, hoisted his right leg and turned to face Ed.
‘Ever wondered why he changed his on-call that night?’ Priest said, looking at Sam.
Ed jumped to his feet, the table squealing; two MP5s moved like lightening to the shoulders of the AFOs.
‘Sit down Ed! Now!’ Sam shouted.
She waited until he was back on the bench.
‘If I have to I’ll cuff the pair of you.’
‘Paul Adams found out about Whelan being corrupt,’ Priest keeping up the attack. ‘Paul was a whistleblower who ended up dead, his killer shot by the police, and Boy Wonder here is the negotiator making sure Zac Williams takes the rap.’
Sam looked at Ed, shook her head.
Ed didn’t move.
Priest kept talking, a fighter firing jabs, using his speed.
‘Then when that’s not quite working to plan, he gets suspended so he can go and speak to whoever he wants without anyone checking up on him.’
Sam walked to the door, stepped outside and rang the inspector commanding the firearms team.
Priest had started to hum Gloria Gaynor’s ‘I Am What I Am.’
‘You coming out the closet then?’ Ed spat, leaning across the table, backing off before the AFOs could react. ‘Going to tell the truth about yourself? Admit it’s all been a sham?’
Priest grinned. ‘Your time’s up Whelan you bent bastard.’
‘Right,’ Sam said, back in the room, ‘as soon as transport arrives, we’ll all go to the local nick.’
Priest had started humming again but now he stopped.
‘You know Sam,’ Priest said, Ed watching, listening.
‘Back in the day, Ed here mixed with criminals, paid for information, was renowned as a good thief taker. But so was Marty Irons. He was older and some younger detectives, impressionable detectives, tried to emulate him.’
‘Jesus, Sam,’ Ed’s voice loud and strained.
Sam silenced him with a look, let Priest punch away.
‘Not one of them confessed you know,’ he went on. ‘Bent coppers sent down without saying a word in the interviews.’
Chris Priest paused, held Sam’s gaze before continuing.
‘The anti-corruption squad recovered a few hundred pounds in cash from their houses, some electrical equipment, TVs, microwaves, video recorders, that sort of thing, but not a lot. They had got away with thousands.’
‘What happened to the rest of the money?’ Sam asked, glancing at her watch.
‘Who knows? The mid-80s was a different world. Banks were still relatively private places and the Proceeds of Crime Act was years away. Not hard to launder ill-gotten gains.’
He turned his eyes to Ed.
‘That’s right isn’t it Ed?’
Ed stared at him, eyes on fire, but didn’t move.
‘Tell me Sam,’ Priest back in the centre of the ring, punching and punching. ‘Was it his idea, the bogus suspension? Fill you full of nonsense about how he could visit Harry Pullman and Hugh Campbell. Find the leak?’
Sam didn’t respond.
Priest smiled, an easy smile that showed his teeth and reached his eyes.
‘He did, didn’t he? And you let him. Told you about this place as well I suppose? Did it not cross your mind he was planning to fly off from here? Him and that little tart Tara Paxman? Maybe you’re getting too old for him. Maybe he fancies a younger model.’
Ed felt an invisible force pushing him to his feet, sensed fingers tightening on triggers.
‘Sit down Ed! Now!’ Sam shouted.
That’s two strikes. A third and the fingers won’t just be tight.
‘How do you know about Tara?’ Sam asked.
‘I’m Head of Professional Standards. Courtesy call from Cumbria. And it’s not like Edward here has never chased the women is it?’
‘Meaning?’ Sam bit back on her own emotions.
Don’t be fucking jealous, not now you stupid cow
‘Ask him about a blast from his past by the name of Susan Street.’
‘Who?’ Ed said, nose scrunched, head shaking, voice quiet.
‘I had an interesting conversation with her recently. Seems Edward here was close to Susan in the 1980s. Still at least he wouldn’t whisper the wrong name in his sleep. How is your wife by the way Ed?’
Ed clenched his fists, the veins straining in his neck. ‘Is that transport here yet?’
‘It’s why I never married,’ Priest continued. ‘I wanted to avoid the emotional, invisible prison of the three Cs: commitment, communication and compromise. Way too complicated for me.’
He paused, considered his last sentence and grinned.
‘Complicated. I’ve just come
up with the fourth C.’
He looked over his shoulder, spoke to the AFOs.
‘All right to stretch and rub my knees? They’re a bit stiff.’
Blackbeard raised his weapon but nodded.
‘Like I said Sam, too complicated for me,’ Priest standing up, bending at the waist and moving steady hands over his knee caps. ‘Looking over your shoulder all the time when you’re playing away from home. It’s why I could never be corrupt. I couldn’t cope with the double life.’
Priest sat back down.
‘Seems Edward –’
Ed unclenched his fists, spread his fingers across the table and dropped his voice to a menacing whisper.
‘Stop calling me Edward you irritating piece of shit.’
‘Many years ago, Edw…’ he stopped and grinned. ‘Ed was out late one night, early hours late, parked up on an industrial estate with Susan Street, like him married at the time.’
‘I never had a thing with Susan Street,’ Ed growled.
‘Least he remembers who she is now. What did Shakespeare say? Something about protesting too much.’
Sam frowned, wondered where this was going.
‘Sadly, Susan’s gone downhill,’ Priest said, ‘but back in the day…’
He pursed his lips, whistled long and steady.
‘What a looker.’
He shook his head, the grin wider.
‘Let’s just say everybody wanted their typing done by Susan Street. Some were lucky enough, blessed even, to have those fast fingers to themselves in private.’
‘This is utter bollocks,’ Ed said. ‘We need to get out of here. I’m not listening to anymore of this fucker’s garbage.’
But Priest had no intention of stopping, a fountain that couldn’t be turned off.
‘A bit of a CID groupie was our Susie in her time. I spoke to her, not long back,’ he said.
‘She remembers you two being parked up on an industrial estate, doing whatever you were doing.’
Another grin.
‘When you saw Irons and his cronies coming out of an electrical goods storage depot. Ring any bells?’
Ed didn’t move, stared at Priest.
‘You sat in the darkness and watched them load a van. She says you didn’t do anything. Just watched. And after they left, you just drove off.’
Ed’s fists were white-knuckle balls when he spoke through clenched teeth.
‘I…never…had…a…thing…with…Susan…Street.’
Priest leaned a slow inch across the table, white spittle forming in the corners of his mouth.
‘She would be really disappointed to hear you don’t acknowledge the relationship.’
Ed began to push the bench away with his backside.
‘Ed!’ Sam shouted again. ‘Ten count. I’m warning you. We can easily check out Susan Street’s version of events.’
‘You could,’ Priest said, the grin now a permanent feature, ‘but unfortunately she died last week. Cancer. She did say that the burglary all those years ago was reported but Ed here kept telling her to leave it, that he had it under control.’
Ed sat still. He didn’t need another of Sam’s warnings, but it didn’t stop him speaking.
‘If they weren’t here,’ he glanced towards the AFOs, ‘I’d rip your fucking head off.’
Priest’s smile didn’t slide.
‘When Irons and co. were arrested,’ he said, ‘she was so scared, she handed in her notice. Went to work someplace else.’
All heads turned when the door opened.
Shane Walton walked in, a pair of bushy, ginger eyebrows and highly-polished black shoes following him.
Even without the copy of ‘Pilot’ magazine, Ed clocked him immediately.
Was that only yesterday?
The voice had no accent, clipped tones, just as Ed remembered it.
‘Yes, that’s him,’ retired Wing Commander Leonard ‘Lion’ Moorcroft said.
Chapter 62
Tara Paxman had gone to the Hoppings as a child and hated it. Europe’s largest travelling funfair, a descendent of the Blaydon Races, had been rolling up at Newcastle’s Town Moor every June since 1882.
But the memory of soaring above the ground, spinning at speed in what she was certain were cobbled together death traps meant that first visit was also her last.
Now, stiff with terror, she concentrated on breathing, forcing herself to think of something, anything other than the fact that the buffeting metal between her and eternity seemed no thicker than a tin of beans.
Nose pushed against the cold passenger plexiglass, eyes staring at the swathes of orange lights below, she wondered where they were, how long they had before they would have to refuel.
The distraction was brief; fear rules everything once your imagination invites it to the feast.
The padded headphones blocked out most of the noise when they were speaking, but Tara’s mouth was too dry for conversation, and in the cold, pre-dawn darkness, the drone of the groaning engine seemed ready to give up the fight against the headwind.
She moved her head away from the window, hands on knees, terrified of knocking something in the cramped cockpit and sending the plane into a tailspin.
White shapes danced behind her tightly-closed eyes.
Her headphones buzzed. ‘You okay there?’
She answered, then remembered the switch for the mic.
‘Fine,’ she lied, speaking into the mic jutting from the headphones, not wanting to be ridiculed at some pilots’ annual dinner or worse, the dinosaur detectives’ piss-up.
Reluctantly she opened her eyes, looked out the front window. The sight of the single, whirling, yellow-tipped propeller, the only thing keeping them airborne, sent a rapid ‘oh shit’ signal to her brain which snapped her eyes back shut.
She wiggled her toes, dug her nails into the palms of her hands.
‘You sure you’re okay?’
This time she didn’t turn her head, didn’t speak, just raised her right thumb in his direction.
The aircraft bucked on a pocket of turbulence and she jumped in synchronisation.
‘Nothing to worry about,’ said the voice in her headphones.
She thought she caught the hint of a smile behind the words.
Oh you’re enjoying this...
She felt blindly along her headset and flicked the mic switch.
‘How much longer?’
‘About an hour.’
She breathed out slowly, tried to settle nonchalantly back into the seat.
Another hour. Refuel. Then over the channel.
The thought of flying over the sea brought a new level of fear.
What if we crash into the freezing water?
How would we die?
On impact, drown or hypothermia?
None were particularly appealing.
‘I’m really sorry about Lester,’ the pilot’s voice somehow alien over the headphones. ‘After all these years I can’t believe Pugsley betrayed us.’
‘I didn’t know him like you did, so maybe I wasn’t as blinkered.’
No one fools me.
Tara Paxman had looked at herself many times and constantly liked what she saw – too cunning to be caught out, too clever and crafty to stumble into the traps. Like the animal she admired most, she was sly and sneaky and a survivor in a world stacked against her, an animal who hunted alone.
I am the vixen.
I am the urban fox.
That’s the man who was here with Marty on Sunday,’ Leonard Moorcroft said, pointing his banana-thick index finger.
‘Hello there,’ Leonard said, looking at Ed. ‘We meet again. How are you young man?’
Ed stood up.
The AFOs tensed.
Sam mouthed, ‘It’s okay.’
‘I’m very well thank you sir,’ Ed said. ‘Sorry we dragged you here so early.’
Leonard smiled. ‘Bit of excitement’s good for the soul. I don’t get much these days, not since Barbara…’
His words trailed away.
Sam stepped towards Leonard, held out her arm, shook his hand.
‘I’m DCI Sam Parker. Pleased to meet you.’
Her hand was doll-like in his.
‘I’m sure this all looks a little out of the ordinary,’ she said. ‘Armed police officers in your clubhouse.’
Leonard smiled. ‘I’ve seen plenty of out of the ordinary in my time young lady.’
Sam turned to Priest.
‘You see Chris, when we got here earlier, Ed and myself hid outside while Shane dashed around to Mr Moorcroft’s to get the key. Then we waited in here. Shane brought Mr Moorcroft to the clubhouse once I’d spoken to him on the phone.’
Chris Priest’s face didn’t move and he wasn’t humming.
‘I rang Shane when I went outside,’ Sam told him. ‘You thought I was speaking to the firearms commander. All we needed was some time together in here to see how you would play it, hear what nonsense would come out of your corrupt mouth.’
She grinned.
‘I thought Ed played his part very well, didn’t you?’
The faces of two AFOs were expressionless, although unlike Priest, they had been fully briefed before they reached the airfield.
‘All we had to do Chris was wait to see if you turned up. You did. Unfortunately for you, Tara didn’t. Mr Moorcroft has confirmed nobody’s landed here since yesterday afternoon.’
Sam looked at the smart old flyer.
‘And you know Marty Irons, don’t you Mr Moorcroft?’
‘Spoke briefly to him on Sunday when that man there,’ he nodded towards Priest, ‘got in the aircraft with him.’
Leonard ‘Lion’ Moorcroft adjusted his RAF blue, red and white striped silk tie, glanced at his Breitling wristwatch.
‘Nice chap, Marty. At least he seemed to be. I knew he had been a policeman, but we all thought he’d left to start his own business. We knew nothing about prison. The members will be shocked, I can tell you that.’
‘They can form a queue Leonard,’ Ed said. ‘Superintendent Priest here can enjoy his place at the front.’
Chapter 63
Chris Priest sat in a tiny interview room in a tiny North Yorkshire police station. He’d not spoken a word since ‘Lion’ had identified him.
Lies That Blind Page 33
