You Will Never Find Me

by Robert Wilson

  Dennis laughed until he saw she was serious.

  ‘I said don’t make it complicated.’

  ‘That’s my favourite at Pret.’

  ‘We’re talking greasy spoon here, love. Bacon or sausage sarnie, fried egg if you’re lucky.’

  ‘Whatever,’ said Amy. ‘But no white bread.’

  ‘You’re a health-conscious little filly, aren’t you?’

  Dennis went out into the alley. Darren was giving more instructions to Boxer over his mobile. He held up a finger. Finished.

  ‘How’s it going?’ asked Dennis.

  ‘His passport photo’s out to the network. They’re passing him on to each other. He’s clean. No tail from the off.’

  ‘Do you believe that?’ said Dennis. ‘Ex-army, ex-Met, kidnap consultant. They’re all mercenaries, those bastards. He’s got to be connected to something.’

  ‘Don’t know about that,’ said Darren. ‘Think you’d go and smash someone like El Osito’s legs up if you were connected? I think he’s a loner.’

  ‘Keep him on the move until after dark, and then we’ll bring him in from that greasy spoon in West Ham.’

  ‘And what are we going to do about little Missy?’ said Darren. ‘You thought about that?’

  ‘We’re going to leave all that to El Osito,’ said Dennis. ‘He wanted this. He deals with it.’

  ‘We’ve found the estate agents,’ said Papadopoulos. ‘It was a short let for three months so they never took the house off the market, just as you reckoned. We input the spec and there were only three possibilities for a detached house with an adjoining garage, a basement and good security system.’

  ‘Where is it?’ asked Mercy.

  ‘Chiswick. Milnthorpe Road. Seven bedrooms, off-street parking, fences all round, swimming pool at the back, CCTV cameras front and back linked to screens in a study on the ground floor at the front. Basement with wine cellar, sauna, utility room and cinema,’ said Papadopoulos. ‘Irina Demidova passed herself off as Galina Zonov—passport, everything. They have a photocopy. She paid fifty grand up front from a Cypriot bank account in that name.’

  ‘Who’s the owner?’

  ‘A South African called Jeremy Doveton, who’s in Jo’burg as we speak,’ said Papadopoulos. ‘We have his phone number.’

  ‘I want you to put a report together for DCS Makepeace with everything you know about the house and the names, addresses and phone numbers of the neighbours on either side, the house directly opposite and the one at the back. Let’s get two surveillance teams in front and behind as soon as possible.’

  ‘The estate agents have a full set of spare keys and interestingly the house is due for a security system inspection by Barrier Alarms. The tenants were warned before they took the house on and agreed to allow access.’

  ‘Well done, George,’ said Mercy. ‘Put it all in the report.’

  She hung up, called Makepeace, filled him in.

  ‘Still no contact from the kidnappers?’

  ‘One call at 1:26 P.M.,’ said Mercy. ‘They asked if the next instalment was ready. Bobkov was in a bad state after the news of his ex-wife’s death and the killings of Tipalov and the nuclear scientist. He gave them a strange proof-of-life question and they haven’t come back. That call came from Twickenham.’

  ‘How many people have made calls?’

  ‘In the run-up to the ransom delivery yesterday Chris Sexton took three calls within about five minutes, all from disposable phones from all over town. So three out and about and at least one at base. The gang is minimum four people.’

  ‘And when they took the ransom?’

  ‘One talking Bobkov down on the phone, two in the boat, although one of those was probably from CW Boat Hire.’

  ‘So they seem to be most vulnerable at base when most of them are out in the field during the set-up phase,’ said Makepeace.

  ‘Bobkov is definitely cracking up now. He’s losing his cool with the gang. Quick action is what we’re looking for here.’

  The phone rang in the living room. Mercy went in to listen. Bobkov took the call.

  ‘Your son gave this answer to your question,’ said the voice. ‘A man is only truly free when you have taken everything from him.’

  ‘He doesn’t just have a good memory,’ said Bobkov, ‘he understands things too. Do you?’

  ‘You’ll get your instructions within the hour,’ said the voice.

  Terence Mumby was sitting alone at a table in the Fortess Café on the Fortess Road in Tufnell Park. He was drinking sweet tea, which he blew on before bringing it to his lips. There was an empty plate in front of him which looked as if it had been licked clean by a dog. The window next to him was fogged to just above his head so he was only aware of blurred figures as they passed by.

  A police constable looked through the clearer glass at eye level and spotted the back of Tel’s head. He nodded at the men in the unmarked car. One of them got out and went into the decor of despair that was the hallmark of the Fortess Café and Restaurant.

  ‘Hello, Tel,’ said the detective, slapping him on the back so that the tea slopped onto his plate. ‘Let’s you and me go and have a little chat.’

  The detective showed his warrant card and took the mug of tea from Tel’s mitt, helped him to his feet and walked him to the door.

  ‘Oi,’ said the man behind the counter. ‘That’s three pound fifty.’

  ‘I’ll be back,’ said the detective.

  Tel found himself in the back of a hot car sandwiched between two detectives who both smiled at him. He knew he was in big trouble.

  ‘Where were you last night, Tel?’

  ‘Tucked up in bed.’

  ‘At midnight? All nicely tucked in?’

  ‘Nice and toasty,’ said Tel.

  ‘That’s odd,’ said the detective, ‘because somebody saw you at the same time on the Andover Estate.’

  ‘Never been there in my life.’

  The Wolf was sitting in a car on Elm Park Gardens about ten metres up the road from the entrance to number 5, which itself was only twenty metres from the Fulham Road. He had a photo of Miles Lomax on his mobile, which was resting on the steering wheel. He’d had to drive like a maniac to get here in time because Darren had told him that Lomax was bound to go straight home for a bath and some kip having been up all night. Well, he hadn’t so far.

  The Wolf had already gained access to Lomax’s apartment building by following another tenant in. He’d seen that there was a lift and a staircase. Lomax’s flat was on the fifth floor so he was bound to use the lift. There was another flat on the same floor and the Wolf had looked through the keyhole and found it to be in darkness and no response when he knocked. He decided that this was how he was going to do it: wait in the stairwell and as Lomax unlocked his door, push him in, shoot him in the back of the head and leave him dead in his flat. He went down to the basement where they kept the bins, wedged the door open so he had easy access from the street and went back to his car. Now all he needed was for Lomax to come home.

  He was getting uncomfortable with the Ruger Mark 1 KJW resting in the special pocket he’d had made for it in his leather bomber jacket. The dashboard clock told him it was 5:45 P.M. He got out of his car and walked up the street to stretch his legs. After about fifty metres a VW Golf drifted past with a driver looking for parking spaces and—what do you know—it was Miles Lomax. The Wolf looked up the street. No spaces. He watched the car turn the corner, knowing that the road went round in a horseshoe back to the Fulham Road.

  He was in two minds whether to follow it or not. He jogged up the road and turned the corner in time to see Lomax parking his car. The Wolf sprinted back the way he’d come and went down into the basement of the apartment building just as Lomax was walking up from the Fulham Road. He ran up the stairs to the fifth floor and waited, hanging back in the
stairwell.

  As Lomax was sorting through his keys outside the front door, two men came from across the road and stood on either side of him.

  ‘Hello there,’ said the first man. ‘You look as if you’ve been up all night.’

  Lomax ignored him, assumed he was addressing someone else, found the right key.

  ‘Hey, you!’ said the second man.

  ‘You talking to me?’ asked Lomax, turning to him.

  ‘Just want to have a little get-together, don’t we?’ said the first man.

  ‘What?’ said Lomax, annoyed. ‘Is this some sort of scam? You want some advice: don’t scam a scamster. Now fuck off.’

  ‘Don’t be like that, Miles,’ said the second man, his face close up now.

  The use of his Christian name made Lomax go very still. ‘Thought you’d like to come down to Holloway with us,’ said the first man. ‘Tell us what you were doing on the Andover Estate last night.’

  Not even the cool Miles Lomax could stop the streak of terror leaping through his guts and up into his face. Their warrant cards were out now. He walked slowly to their car and got into the back seat with them. They drove around the horseshoe of Elm Park Gardens with one of the detectives calling DI Hope to say they were bringing in Lomax who had now sunk between them. The three detectives then proceeded to have an animated discussion about Arsène Wenger which was so unrelenting in its tedium that Lomax would have caught up on his kip if he hadn’t been so terrified.

  The Wolf waited, his gun hanging from his hand by his right leg. Five minutes went past. The lift came up and stopped at the fifth floor. The Wolf took a deep breath. The doors opened and a woman in high heels crossed the floor to the flat opposite Lomax’s. The Wolf frowned and sank back down the stairs as she let herself in. He trotted down to the basement and out into the street. No sign of Lomax. He walked up and down the Fulham Road and then checked Lomax’s car. He sighed. Lomax must have changed his mind and joined the rest of London for a Friday night in the pub. He hoped it would just be a pint and not dinner as well. He went back to his own car to wait. Knew the Chilcotts wouldn’t want to hear anything else other than the words: job done.

  As they neared the police station on Hornsey Road one of the detectives sent a text. They parked in the yard behind the station and brought Lomax through to reception. They passed one of the interview rooms on the way, whose door had been purposely left open. When Lomax and Mumby caught sight of each other they both knew what they were in for. That was also the moment when Lomax remembered what he still had in his pockets.

  The estate agents called the tenants of Milnthorpe Road at just after four thirty to tell them that the owner had been in touch with his insurance company about another matter, and they’d advised Jeremy Doveton that he would have to have his security system checked before midnight tonight if he wanted his policy to remain valid. The agents said they’d contacted Barrier Alarms, and they had a technician in the area who could drop by in the evening to check the system.

  ‘Would that be all right?’ asked the receptionist.

  ‘Wait,’ said the voice.

  The twenty-four-year-old receptionist, selected for having the sweetest phone voice, heard an animated discussion in a foreign language.

  ‘What do they want to do?’ asked the voice.

  ‘They just want to check all the windows and doors to the outside, make sure the alarm system is still working and take a look at the CCTV cameras. The alarm system will have to go off but only for a few seconds. The whole thing should take about half an hour.’

  More discussion. The receptionist inspected the latest work she’d had done on her fingernails.

  ‘Can you come tomorrow?’ said the voice.

  ‘Well, the owner would obviously rather it was done this evening so that the building and contents insurance is still valid. Barrier Alarms say they aren’t able to send someone else until after the weekend and the owner doesn’t want to take that risk.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ said the voice. ‘Tell him to call before he comes.’

  ‘He should be with you some time between now and eight o’clock. O.K.?’

  The phone was slammed down in her ear. Papadopoulos gave her the thumbs-up. She smiled and rested her forehead on the desk with the stress.

  30

  6:00 P.M., FRIDAY 23RD MARCH 2012

  Netherhall Gardens, Hampstead, London

  At 6:00 Mercy got a call from DI Max Hope telling her he’d just taken delivery of Terence Mumby and that Miles Lomax was on his way.

  ‘I can’t get there just yet,’ said Mercy. ‘I’m right in the middle of something. When are you going to start the interview?’

  ‘Don’t worry, we won’t get going on Lomax for another couple of hours,’ said Hope. ‘First of all we want to get a search warrant for his car and second we want to extract as much from Tel as possible before we get started on Lomax. The good news is that Lomax still had a phial of GHB on him when we arrested him. We’ll leave him to sweat. The boys who picked him up said he looked terrified. I think he knows he’s killed Alice Grant.’

  While Mercy was taking this call two dozen top-quality roses were delivered to the house on Netherhall Gardens. The card stuck among them had the same instructions as the last time, except that the Internet café was on Lavender Hill, near Clapham Junction and was called Wireless Up the Junction. Mercy was to drive Bobkov there, with no mobile phones, drop him off and immediately leave the area.

  Mercy gave Papadopoulos her mobile phone and told him to take it to Baron’s Court Tube station and wait for her there.

  James Kidd, who’d only just returned after spending most of the afternoon in meetings at MI5’s headquarters in Thames House, discussing the deaths of Professor Mikhail Statnik and Igor Tipalov, was now in conference in the dining room with Bobkov, Chris Sexton and DCS Makepeace, who was on the phone.

  ‘We can no longer discount the possibility that Andrei Bobkov himself is a target,’ said Kidd. ‘I’ve just had a long meeting with my boss about what Andrei has been put through and our concern now is to avoid another Russian state killing on British soil.’

  ‘Our concern is for the boy,’ said Makepeace. ‘That has been the focus of our team, and it’s not going to change now. I already have a police firearms unit in Eastbourne Road behind the house in readiness for an assault. I’ve just had a call from your boss at MI5, James, offering the services of one of your operatives to go in as the Barrier Alarms service engineer. I’m told he will prepare the ground for the firearms unit to perform the rescue operation.’

  ‘As soon as we know where they’re taking Bobkov we’ll organise a tailing operation. Their intention will be to bring him into the drop zone clean. We’re going to have to hope it’s not such a deserted area as the Docklands were last night.’

  ‘It’s a question of timing,’ said Makepeace. ‘Once we’ve secured Sasha, you can pull Bobkov from the danger zone.’

  ‘We’re going to be a little more ambitious than that,’ said Kidd. ‘We want to bring as many of these FSB boys in as we possibly can. Andrei has agreed to our plan, which is that we will continue with the ransom drop as if nothing has happened.’

  ‘It’s just about the only thing left that I can do for my friend,’ said Bobkov. ‘My intelligence operation in Russia is finished. If we can prove their intentions against me then that is something else we can bring to the Tershchenko inquest next year.’

  ‘Rather you than me,’ said Makepeace.

  Mercy put her head in the room and told them the instructions had arrived. Kidd made his call.

  Mercy drove Bobkov south of the river to the Internet café in Clapham Junction. He was silent, completely lost in thought, staring out the window at London life drifting past.

  ‘I’m very sorry about Tracey,’ said Mercy.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to
o. She deserved a better life than the one I gave her.’

  Mercy dropped him off just after 18:30 and headed straight out to Chiswick, picked up Papadopoulos from Baron’s Court on the way.

  ‘Any news?’ she asked.

  ‘Nobody’s left the house yet. We’re not to go anywhere near it until the operation is under way.’

  Over a period of two hours the police surveillance teams, now installed at the front and rear of the house on Milnthorpe Road, confirmed the presence of six men inside, one of whom was almost permanently stationed in front of the CCTV monitors in the study. They took it in turns, rotating between playing cards in the dining room, sitting in front of the screens and going down to the basement.

  One of the surveillance team had firearms experience and was relaying information about the house to the team waiting in their van on Eastbourne Road. The biggest problem was a line of sight for a sniper to the person manning the CCTV screens. His seat was in the corner of the room and the only possible angle was from the neighbour’s garden over a high fence. To make it more difficult, there were trees and a bush in front of the crucial window. The MI5 operative posing as the house alarm service engineer was going to have his work cut out.

  At 18:50 three men left the house on Milnthorpe Road and headed for Chiswick railway station. There were already two MI5 agents in position on the platform: a woman with a child in a buggy and a punk rocker. The train arrived and they all boarded.

  At 18:55 the MI5 operative posing as the Barrier Alarms service engineer telephoned the Milnthorpe Road house, introducing himself as Tom Brewer. He said he would be there in around fifteen minutes.

  Two of the three men who’d boarded the train in Chiswick got off at Wandsworth Town, while the third stayed another stop and got out at Clapham Junction. The punk rocker remained on the train. The woman with the buggy got off and watched the Russian walk up the hill in the direction of Wireless Up the Junction. She split away and went into a department store.