48 Hours - A City of London Thriller

by J Jackson Bentley

  “Lavender, I could kiss you!” Dee said as she realised that they were within a few hundred yards of White Hart Lane, in Tottenham, North London. She knew approximately where they were, and what kind of building they were in. Now all she had to do was work out how they were going to get out of there.

  Chapter 66

  Commercial Road, Tottenham, North London. Saturday, 10pm.

  Lavender had been talking for a while and Dee had explained why she was dressed in a jumpsuit. Lavender didn’t need to explain why she was dressed the way she was.

  The last hour had been something of a confessional, where Dee had listened to a little girl lost who thought she was an adult and so behaved like one. When Lavender listened to Dee and heard about her experiences, she suddenly realised that here was a substantive woman who was beautiful and tough and who felt no desire for celebrity.

  Was her shrink right, she wondered for the first time? Was Lavender Fisher a lost soul seeking fame through notoriety, just as her mother and father had done? They had settled down eventually, and no doubt Lavender would, too, one day, but they had both enjoyed successful careers in the full glare of celebrity. Lavender had hosted a few TV shows because she was Don Fisher’s daughter, but she hadn’t actually achieved anything in her own right.

  Lavender confided in Dee that when they eventually got out of this mess, she would go into rehab and come off alcohol and drugs.

  Dee spoke to her like a kindly older sister. “Lavender, that’s the wrong move. All you would be doing is making someone else responsible for getting you sober and clean. Even if it works, because you didn’t do it yourself, you’ll slip back. You need to do something constructive, something to give your life direction. Why don’t you come and work with me for two months as an intern? Live at home. Get yourself sorted out and I’ll show you what a real job looks like.”

  “You would do that for me?” Lavender asked, surprised.

  “Yes, I would. Believe me when I say that I’ve helped girls in a much worse state than you. Girls who have been trafficked for sex and exploited by evil people in the name of profit or cult religion. It worked for them, and it can work for you, too, if you really want it to. Now, remember the plan. We have to stick with it, OK?”

  ***

  From the first minute she had been taken, Dee had expected that this moment would come, and so she had prepared herself and coached Lavender.

  Two of the masked men stood at the end of the table with a video camera. They were the two whom Dee had injured. They were clearly still suffering, judging by their fidgeting and complaining.

  Piet gave the girls their orders. “This video will last a minute and not a second longer, so choose your words wisely. I will introduce you both and you will each tell your people that they must stop the police pursuing the blackmail case, first of all. The police must then come to an agreement with Lord Hickstead by Monday evening at six, or your families don’t see you again.”

  Piet stood behind the camera and counted Gregor in.

  “Three, two, one.” Gregor pressed record; both girls were in shot, sitting either side of the table, still chained as before. Their captor introduced them to the camera.

  “As you can see, we have Lavender Fisher and Diane Fraser. We guarantee that they will both be returned safely, just as long as you have the police reach an agreement with Lord Hickstead by Monday at six in the evening.”

  Piet fell silent and pointed to Lavender, who fell straight into her prepared speech, although her voice quavered with nerves.

  “Dad, I’m so, so sorry. I caused all of this. I promise that if you make the police do as these men say, I’ll give up the celebrity lifestyle and take that office job on the first floor.”

  Piet pointed at Dee, or Diane as he had called her. Her voice was much stronger.

  “Josh, please don’t go into print with your statement. Press the police to agree to the terms these guys want. If you don’t, you’ll find your next opposition right here.”

  Piet spoke from behind the camera again. “Remember, Monday, six o’clock, or you never see either of them again.”

  The camera was switched off, and Piet announced sardonically, “That’s a wrap, folks.”

 

  Chapter 67

  Vastrick Security, No. 1 Poultry, London. Saturday, Midnight.

  We all sat around the conference table waiting for the inevitable call, well aware that it might not come until tomorrow. I was still having trouble grasping the reality of the situation. The police were busy examining both crime scenes and each force had a representative in the room with us.

  Around the table were Tom Vastrick, Inspector Boniface, DCI Coombes and an agitated Don Fisher. At the head of the table with a mass of electronics was a young man called Levi, whose Jewish heritage was not in question once one had seen him.

  Both my BlackBerry and Fisher’s iPhone were plugged in to a speaker and we had been given headsets that we could don as soon as a call came in. The idea was that any calls be traced, recorded, decoded and analysed by voice stress analysts sitting at Scotland Yard.

  In the end it was a waste of time, as two text messages came in simultaneously from a Dutch mobile phone number. The message was simple.

  “Follow the link www.flickr.com/48hrs/Videos.”

  Levi wasn’t fazed by the unexpected turn of events, and within a few seconds the photo storage and networking site was on our screen. There was one video in the collection and Levi clicked on it. A play arrow was displayed.

  “Before we run this, I want full transcript, enhanced video stills and full analysis of any key words or signals. I suggest we conference call in 30 minutes to swap war stories,” Tom Vastrick said to the people in his office and to Scotland Yard via the open communication link.

  Levi pressed play.

  A man appeared on the video, which was reasonably good quality, and spoke. His voice was slightly muffled because of the ski mask, and he was trying to conceal his accent by exaggerating a British twang. He had chosen his background well, as on first look there were no clues as to where he was.

  “Mr Fisher, Mr Hammond and associated representatives of the Police Force. There follows a message and I urge you take it seriously. I would not say this in front of the hostages but they will die if our demands are not met. I cannot help but notice they are both attractive women, the kind that men dream of having on their arm and in their bed.”

  The video picture faded and a new scene faded in. On the screen we could see Lavender and Dee either side of a long table with chains on their wrists. A disembodied voice spoke, again muffled and this time affecting a Mid Atlantic accent.

  “As you can see, we have Lavender Fisher and Diane Fraser. We guarantee that they will both be returned safely, just as long as you have the police reach an agreement with Lord Hickstead by Monday at six in the evening.”

  I was taken aback. Who was Diane Fraser? The others looked puzzled, too. We couldn’t dwell on the anomaly at that moment, however, as a nervous Lavender began to speak to the camera.

  “Dad, I’m so, so sorry. I caused all of this. I promise that if you make the police do as these men say, I’ll give up the celebrity lifestyle and take that office job on the first floor.”

  “What job?” Don Fisher blurted.

  But any conversation was curtailed as Dee spoke.

  “Josh, please don’t go into print with your statement. Press the police to agree to the terms these guys want. If you don’t, you’ll find your next opposition right here.”

  It was my turn to say “What?”

  The second kidnapper spoke from behind the camera again.

  “Remember, Monday, six o’clock, or you never see either of them again.”

  ***

  As soon as the video ended there was a flurry of activity, and analysts were poring over every work spoken for clues.

  “Mr Fisher, Josh, let me start by saying that at Vastrick we train all of our operatives in surviving hos
tage situations. Just like the military, we use certain key words and phrases that signal useful pieces of information. After that, it’s up to the ingenuity of the hostage, and Dee is ingenious, believe me. I know because I’ve watched her in action. Now, can I have your initial thoughts on what we just saw and heard?”

  I spoke out first.

  “The very first thing that puzzled me was the way the man called Dee, Diane Fraser. I can’t explain that. Why give a false name?”

  “I think I know,” Levi said, staring at his screen where a picture of a young woman was prominent. “The Vastrick database has thrown up a reference to a former case where we recovered a cult member after her parents made a donation to ‘The new world order for tranquillity’.”

  “I remember that case,” Tom Vastrick interrupted, frowning. Obviously it hadn’t ended well. “The cult leaders said if the parents paid half a million pounds in donations, they would excommunicate their daughter and expel her. The parents paid up, and our operatives were directed to an industrial unit where we found Diane Fraser fit and healthy and angry, having been chained up. Sad thing was, after a month she went straight back to the cult. It was probably a ploy. OK people, analysis please.”

  A voice came over the speakers.

  “Tom, this is Luke. As there is no cult involvement here, could it be that Dee is sending us a message that she is being held in an industrial unit?”

  Tom looked around the table, and Boniface and Coombes both nodded their agreement with the analysis. We moved on to Lavender’s statement, and Don Fisher spoke up.

  “I don’t know what the girl is on about. I’ve never offered her an office job and our offices don’t have a first floor, anyway.”

  “I think she’s a clever girl,” Coombes commented. “Surely she means that they are being held in a first floor office. So far we have them in an industrial unit, with two storey offices, and they’re on the first floor.”

  Boniface leaned over and squeezed the DCI’s shoulder. DCI Coombes beamed as the table accepted his analysis. The door opened and a full printed transcript was given to everyone. We were then told that the video stills were being printed. Boniface took the lead for a moment.

  “Josh’s statement was taken days ago, and he signed it in Dee’s presence. It would seem to me that the first part, about going into print, must also be a coded message.”

  We all pondered what it could mean, and the analysts set algorithms away that would analyse all possible meanings of the words.

  “Luke again,” the speaker chirped. The computer is showing that the word ‘print’ can be associated with the word ‘press’ in the next sentence, as in ‘printing press’. This could be code for Dee telling us that the industrial unit houses a printing press.”DCI Coombes and Inspector Boniface whispered to one another before Coombes said in a loud voice, “DS Scott, are you still sitting with the voice analysts at Scotland Yard?”

  “Yes, Guv. We can hear and see everything that’s going on.”

  “Good. The Inspector and I would like you to run a check on all print companies inside the M25. Don’t bother with print shops, just the ones operating out of industrial premises. Oh, and see if we’ve had any suspicions or reports on any of them.”

  “OK, Guv, I’m on it now.”

  We all looked at the next section of the transcript, and Tom continued.

  “So, we know that Dee thinks that there are at least four men holding them, did everyone see that?” Everyone nodded but me and Don Fisher.

  “Run that part again, Levi,” he said, seeing our puzzlement. “Watch her hands.”

  Dee had been sitting with her hands in closed fists, and as soon as she said the words “these guys”, she opened her right hand and tucking her thumb underneath tapped the table gently with four fingers.

  I didn’t know who was cleverer, Dee for coming up with it, or the detectives in the room who noticed that imperceptible movement. Along with a strong feeling of pride in Dee I also felt a quick stab of pain at the loss, no matter how temporary, of the woman I loved.

  ***

  Things had been going well and everyone was exuding a confidence and bravado that lifted Don Fisher’s spirits and my own, but then they faltered. The clumsy phrasing of Dee’s last sentence obviously meant something, but neither the analysts nor the computer had a reasonable interpretation of what it meant.

  They all turned to me. Inspector Boniface voiced the opinion of them all.

  “Josh, we think this message is specifically meant for you. She deliberately says:

  “If you don’t, you’ll find your next opposition right here.”

  I guessed that they were right, but other than the obvious meaning that the kidnappers would be my opponents if I didn’t persuade the police, I couldn’t see what else it could be.

  “Luke again. The computer has these suggestions for ‘your next opposition’. First a political opposition, which given the fact that he is a Labour Peer seems most likely. Second a sporting opposition, an individual or team attempting to overcome you.”

  How could I have been so dense? I put it down to tiredness and stress. A light went on in my brain, and suddenly I knew what it meant.

  “Thanks, Luke. Sporting opposition is exactly what it means. Today at West Ham, Dee and I watched as they lost to Chelsea. West Ham have now gone four games without a point, so everyone was saying we must win our next home match, where the opposition is Tottenham Hotspur.”

  ***

  It was now nearly two in the morning, and computers were working overtime, looking for printing companies in the vicinity of Tottenham. There were six possibilities and so Levi typed in the first address provided by DS Scott from Scotland Yard.

  Up on the video came a satellite view from Google. Levi dragged a little man figure onto the road in front of the printing press. Immediately a picture looking down the road appeared. Levi clicked on an arrow and the view was to our right.

  There in the middle of the picture was a 1930’s single storey brick building bearing the sign, Norman Betteridge, Printer and Binder. This was clearly not our building.

  Levi carried out the same routine for all six addresses. We were left with two possibilities. Offset Litho (Tottenham) Ltd on Brantwood Road, and Tottenham Press (2005) Ltd, on Commercial Road.

  Offset Litho was a two story flat roofed building with offices at the front and the factory space behind. Tottenham Press was a big shed with a pitched roof.

  Something had been niggling at me for an hour and I couldn’t bring it to the front of my mind. I flicked through the video stills again, in case I had missed something important. I was about to put to one side the first picture of the masked man facing the camera when I saw something that took me back a couple of years. In the background, just behind the man, I could make out a column of what seemed to me to be yellow steel. They were quite clearly inside a yellow steel framed building.

  In 2008 I had been called to a fire where a mini industrial unit had burned down. The site was a tangle of cladding insulation and twisted yellow steel. The insurer paid for the rebuild, which I certified at each month end as the work proceeded. The original steel contractor had been employed to rebuild the frame. The company were called Conder Structures, if I was remembering correctly, and their director told me that three of the major steel suppliers used their own patented colours; blue, green and yellow respectively. Most other contractors’ steel was usually primed with red or grey. The interesting point as far as I was concerned was that Conder specialised in portal frames because they provided greater strength with less steel and gave a completely free floor area with no columns. A portal frame building would typically also have pitched roof.

  I quickly explained to the weary team my theory and preference for Tottenham Press being the kidnappers’ hideout. No-one disputed my analysis, but just to be sure the Metropolitan Police asked a local car to drive by both premises and look for signs of life. Tottenham Police Station obliged, and promised to call back
in fifteen minutes.

  DCI Coombes’ mobile phone rang and he answered it. He grabbed a pen, making notes on a pad in front of him.

  “Thanks for that, Sergeant. That might just be the information that tips the balance.”

  He set down his phone and spoke to Inspector Boniface, speaking loudly enough for us all to hear.

  “Have you heard of the Holloway family?”

  “Yes. We caught one of their teams unloading a dozen Chinese illegals at one of the big office blocks in the City, but the Chinese wouldn’t talk to us and so they were deported and a couple of Holloway’s boys went to prison for acting as gang masters to illegal immigrants. Neither of them would say a word about Pops or Sonny, though.”

  DCI Coombes turned to the rest of us.

  “Alfred Clement Holloway is in his sixties now but he’s been a villain all of his life. We’ve linked him with stolen goods, drug trafficking, human trafficking and prostitution but so far he’s always managed to get away with short sentences, having pleaded guilty to the minor offences, knowing witnesses wouldn’t come forward. For the last twenty years he has been known as Pops Holloway, as a sign of respect and because his son Adam Alfred Holloway, joined the family business.”

  This was all very interesting, but I couldn’t see where this was taking us. Coombes was still talking.

  “Pops Holloway was a Director of Tottenham Press when it went bust in 2005. He was disqualified as a director for ten years because Companies House thinks he deliberately siphoned off creditors’ money before he went into administration. He still owns the lease, and his son is one of the directors.

  DS Scott says that the Fraud Squad think that it was Holloways that printed all of the fake tickets for that Diva concert at the O2 Arena last year. Almost half the tickets were fakes, but the gate staff couldn’t tell them apart. We had fifty officers there breaking up fights between fans who had booked the same seats as others.”

  Vastrick was in conference with the two police officers, who were trying to decide if we had enough certainty to mount a raid on Tottenham Press. The phone rang and Vastrick put it on speaker.

  “DCI Coombes, this is Sergeant Hall at Tottenham. We did a drive by, and Offset Litho is dark and quiet. Tottenham Press is showing a narrow strip of light under the roller shutter door, which is odd.”