Double Cross: A gripping political thriller (The Cadre Book 3)

by Stephen Edger

  A major investigation was launched into Mercure’s actions over the course of that day, while she sat at home on suspension. Partridge had seemed like the real driving force throughout the investigation and really seemed to have it in for Mercure. Kyle believed it was Partridge’s way of covering her own back for not realising that her P.A., Paul Burns, had been behind the whole thing.

  ‘Ya doin’ that staring into the distance thing again,’ White said, clicking his fingers in Kyle’s face.

  ‘Sorry, Guv, I was just thinking.’

  ‘What about, man?’

  ‘The day we met.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve turned bent all of a sudden. I can’t handle a D.S. with a crush on me.’

  It was Kyle’s turn to grin. ‘You know what I’m referring to, Guv.’

  ‘Ah not the Paul Burns thing again? How many times do I have to tell ya; he was guilty, man. I know it’s frustrating that we couldn’t question the canny bastard, but he got what he deserved. Let it go, man.’

  ‘That’s just it, Guv. If he really was responsible, why isn’t there more evidence linking him with our dead terrorist? We never traced the phone he’d used to contact The Serpent over the course of that day. We raided Burns’ flat, office and regular haunts, and the mobile was nowhere to be found.’

  ‘So what? He got rid of it.’

  ‘Guv, you were the one who first grew suspicious of Burns. What was it that made you think he was involved?’

  ‘How many times, man? I’ve told you already: I caught him making a secret call to someone while he was standing in the police canteen. When I challenged him, he denied makin’ the call. We never found the phone he’d used then, so the chances are they were one and the same.’

  ‘Look, you’re always telling me that a good cop should trust his instincts, right? Well every bone in my body is screaming that he didn’t do it: that there’s something bigger going on that we don’t know about.’

  ‘Go on then Einstein.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Go on: tell me what this big conspiracy theory is.’

  ‘Well…I don’t…I’m not…what I mean is, I don’t exactly know what the bigger picture is. What I do know is that Burns could not have been acting alone. I mean, the cost of hiring the assassin would have been huge in itself. Where does an underpaid P.A. get the kind of money to organise something like that? If he was involved somehow, I don’t see him as anything more than a middle man.’

  ‘But a middle man for whom?’

  ‘I don’t know, Guv,’ Kyle admitted.

  ‘You sound as paranoid as that naval lieutenant who diffused one of the bombs. When I interviewed him about what happened, he kept banging on about some conspiracy.’

  ‘You never told me that. Who did he say was behind it?’

  ‘He didn’t know either. You’s two ought to set up your own club, like.’

  Kyle ignored the jibe.

  White continued. ‘Besides which, D.C.I. Payne has told you to close the case on Paul Burns. She won’t react well if she learns you’re still looking for leads where there aren’t any. Face it, man, Burns did it and got what he deserved. It’s that simple. We need to focus on catching the bastards who are still breathing and breaking laws.’

  ‘You have someone in mind?’

  White wiped his face with a napkin and pushed his empty plate away. ‘I do indeed. Have you ever heard about a bastard called Jock McManus?’

  Kyle shrugged. ‘Should I have?’

  ‘I suppose it depends wha’ circles ya mix in. You’ve never heard his name mentioned by one of your snitches?’

  Kyle shook his head. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘If you asked him, he’d say he’s Scotland’s answer to Al Capone. If you ask me, I’ll tell you he’s a rotten scumbag who would sell his own grandmother if he thought he’d get a good price.’

  ‘And he’s working in Southampton? I’ve never heard of him.’

  ‘Ah well, he’s not actively working here at the moment, but I know he’s trying to get his grubby hooks into the city.’

  ‘You can see the future now can you, Guv?’

  White snickered. ‘I’ve told you before, Kyle, there’s more to me than meets the eye.’

  ‘So who is this McManus? Someone from your old patch?’

  ‘Exactly! I was working a case against him when I got transferred down here.’

  ‘What makes you think he has his sights set on Southampton?’

  ‘Right before I transferred, I discovered some blueprints in one of his known hang-outs. The blueprints were for a building somewhere here in Southampton.’

  ‘I don’t see the connection, Guv.’

  ‘Eighteen months ago, I learned of an underground gambling racket in the heart of Newcastle. My informant told me that McManus was the person funding and profiting from the activity. I spent the best part of a year trying to nail that bastard, but every time I got close, he managed to squirm clear. Nobody would say a word against him, but I knew deep down he was responsible, man.’

  ‘So why didn’t you arrest him?’

  ‘Because men like him are untouchable! He’s a legitimate businessman: donating regularly to charitable causes, playing golf with the Chief Constable and even pays for a box at St. James’ Park, which he raffles off for one lucky person to take their friends to the game in style. But I ask you: where did all his money come from? He was a university drop-out, with no family wealth to rely on, yet when he arrived in Newcastle, he was suddenly Mr Moneybags.’

  ‘It sounds like your case and mine aren’t all that dissimilar, Guv.’

  ‘Alright, listen, I can keep Payne off your case for now, but you really need to wrap it up by the end of this week. Go and kick over a few stones and see what you find, but do it quietly. Is that understood? If you haven’t found what you’re looking for by Friday, you’re on your own.’

  Kyle jumped to his feet, eager to get started. ‘Shall we go now?’

  ‘Nope,’ White replied, standing and looking at something on his phone. ‘I’ve got my own enquiries to make. Go and do what you need to, and we’ll have a catch up after lunch.’

  ‘Wait, where are you going?’

  White pushed the phone back into his pocket. ‘If the message I just received is right, McManus just boarded a flight at Newcastle International. The little shit is heading our way, and I’m going to find out exactly what he’s up to.’

  8

  Half an hour later, White pulled his car into the unloading bay at Southampton International airport. He turned the engine off and opened his window a fraction to prevent it misting up. He was parked almost halfway between departures and arrivals. From where he was sitting, he would have a great view of any passengers exiting the airport. He flicked the radio on, but turned the volume down low enough so as not to draw attention to himself. It was just after ten and, according to his source, McManus’ flight was due to arrive at 10:05.

  What is that bastard doing here?

  The text message he’d received back at the café had been sent by someone he hadn’t seen or spoken to since his enforced transfer to Southampton: David Hoxley.

  Hoxley was a degenerate gambler with the clichéd background of most of the scumbags that White had encountered: broken home, in and out of care, expelled from school at fifteen and then a spate of stays at young offender institutes. The truth was that Hoxley had spent less time in prison since agreeing to become an official informant for the Northumbria police force. It had been almost two years since he had last been incarcerated. White had known he could break him the moment they had met. Hoxley had been picked up for trying to score heroin from an undercover officer at a nightclub. He’d spent the night in cells, before being bailed the following morning. He had been in the breeze for under an hour before he was spotted by White trying to hustle money out of a couple of prostitutes. White had done the chivalrous thing and taken Hoxley into a quiet alley and taught him some manners. It was during the scuffle that Hoxle
y had volunteered information on a senior figure in the city who was starting to gain quite the reputation. Their discussion had been interrupted by a minor car accident at the end of the alley. White had told him to stay put whilst he went to assist the incident. No sooner was White’s back turned than Hoxley had shot down the alley and was gone. Later that day, White located the address of Hoxley’s council-owned flat and decided to pay him a visit.

  ‘He controls all the crime in the city,’ Hoxley had confessed as White had dangled him from the balcony. ‘Anything that goes down has to be agreed by McManus first.’

  Half an hour later, and with gravity causing Hoxley’s face to look like a plum, White had finally pulled him back over the edge and sat him in a chair. He had spilled the beans on everything: the offices McManus used to conduct his extra-curricular meetings, the derelict shops behind which illegal casinos were run, the small factories where narcotics were cut to distribute to the masses. White got it all: names, places and dates. He had taken a fortnight’s leave to verify the information, skulking in dark corners and quietly watching the inner workings of the city. At the end of the two weeks, he’d handed a well-written and researched case file to his D.C.I. and explained how he wanted to proceed.

  The D.C.I. had listened intently whilst White had explained how it all worked and had then said, ‘I’ll need to take this up the line to get the go-ahead. Leave it with me.’

  A week had passed and White had heard nothing. Eventually he had knocked on the D.C.I.’s door and asked what was going on. The D.C.I. had handed the file back, saying, ‘It’s not strong enough. We can’t just pull him in on a hunch. He’s the city’s saviour for Christ’s sake.’

  That had been the moment he’d vowed he would bring McManus to justice one way or another. Hoxley’s message this morning had been out of the blue, but he wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity.

  A tap on the window caught his attention. He wound the window down to speak to the security guard. ‘Yeah, what?’

  ‘This bay is for unloading and collecting passengers. You need to move your vehicle to the multi-storey car park.’

  White lifted his warrant card up to the man’s face and said, ‘I’m on official police business, like. The chief suspect in a major operation is about to step through those doors, so with all due respect…’

  ‘I’m afraid you still need to move your vehicle, sir.’

  ‘Listen, man, he’s going to be here in the next ten minutes, so how about you take a tea break now, and I’ll be gone by the time you get back.’

  White lifted a twenty pound note into the guard’s view. The man looked around and snatched the money, adding, ‘You’ve got ten minutes.’

  White wound the window back up and waited. Two minutes later, he saw McManus walk through the automatic doors and shiver slightly as he left the warmth of the building. He was wearing a thick black overcoat, beneath which a colourful necktie could be seen. He was carrying a black briefcase, but didn’t appear to have any other luggage with him. Whatever had brought him here, he wasn’t going to be staying for long.

  Almost immediately, a dark Mondeo pulled up next to McManus, and a chauffeur emerged to open and close McManus’ door for him. The chauffeur quickly returned to the driver’s side and, in under a minute of its arrival, the Mondeo was on the move again. White counted to thirty, then started his engine and pulled out behind it.

  The Mondeo joined the M27 heading west. White followed suit, but kept two cars between them, in an effort to avoid drawing unwanted attention to his pursuit. The Mondeo continued past the exit for the M3, past the Nursling junction for Southampton, past the A36 turnoff and joined the A31 at junction-1. White was content to keep pace with the Mondeo, but decreased his speed when it joined the A337 towards Brockenhurst. Minutes later, the Mondeo pulled into the car park of the Balmer Lawn hotel and McManus climbed out while the chauffeur found a parking space in the car park. White pulled slowly into the car park and parked three cars down from the Mondeo. He wasn’t sure whether to wait where he was, in case McManus was merely collecting somebody, or whether he should head into the hotel. Glancing at the Mondeo, he could see the chauffeur was thumbing through a newspaper. He decided to follow McManus.

  The hotel had the look of a large country estate, with a giant green lawn to its front aspect, and at least fifty rooms split across three floors. Despite his suit and tie, White felt considerably underdressed as he walked through the main doors and into the large, luxurious lobby. His eyes scanned the faces of those moving about, but there was no sign of McManus. He determined that the Scot was unlikely to have checked into a room, owing to the lack of luggage, which meant he was more likely to be in one of the hotel’s large conference suites.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’ the young woman behind the desk asked when she spotted him loitering.

  ‘Uh…I’m a chauffeur,’ White said, thinking quickly. ‘The man I’m driving is in one of your meeting rooms, like…I was wondering if there was somewhere I could sit and wait for him; maybe grab a coffee?’

  ‘Certainly,’ the woman said. ‘We have a bar and tea room that way, where you can purchase a drink and sit comfortably.’

  White’s gaze followed her direction. The bar was down a corridor, the opposite way to the conference rooms.

  ‘I wonder if there is anywhere closer to here I can wait? It’s just, I don’t know how long my client will be in his meeting, and I know he’d get pretty cross if he had to hunt me down.’

  ‘Well, you’re more than welcome to drink your coffee by the window behind you. Many of our guests like to relax here.’

  He turned and saw several armchairs facing towards a large bay window with a view of the lawn.

  ‘If you tell me your client’s name, I can pass him a message to tell him where he can find you.’

  ‘No,’ he interrupted. ‘That’s okay. I’ll go get a coffee and come and sit here. That way I can see him when he comes out. Thanks for your help, pet.’

  White returned a few minutes later, armed with a large cappuccino and a complimentary tabloid. He found a chair that faced the window at an angle, allowing him to glance over his shoulder towards the conference rooms, but with his face otherwise obscured from view. It was half past ten and, with nothing better to do than wait, he began to read the newspaper. The next two hours dragged. Having finished his drink, he ordered another one and found a different newspaper, which he again read from cover to cover. He was about to phone Kyle to check in when he heard McManus’ familiar Scottish brogue. Keeping the newspaper aloft, as if he was reading it, he casually turned his head to see who McManus was talking to. He whipped his head back around as soon as he realised who the woman was.

  McManus embraced her cordially and the two exchanged final words before she headed out of the door. The Scot, on the other hand, pulled out a mobile phone and dialled his driver to come and collect him.

  White’s mind was racing. Of all the people he’d expected to see McManus with, the Home Secretary was the last. He knew that McManus was friendly with senior figures, which included politicians, but a secretive meeting with Partridge just didn’t add up. White had met her the night of the bus bombing. She’d seemed quite astute, and his first impression of her was positive. Their paths had crossed several times since, and each time he’d seen her at one of the operational briefings, her questions and comments had never been anything but constructive. He began to wonder just how much she knew about her new acquaintance.

  He continued to stare at the pages of the tabloid as he tried to assess whether he should confront the two of them before they got away, or whether to hang back and try to work out what they could have been meeting for. It didn’t take him long to decide. Ultimately, McManus could have been here for legitimate business; after all, he did make regular charitable donations. Also, just because McManus was bent, it didn’t automatically infer that Partridge was.

  He waited until McManus was back in the Mondeo, before racing out of the hotel
to his own car and recommencing the pursuit. He could have guessed their destination the moment they returned to the M27, heading east. Sure enough, the chauffeur exited the motorway at junction-5 and headed for the airport. White pulled into the same loading bay where he’d been three hours earlier, and watched as McManus headed through the departures entrance. He was tempted to follow the Scot in, pin him up against a wall and beat the truth out of him, but he knew it wouldn’t help matters. Once again, he was going to have to stay patient and build any case from the ground up. He pulled his phone out and texted Kyle. ‘Pub debrief in half an hour; the usual place.’

  9

  Kyle was at his desk at the police station when White’s call came through. He wasn’t surprised that the D.I. had demanded they meet at the pub; White really was old-school. Their working relationship had been rocky to start with, but he’d really grown to respect the Geordie and his sometimes antiquated methods.

  Kyle’s path into Hampshire constabulary had been just as rocky. He had never been one of those children who dreamed of serving a better cause and protecting others. In truth, the fact that he was now a policeman was more by fluke than anything else. As a teenager growing up in Southampton, he had dreamed of making it big in a rock band. Bon Jovi and Axel Rose had been his heroes. While other delinquent teenagers were hanging about on street corners smoking and drinking cheap cider, he had been in his room with headphones on, or trying to learn chords on his guitar. He had grown his hair long and bought a subscription for NME.