She Will Rescue You

by Chris Clement-Green

  ‘And they were all okay with it?’ Mia needed it spelled out.

  ‘They’re actually rather proud — especially because that idiot who shot at Alex wasn’t killed.’ Mick gave her his own smile of approval. ‘I also told them that if the police do come they must tell them anything they can to be helpful. I assured them that nothing they said would make things worse for anyone they know . . . or knew.’

  ‘You’re a star!’ Mia hugged him. ‘Whatever happens, Mountain View and all the other rescue centres won’t be implicated or financially affected — they’ll continue to run in exactly the same way — and I promise you,’ she poked Mick’s chest, ‘that anything you tell them will lead to a dead end.’

  ‘I know.’ Mick grinned at his new boss. ‘So, are you going to be leaving the NCA now?’

  ‘God, no! If I stay I can give Alex and the boys a heads-up — if needed.’

  Mark found himself too busy to think about Mia — who rarely spent much time in the incident room these days. She came in for a weekly update but was busy with other, non-black feather cases. ‘Murder and mayhem goes on unabated, Mark. You have more than enough help now and too many cooks — but feel free to ring me anytime.’

  He’d refrained from calling her — about anything.

  She’d been right though; the incident room was now full of experts. A Special Forces commander had analysed the video and confirmed the men were all highly trained, professionals — no shouting, no names and British sign language used. But there were thousands of mercenaries operating out of the UK these days, and these men were unlikely to have come from a registered agency — although that line of inquiry was being pursued.

  An IT expert had tracked the YouTube upload through various IP addresses and host sites, but had eventually come up against a dead end.

  The laptop had been ‘a burner’ — one use only. The scene itself was too dangerous to be forensically examined, and although all the villagers had been interviewed, none, including Jacob Masterson who had been knocked unconscious and then shot in the knee, could add anything to the video footage — even their rescue phone had had all its identification removed.

  Things were at a standstill when Matt Brown strode into Mark’s office with a big grin.

  ‘We’ve got a partial match!’

  He was waving the exhibit bag containing the fag end recovered from near the badger baiters’ Volvo.

  ‘About bloody time something went our way!’ Mark matched his DI’s grin.

  ‘Good call — authorising the familiar testing.’

  ‘So, who does it come back to?’

  ‘A bloke named Gordon Campbell. He’s serving three years in Brixton for GBH on a girlfriend. A right asshole with convictions stretching from Glasgow to London.’

  ‘Let’s go speak to an asshole!’

  The two men left the incident room with a slight spring in their step and, for the first time, Mark was content in having Matt’s company instead of Mia’s.

  Brixton Prison was a red-brick Victorian monstrosity, built to house around 800 men but it was probably holding nearer double that now. While Matt placed the car’s police log-book on the dashboard (like a disabled badge, it allowed them to park anywhere), Mark snorted at the blue metal sign welcoming visitors to HMP Brixton: A community prison for the twenty-first century. It was a cockroach-infested shithole.

  They passed quickly through security and were shown to an interview room. About fifteen minutes later, which was quick for the prison service, a sly-looking man was escorted into the room — a look of belligerence fixed firmly to his grey, unshaven face. Records showed he was fifty-six, but drink had taken its toll and he looked nearer seventy. Everything about him was grey: his hair, his prison track-suit and the cloud that hung over him, a micro-climate of depression. He sank into one of the fixed chairs on his side of the bolted down table and looked at them with innate defiance.

  Matt opened proceedings. ‘You’re Gordon Campbell, born 3 July 1961?’

  ‘Who the fuck wants to know?’

  ‘I’m DI Brown and this is DCS Johnson — we’re from the NCA and we want to talk to you about male progeny.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sons, Gordon — do you have any sons?’ Mark stared at the small man.

  ‘Two — that I know of. Why?’

  ‘Names?’ Matt had his notebook open.

  ‘Alex is the eldest—’

  ‘Date of birth.’

  ‘No fucking idea.’

  ‘What do you mean you’ve no idea? He’s your son for Christ’s sake!’

  Campbell just shrugged.

  Mark asked. ‘How old were you when Alex was born?’

  ‘About nineteen.’

  ‘Which would make Alex what? Thirty-seven or thirty-eight?’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘And what hospital was Alex born at?’

  ‘The Royal.’

  ‘Glasgow?’

  Campbell nodded.

  ‘And his mum’s name?’

  ‘Katie.’

  ‘Surname?’

  ‘Donald.’

  ‘Not married then?’

  ‘Not then. We got hitched afterwards — it’s my name on his birth certificate though.’

  ‘And where’s Alex now?’

  ‘Fuck knows! I chucked the arse-wipe out when he was fifteen — got too big for his fucking boots. Someone told me he’d joined the army, but I haven’t seen him since he was a mouthy teenager.’

  ‘What about Katie? Is she in contact?’

  Matt asked. ‘Doubt it. She died years ago. Overdose. Stupid bitch.’

  ‘And your youngest — what’s his name?’

  ‘Dougie — Douglas. Why’re yer asking about my boys? What are they supposed to have done? Dougie can’t be of any interest to the likes of you –he was a right little goody-two-shoes and fucked off to Canada years ago!’

  ‘What about Alex? Is he the sort of lad we’d be interested in?’ Mark’s look was ambivalent.

  Campbell shrugged. He might never have loved his son but he was no fucking grass.

  Mark stood and Matt flipped his notebook closed.

  ‘Thank you for your time, Gordon — you’ve been most helpful.’

  By the time they’d returned to the incident room, Matt had got DCs making enquiries with the Glasgow Registry Office to obtain Alex and Dougie Campbell’s full details, as well as confirming the death of their mother. Equipped with a proper date of birth, the same DCs had been tasked with contacting the MOD for Alex Campbell’s military service record.

  ‘You go on — I’ll be in in a minute.’ Mark smiled at the DI.

  Once Matt was out of earshot he called Mia. She needed updating and perhaps this would get her back in the incident room.

  Mia had sneaked back to Wales — she couldn’t go for more than three days without an Alex fix. They were holed up in the cottage, keeping warm in bed, when her NCA phone vibrated.

  As she ended the call, Alex registered a mixture of panic and fear in her eyes.

  ‘What’s up, lass?’

  ‘They’ve got you, Alex — they’ve got your DNA!’

  ‘Where the fuck from?’ He sat up.

  ‘That blasted roll-up from the baiters’ Volvo! For Christ’s sake, Alex — Ellie was forever telling you about your fucking fag ends!’

  ‘But it was tested ages ago with no match!’

  ‘Mark authorised a familial test — they got a match on your father who’s currently in Brixton for GBH on his girlfriend!’

  ‘Well, there’s no point in doing a runner now.’ Alex relaxed against the headboard. ‘The plods will have an all-ports out on me — might as well walk into the nearest nick.’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘Order a new passport and stay put.’ He reached for a roll-up.

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding me!’

  He wasn’t sure if she meant the plan or the fag, but lit up anyway.

  ‘This is probab
ly the safest place right now, lass. Nothing links me to this cottage and they haven’t even got E’s details — not that this place is in her name anyway.’

  ‘It’s not?’ She was still learning just how careful Ellie Grant had been.

  ‘Nope, it’s in the name of some holding company — Mick’s got the details.’

  Mia let out the breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.

  ‘Okay . . . that seems sensible.’ She got out of bed.

  ‘I take it you’re off back to London then?’ He took a long pull on the roll-up.

  ‘Of course! I’m expected and I’ll need to do some damage limitation.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Not sure off the top of my head, but I’m going to be of more use to you in London than I am here.’

  ‘I’m not so sure about that.’ He patted the bed.

  She leaned in to kiss him. It was a long kiss that held all the promise of further delay, but Mia pushed herself away.

  ‘I’ll phone you tonight.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  In my beginning is my end

  The drive back to London was a nightmare. Her mind whirred frantically. Then, as she hit the M4—M25 junction, it came to her. The idea was simple. It would be effective but had two big drawbacks — it was dangerous and would reveal that the incident room had a mole.

  Because of her connection to Mark, they had no one working in the London incident room and it would be too risky to bring someone in now. She’d have to do it herself and hope her cover was strong enough to hold up under any internal inquiry.

  Mia walked into Mark’s office with the expected smile.

  ‘Good job, Mark!’

  His stomach tightened at the sight of her.

  ‘A piece of luck for sure.’ He returned her smile in a way he hoped would reassure her there were no hard feelings about her early departure from their dinner.

  ‘So, what does this Gordon Campbell say about his sons?’ She sat down and got out her notebook.

  ‘He’s got two — that he knows about. The youngest turns out to be a geology teacher working in Canada for the last three years — so his alibi is pretty solid. But I’m convinced Alex, his older brother, is our man. Thirty-seven, with an excellent military record, including command of a Special Forces section.’

  ‘Wow — that really is a breakthrough! So where is this Alex now?’

  ‘No bugger seems to know. He left the army in 2010 and worked in private security for around five years, before disappearing off-grid. I spoke to his army commander who said he’d be surprised if the Campbell he knew would turn rogue, but his last employer was less certain. He pointed out that once a man got a taste for the scale of income his type of skills could command, a man could do anything if the price was right. Coffee?’

  ‘No, thanks. Did Campbell’s last employer say why he left?’

  ‘He was a bit evasive, these companies like playing secret squirrel, but his last job was guarding a Nigerian pipeline which was attacked by Boko Haram. Two of his men were killed and Campbell himself suffered a machete wound to his face. Read into that what you will, but he’s not undertaken any agency work since.’

  ‘And he’s really off-grid? No utility registration, social media, phones?’

  Mia was impressed by the spontaneity of her questions. Perhaps she could do this.

  ‘Nothing. He’s ghosted. The only bit of intel we’ve got is that he likes Wales! But Wales is a bloody big country with plenty of places to hide.’

  ‘True.’ She felt the knot in her belly relax for the first time since entering the building. ‘Now we’ve got his DNA, is there anything linking him to any other crime scene?’

  ‘Unfortunately not. The army have supplied a copy of his fingerprints but we’ve got nothing to compare them to.’

  ‘How about an up-to-date photo?’

  ‘A digital photo-fit is the nearest we can get, with an approximation of the likely scarring from the machete attack.’ Mark tossed her a colour image of Alex. It was a surprisingly good likeness. ‘On the upside that scar is likely to be a whopper, very hard to hide, that’s why we’ve assumed he’ll have grown a beard.’ He drew a breath. ‘Are you in town long enough for another dinner?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mark, but I’m still swamped at the moment.’ A thought popped into her head. ‘One of my cases is Welsh so I’ll keep an eye out for your man.’

  Mark was struck by her use of the your instead of our.

  ‘Can I keep this?’ She waved the photo at him.

  ‘Sure, everyone else has a copy — including Border Control.’

  Mia turned left, away from the exit but towards the ladies’ — and the property store. When she’d first started in the incident room she, like everyone else, had noted down the relevant access codes and telephone numbers in the back of her daybook. The store was actually an oversized, windowless cupboard that was usually occupied by Sally, the exhibit’s officer, between eight and six — although she’d be called into the evening briefing in ten minutes. Mia just had to be patient.

  Sitting in a loo cubicle, she kept checking her Rolex, waiting for the hands to show 6 p.m. — the time of the daily debrief. Fear returned to her belly and sat there, a dead weight. At 6.05 p.m. she walked at what she considered her normal speed to the property store and checked the corridor in both directions, before pressing in the code — a folded tissue covered her index finger. Nothing! They had changed the fucking code! Shit! Shit!

  As she turned away the door opened and Sally beamed at her.

  ‘Hi, Mia, did you want me?’

  ‘It’s not important — I just need to check a few exhibit numbers for my continuity statement. I can come back.’

  ‘I’m late, again, for the debrief — do you think you could look them up yourself? The register’s open on the computer. Mark will kill me if I miss another one.’

  ‘Sure, no problem!’ Mia gave her friendliest smile.

  ‘Cheers!’ Sally ran down the corridor, daybook in hand.

  Mia closed the door, ensuring anyone entering would have to key in the code and thereby give her a heads-up. The cupboard room contained floor to ceiling grey metal shelving that ran around all four walls, the doorway being the only free space. A strip-light hummed constantly. It reminded her of the Norfolk incident room, when life had been more black and white and she was on the good guys’ side — well the official good guys.

  She keyed in the date of the badger baiters’ death and scrolled through the register until she found the list of exhibits seized from the Volvo. There it was — box 89, exhibit ND/7. Mia had no idea who ND was but he or she had been too fucking thorough. She quickly found the small plastic evidence bag and folded it lengthways, tucked it into the waistband of her skirt. Hopefully it would be months before the exhibit was actually missed.

  Her heart was punching at her ribcage as she walked past the incident room. She was worried Mark would note her delayed departure but, glancing through the internal window, she saw everyone gathered in front of the main whiteboard and Mark was leaning against a desk with his back to her.

  Her hand slipped against the car’s door handle as she pulled at it, struggling to contain a rising panic. She wanted to throw up. Pushing the nausea down, she got in, fastened her seat belt and drove slowly towards the security barrier. As she waited for it to rise, the CCTV camera captured a face of calm indifference, but the plastic next to her skin felt poker-hot.

  Too exhausted to drive back to Wales, Mia went to her flat. It had stopped feeling like home; home was where Alex was, nowhere else. But it felt safe. She slid the deadbolt across and pulled out the plastic bag and held it up to the hall light. She had crossed her first line.

  She opened a bottle of red and poured herself a large glass. Taking a steadying gulp she tore open the bag — there was no point in preserving the seal. She took the fag end into the bathroom, wrapped it in loo-roll and dropped it into the toilet bowl; giving the water time to s
oak into the paper and weigh down its contents. She pressed the flush and then continued to stare into the clean water for several seconds, making sure the fag end didn’t pop back up.

  Back in the kitchen, she took the as-new grill pan from her unused oven and removed the wire tray. Placing the exhibit bag on the bare metal she set light to it, watching as it curled in on itself, melting into a small black ball of unidentifiable nothingness. She let the ball cool and harden before taking it onto her balcony and flicking it out into the night.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  To betray, you must first belong.

  ‘Can I have a word, Boss?’

  The worry in Sally’s voice made Matt look up. ‘Sure — let’s use Mark’s office.’

  Matt sat on the edge of the SIO’s desk and indicated the chair nearest him.

  ‘So, what’s up, Sal?’

  ‘Exhibit ND/10 has just come back from the lab, and I was replacing it when I noticed ND/7 was missing. I’ve checked, Boss, and I’ve rechecked. I’ve checked all the surrounding boxes in case it was misplaced — not that I’ve ever misplaced anything before — and it’s not there. It’s simply not there!’

  ‘What’s ND/7?’

  ‘ND/7 is our breakthrough, the fag end with Alex Campbell’s DNA on it.’

  ‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me! Where the fuck is it?’

  ‘I don’t know! The only thing I’m certain of is that it’s not in the property store.’

  ‘So who was the last person to book it in or out?’

  ‘You were, Boss.’ Sally stared at her hands. ‘When it came back from the lab.’

  ‘But you were there when I booked it back in!’

  ‘I was, and it was me that put it back in the box — the right box!’ Matt focussed on the floor for a few seconds.

  ‘Right, here’s what’s going to happen. You, and only you, are going to go through every fucking exhibit — all 1,500 of them — and double check that ND/7 is not in the store.’

  Sally looked mortified.

  ‘Look, I don’t for a moment think you’ve done anything wrong, Sal, but if that exhibit’s gone missing—’