Sacrifice

by Jay Nadal

  “What happened with Stephen, Guv? He seemed a nervous character when he came in to see you. He wouldn’t talk to me. When I said you were in an interview, he was ready to bolt out of the door again. I had to do everything I could to keep him in the station.”

  “You did well to keep him here, Helen.” Scott took a healthy glug of his coffee before highlighting the key points from his interview, and how Woodman was in it up to his neck. Stephen explained that he knew about the gold smuggling operation that was being coordinated between Pastor Xabi and Alistair Woodman. He confirmed that he knew exactly where Woodman kept all the details of the transactions.

  Complicit in human trafficking, verbal and physical violence, and the illegal importation of gold. The charges were stacking up against Woodman.

  “Where’s Stephen now?” Helen asked.

  “I’ve still got him downstairs. It’s safer, considering the volatile situation he’s in, and what he’s already been subjected to. We can’t afford to take a risk with his safety. My fear is that if he goes back, Woodman may already be at home, and that would be disastrous for Stephen. He’s never let out of the house. He’s taken a massive gamble in coming here to talk to us.”

  “Will he stand against Woodman?” Abby asked.

  “He is happy to give us a full statement, in return for his protection. And I think that’s a good trade-off. We’ve got someone from Woodman’s inner circle that is willing to spill the beans on him. This is massive. Considering Woodman’s connections with CC Lennon, and other influential figures both locally and nationally, Stephen is a vital part of this investigation and a vital witness.”

  Abby turned towards Helen. “What’s the latest on Mike?”

  “He’ll live. The substance that he came into contact with was neither toxic nor life-threatening. The hospital took some samples from his face and clothing for analysis. Whatever it was, it was more of an irritant and sedative. According to Raj, Mike’s lips look like he’s had collagen implants, his eyes are swollen like a goldfish, and he’s got a red rash around his face.”

  “Well considering he’s Quasimodo’s half-brother, it sounds like he’s better looking already,” Abby laughed.

  “What’s our next step, Guv?”

  Scott stared at the incident board, and narrowed in on Woodman. Doubts about Woodman had been there from the beginning. He had been itching to uncover the dirt on the man, and in the past hour, that dirt had been delivered on a plate to him.

  “We go after Woodman. He’s relied on Xabi to intimidate and instil fear in the families that come here. Xabi has a formidable reputation at home, and those families know it. Non-compliance on their part is met with threats to their family back home. He uses Xabi to force people to come here on the promise of a good life, in return for bringing illegal gold into this country. And Woodman is the mastermind behind it.”

  It could have been a story straight out of the movies. Greed, corruption, and poverty wrapped up in a heavy dose of mystical sorcery, ancient tribal beliefs, and political influence at the highest levels.

  “We need to move on this. It transpires that Xabi came to see Woodman late last night. They went into the study. Stephen couldn’t hear what was being said. But Xabi came out not long after carrying a briefcase. It’s only speculation on Stephen’s part, but he presumes that whatever was in the safe was valuable. He heard Woodman say, ‘Guard this with your life.’”

  “Straight to Woodman’s now?”

  “Not yet. I need to wake Meadows first. Wish me luck.”

  40

  “It’s me.”

  The voice on the other end of the line expressed his displeasure. “I told you not to use this number to call me. No one is allowed to call me,” Xabi replied.

  Woodman was incensed. “Listen here, you fucking shit. When I want to talk to you, I expect you to talk to me. Don’t forget it’s me who’s stopping your arse from being in jail. I’ve made you a very rich man. So cut the fucking bullshit.”

  Xabi remained silent. His anger threatened to boil over. He expected and demanded respect. No one had spoken to him like that, and had survived to tell the tale. “Ukuphila kwakho sekuphelile, Ukuphila kwakho sekuphelile,” Xabi muttered.

  Woodman let out a slow ripple of laughter. “Now is not the time for your mumbo-jumbo witch doctor voodoo shit.”

  “But it’s true. Your life is over. Your life is over. My power has served your purpose well when it suited you. You are a foolish man to cross me. Ukuphila kwakho sekuphelile.”

  The calm and menacing tone to his voice sent a chill through Woodman as the hairs stood up on the back of his neck.

  Xabi’s reputation preceded him. He was feared wherever he went. More than two thousand pastors had been indoctrinated by him to carry on his work. His powers, his magnetism, and his reputation meant that they came from thousands of miles away, to learn the ancient traditions of this craft.

  Businessmen, members of law enforcement, the judiciary system, and peasants alike, would travel across the country. They would pay huge sums to overcome physical and mental illnesses, enjoy greater wealth in business, to have misdemeanours disappear, and to seek his protection.

  None of those things mattered to Woodman. He had only been interested in financial gain, and the exhilaration of exerting his power and influence to push his own selfish agenda. “Now is not the time to discuss the virtues of the dark arts. They are on to us. You’ve got the goods. Take them with you, and when the heat dies down, I’ll get them back off you.”

  “What are you going to do?” Xabi asked.

  Woodman smiled to himself as he took another sip of brandy. At more than two and half thousand pounds a bottle, Louis XIII from Rémy Martin always hit the spot. The amber liquid scorched his throat, and sent a wave of relaxation through his body. “A man’s home is his castle. If they think they can come and arrest me, then they are sadly mistaken.” His eyes settled on the two gleaming barrels of the shotgun he draped across his legs.

  The fireplace cast long shadows over the rug in his study. The flames curled and swayed, flicking this way and that, crackling and spitting. They cast their dancing silhouettes on the surrounding walls. Brilliant flashes of yellows and whites lit up the darkened room. He felt their warmth at last on his face even if from only one direction. He watched hypnotised, holding out a hand to get just a little more of the gentle heat one last time.

  He was ready.

  41

  “This better be good, Scott,” Meadows grumbled as he walked into the incident room. His normal smart attire of a suit and shirt had been replaced with a woolly pullover, dark jeans, and worn Nike trainers. It wasn’t a look that Scott and the team we used to. They took a few moments to register his change in appearance without looking too surprised.

  “Sorry, Sir. You know I’d only call you if it was urgent.”

  “Well, the missus didn’t take too kindly to my phone ringing, and making us both jump out of bed. I would have been in the office in a few hours anyway so this better be good.”

  Scott went through the latest updates in relation to the capture of Daniel Johnson and the involvement of Xabi and Alistair Woodman.

  “And you are sure that it is a gold smuggling operation?”

  “Absolutely, Sir. Xabi is bringing them into the country. They are desperate and genuine asylum seekers. They have been brainwashed into thinking that if they smuggled gold into this country, a high-ranking politician would assist their application for asylum. Xabi is such a powerful character back at home that they will believe anything he says, and would do anything he asks of them.”

  Meadows listened, his brow furrowed in deep concentration.

  “Sadly, as we know, several asylum seekers have lost their lives because of carrying gold on their persons. The children were taken first to keep the asylum seekers quiet, and to be used for the sacrificial purposes to bring prosperity.”

  “Sacrificial purposes and prosperity? For what?” Meadows asked, extending o
ut his hands.

  “To bring greater wealth to the African businessmen who are coming over here to trade the gold.”

  “And how is Woodman implicated in all of this?”

  “He’s allowing the businessmen to trade the gold illegally, so they avoid paying import duties and taxes. And in return, he gets a slice of the profits. We’ve got his butler, well another asylum seeker, who is his slave, he’s been trafficked over here. He will give us a full statement.”

  Scott paused to give Meadows time to digest the intel that was coming in thick and fast. “And we have a ton of information now on his business dealings in South Africa. The very same businesses that he’s been dealing with are the ones that are here at the moment. They are looking to exploit this legal loophole that Woodman has created for them.”

  “So that would explain why he’s always travelling to South Africa?”

  “It looks like that way, Sir.” Scott nodded. “We need permission to get a warrant to raid Woodman’s house.”

  Meadows paced about impatiently as he weighed up his options. “Give me five minutes. I’ll need the chief constable’s permission. Jesus, I don’t think I’ve ever had to call the chief in the middle of the night. I’ll be back,” Meadows said as he paced off to a nearby office.

  It was a nervous and anxious five minutes whilst Scott, Abby, and Helen waited for an answer. All they could do was go over the facts again, to ensure that they had covered every angle, and knew exactly why they needed to raid Woodman’s, and what they needed to find. They were just polishing off a third round of coffees when Meadows returned.

  He sighed and stretched to shake off his sleepiness. “Well, as expected, the chief constable was pissed off by my call. But I went through the facts with him. He’s given us the green light. Organise a search warrant, get the bodies together and get over there.”

  A sense of excitement and euphoria washed through the officers. Abby raced to one desk, Helen to another.

  “I heard Mike was injured. How is he?”

  “He’s doing okay as far as we know, Sir. They should release him from the hospital in the next few hours. At the moment, they are keeping him in for observation.”

  Meadows turned on his heel to leave, but before doing so, stopped. “You’re a bit thin on the ground, so make sure you go with enough backup. And remember, Scott, this is a high-profile figure. Do everything by the book. Body cams on. The press will be all over this one within hours of the raid. There will be a lot of interest from the government. So do this properly.”

  Only an hour ago the blackness had been absolute. With the lightening sky and its hues reaching out to every corner and crevice, Scott and the team swept through the gates of The Oving. He’d been expecting the gates to be closed impeding their entry. The tactical entry team had come prepared with chains to rip the gates from their housings. The gravel drive was soon awash with job cars, several police cars, and a people carrier full of officers armed with the “big red key”, an aptly named “hooligan tool”, bolt croppers, sledgehammer, and padlock buster.

  The grim surreality of the situation wasn’t lost on Scott as sparrows chirped an explicit background melody to signal the arrival of a new day, and soft rays that should have brought warmth to a new day only acted to solidify the reality of their visit.

  The eerie stillness that surrounded them contradicted the hive of activity in front of the house. Flanked on either side by uniformed officers, Scott rapped on the door several times. Other officers had made their way around to the rear of the property to look for any signs of life. After a brief pause, Scott knocked once again. When no answer was forthcoming, he gave the nod.

  He keyed his radio. “Everyone in position?”

  “Confirmed. Awaiting your command, Guv,” replied officers from the rear of the building.

  Rankin, a burly uniformed officer stood to the side of the front door. He had possession of the “big key” that would gain a fast and deafening entrance. He gave Scott the nod. “I’m good to go, Guv.”

  Scott rested his hand on the door handle. His muscles tensed, a bolt of adrenaline rushing through his body, making a subconscious choice between fight or flight. In his mind, flight had never been an option. He turned to look at Abby and Helen, who had the most important item, the search warrant. They both gave him an affirmative nod.

  Scott looked at Rankin, and then stood aside as the officer swung the fourteen-pound enforcer at the door. The door shook in its frame, unwilling to relent. It took Rankin three further attempts before the door submitted to the relentless battering.

  The house filled with the sound of footsteps as more than a dozen officers swarmed through the fragments of what was once the front door, and split off into different directions. Some raced upstairs, shouting “police” at the top of their voices. Others fanned out on the ground floor. The last person to enter the building was a uniformed officer with a large camcorder who recorded every step of their entry, and the execution of the search warrant.

  A series of “clears” rang out through the property as each room was checked. As far as they were aware, Woodman had returned late last night. His apparent absence surprised Scott. Until he walked into the study.

  The rear of a large wing-backed armchair faced Scott. He could see the top of Woodman’s head leaning against one of the wings. The man’s arms hung loosely over the sides of the armrests.

  Scott walked around to the front and noticed the shotgun lying on the floor. As Scott looked at the remnants of what was once the lower half of Woodman’s face, he shivered at the weapon’s deadly impact.

  “That’s not pretty,” remarked Abby as she placed a hand over her mouth and walked back out again. Helen stood shell-shocked. She had never seen the effects of a shotgun blast at close range. Fragments of bone, muscle tissue, sinews, and blood were spread across his front and the sides of the armchair.

  One by one, uniformed officers came in to inspect the macabre scene.

  “Helen, get forensics over here, and the mortuary boys.”

  Suitably composed, Abby had made her way back into the room and spotted the safe behind the desk. “Guv, over here.”

  Scott knelt down and examined the safe. “We can’t be certain if this is a straightforward case of suicide or whether he’s died in suspicious circumstances, because the safe is not only open but empty.”

  “Robbery, staged as a suicide? He’s got enough enemies,” Abby speculated.

  Scott shrugged. “Possibly. But he doesn’t come across as the type of man who would just sit there, and let someone blow off half of his face. Even if he was under duress.”

  42

  Black and silvery ash, charcoal, old twisted matches, and blackened wood debris filled the now cool fireplace. Scott prodded the debris with a fire poker, so as not to disturb the crucial evidence.

  SOCOs had laid out some plastic sheeting, and were picking apart the contents of the fireplace. Each fragment was photographed and documented as evidence.

  Scott and Abby had wandered around Woodman’s property, searching through his cupboards and drawers both upstairs and downstairs whilst the SOCOs prepared evidence downstairs. A firearms officer had made the shotgun safe, and additional forensic officers were finishing their analysis of Woodman’s body.

  Woodman was a collector of fine art. Pieces lined the hallway, reaching up the stairs to the first-floor landing. They didn’t stop there. Various prints that Scott imagined dated back years were found in many of the rooms. He certainly had expensive taste. Fine China pieces sat on the top of most work surfaces. Inspecting the wardrobes in Woodman’s room revealed over fifty Savile Row suits, and dozens of pairs of Churches brogues.

  Within minutes of inspecting his room, the SOCOs gave Scott the all clear to inspect what they had retrieved from the fireplace. Scott and Abby knelt and picked through an assortment of partially burnt documents. Most had been singed brown, their edges blackened and curled.

  “I’ve got a printout here,”
Abby began. Her eyes narrowed to pick out a few details that were still legible. “It’s showing large bank transactions to a Swiss bank. Anywhere between five thousand pounds and forty-five thousand pounds. It looks like he squirrelled away money.”

  Scott held up a piece of lined paper. “This appears to be some flight schedules for two people from South Africa, and the times of ferries from Dover. Thankfully, it’s handwritten. I’m sure there will be a record somewhere with examples of his handwriting. We can run them through forensics for handwriting analysis. If this is Woodman’s writing, then that’s further proof of his involvement. These may tie in with dates and times when people were brought in illegally.”

  “Well, this printout of bank transactions has the word completed written in capitals and underlined twice. That’s been done by hand. So we can run that through analysis as well.”

  Scott’s mind analysed evidence and information at a hundred miles an hour. In the space of twenty-four hours, the case had exploded and was moving at a rate of knots.

  “Have you found anything relating to Xabi?”

  Abby shook her head as she continued to sift through the fragments.

  All the pieces were snapping together in Scott’s mind. “So, let me spell this out. Here is my theory. Woodman was taking backhanders to ensure that the gold dealers could trade their gold on the black market in the UK without detection. The undervalued goods were sold with high-profit margins. Woodman was given his share.”

  “Sounds about right,” Abby said, nodding.

  “He developed his contacts from his various visits to South Africa, and set up the deals at their end. When the bullion dealers came here, their business was shielded by Woodman. He colluded with Xabi to use fake asylum seekers as the mules to bring gold into this country, and he relied on Xabi to keep the mules quiet. He was the go-between.”