Chameleon

by Michael K Foster

  Much to DS Savage’s surprise, Mason threw his warrant card down on the desk and contemplated his future. The whole business churned his guts and changed everything, and all because of a stupid hunch that Cooper was holding back on something. Worse still, DI Gamble was cock-a-hoop over his distinct lack of self-control and was laying it on thick with the Area Commander. Sadly, the rest of the senior staff couldn’t agree with his actions either, and the Chief Inspector was now staring down the barrel of yet another disciplinary investigation.

  Mason gave Savage an almost guilty smile. ‘I’m faced with the same old problems, Rob. Only this time it’s much more serious.’

  ‘It was a bad move, boss.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  Savage caught Mason’s eye. ‘Do you still think Laurence Cooper has something to do with his second wife’s death?’

  ‘A part of me says he has, and he’s the only person who stands to gain from it.’

  ‘You mean this million-quid life insurance policy he took out?’

  ‘That amongst other things.’ Mason nodded.

  ‘Hang on a minute, I thought the insurance brokers were questioning its validity?’

  Mason thought for a moment. ‘If both Laurence Cooper and Richard Drummond are innocent, then who else do we have in the frame?’

  ‘Apart from the Chopwell suspect, nobody.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Mason replied. ‘What if Cooper had hired someone to get rid of his wife?’

  ‘The only problem I have with that,’ Savage said, shaking his head, ‘is why haven’t we picked up on it during our interviews?’

  Mason was adamant. ‘The break-in at the law chambers has to be connected to this barrister’s death. I’m convinced of it.’

  Savage looked at him oddly. ‘DI Gamble still isn’t persuaded this break-in was staged. She thinks it’s another red herring you’ve dreamt up.’

  Mason’s face suddenly darkened. ‘What else has she been saying?

  ‘Not a lot. She spends most of her time in Gregory’s office nowadays.’

  ‘What about this auditor, Stephen Rice? Has she said any more about that?’

  ‘Not to me, she hasn’t.’ Savage frowned. ‘There again, I’m deliberately kept out of the loop these days.’

  ‘Watch your back, Rob.’

  ‘Tell me about it. I’m not sure I can trust her anymore.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘She seems to have a hidden agenda if I’m honest.’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘It could be nothing, of course.’

  Mason’s fingers tightened round the armrest as he tried to steady himself. All things being equal the boy was his biggest concern, and without proper police protection he was extremely vulnerable.

  ‘We could be heading for trouble,’ Mason said.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Young Martin Kennedy. Without close protection the boy could be in serious trouble.’

  ‘You’re not the only one who thinks that. I’ve heard rumblings.’ Savage shrugged.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘DI Gamble.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘She has Gregory’s ear.’

  Mason thought a moment. ‘This case is going nowhere, Rob.’

  ‘I know, but it’s out of our hands unfortunately.’

  Mason sat back thinking. The decision he’d struggled so hard to make had just been made for him. In a way it was inevitable. ‘This isn’t a suspicious suicide we’re dealing with here, this is a full-on murder enquiry.’

  ‘What, you think everything’s connected?’

  Mason looked up sharply. ‘Whoever broke into the Sanderson Law Chambers, knew what they were after. Find the answer to that, and we’re well on the way to solving the case.’

  ‘Yeah, but nothing was stolen.’

  ‘It could have been photographed.’

  ‘What, case files?’

  ‘Tell me why not?’

  Savage shook his head dejectedly. ‘What about Cooper’s house, did you find anything of interest?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  ‘So, it wasn’t such a clever idea after all. What the hell were you thinking of?’

  ‘Trying to get ahead of the game. Besides, I trust Laurence Cooper as much as I trust politicians delivering on their promises. He’s a creepy bastard, and he’s definitely holding back on something.’

  ‘Had you asked me beforehand, I would have arranged a search warrant for you.’

  ‘I know, I know. . . it’s too late for that now––’

  ‘As always.’

  Mason swung to face Savage. ‘If you’re not prepared to ruffle a few feathers in this game your leads go cold on you. It’s the first rule of being a good detective.’

  ‘Yes, but neither is breaking and entering into someone’s property without a search warrant.’

  Mason stared at him as he pulled out a bundle of documents he’d been working on. No matter how hard he tried to get his head round the case, obstacles were being thrown in his path. A copper’s luck was hard earned, without which you got nowhere.

  ‘So, where do we go from here?’ Mason asked.

  ‘That’s DI Gamble’s call––’

  Mason slapped the desk with the palm of his hand in moment of temper.

  ‘You need to calm down, boss. Think this through logically.’

  ‘And do what exactly?’

  Savage drew breath. ‘I’ve been looking into the regs, and it’s my belief a police officer can enter someone’s property to look for evidence without a search warrant if they have reasonable grounds to believe there is evidence.’

  ‘Thanks, Rob. I’ll give it some consideration.’

  Savage winked as he turned. ‘No show without punch, eh!’

  ‘Don’t push it.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  As the main landing struts extended to their full travel with a clunk, the cabin stewards of the Airbus A320 made their final preparations for landing. The flight into Heathrow Airport was now running forty-minutes late, and they were in a holding pattern circling London. Another hour should do the trick, Chameleon thought. Once he’d cleared customs.

  Folding the seat tray away, he saw the outside temperature on his in-flight entertainment monitor was showing twenty-two degrees and humidity forty percent. Slightly cooler than when he left his temporary accommodation in Filderstadt in southern Germany that morning. It was still a pleasant day, nevertheless.

  Minutes later as the plane juddered and broke through a heavy cloud formation, from his window seat the long black ribbon of the River Thames extended to the horizon and beyond. Below, he could see Canary Wharf and the skyscrapers now a dramatic, established part of London’s skyline. They were a landmark he never failed to admire, as he’d done a lot of business there and he was itching to do more.

  Feeling his ears pop from the sudden change in cabin pressure, Chameleon sucked hard on a boiled sweet. Travelling business class from Stuttgart was always a bit of a ball-ache, but that was the least of his worries. Wearing a dark grey business suit, white shirt and red tie, the Russian businessman was desperate to get back into the swing of things again. Not a tall man, stocky with a rounded lived-in face. Behind the deep-set brown eyes lurked a tough, uncompromising personality.

  Something had seriously gone wrong, but where? He was desperate to find out. Questions were being asked at a higher level and his services were urgently required elsewhere. He’d only been out of the country a couple of days, and contracts were coming thick and fast. But you could only be in one place at a time, no matter how much pressure the Organisation put on you.

  The moment the plane banked steeply, Chameleon’s nostrils twitched. He could see the woman sitting next to him was terrified of flying and he could almost smell the fear. As the plane shuddered and descended towards its final approach, her face contorted beyond all recognition. She looked mid-forties, blonde, with beautifully manicured nails and a mouth full o
f whitened teeth that reminded him of a toothpaste ad in a glitzy magazine. He knew she was Turkish the passport poking out of her handbag told him that. It was a country he despised, a place full of bad memories.

  He glanced at his watch.

  It would be happy hour back at his favourite bar in Regent Street, but he wasn’t going to make it. Not now he wasn’t. Already running late, he hated airports at the best of times and they always pissed him off. With nothing to declare, and only a weekend bag to worry about, he was hoping to fast-track through security. He preferred travelling light, especially business class, as the stewards always gave him preferential treatment and it made him feel at ease. Not like the people stuck in cattle class – grappling for leg room and packed like sardines in a tin. Those plebs drove him crazy on short haul flights, especially the amount of luggage they carried with them. God knows what Customs made of it. Get a life, he cursed.

  Once the plane was taxiing, he switched his mobile on and waited for an internet connection. It pinged, and he checked the display.

  Where are you? The text message read.

  Just landed.

  Same place?

  He fired off a change of plan and pocketed his phone.

  Twenty minutes later after clearing Border Control and Customs, he was heading north on the London underground – standing room only. Excited to be back in the capital again, he was looking forward to seeing how the new house renovations were progressing. It was a large Regency Georgian terraced property just on the outskirts of Belgravia. A Middle East Arab sheik had owned it and he’d fought tooth and nail to secure a good deal. Twenty-million pounds, a snip at half the price. Money was no object, luckily. He’d done his sums, and if he did need more cash he knew where to find it. This was the second most expensive property Chameleon had acquired in the past six months; the other was in New York. Long Island, Upper Brookville, a spectacular forty-acre property facing the Atlantic Ocean.

  Nothing came cheap nowadays, and there was no such thing as a free lunch ticket. Everything had a price, and those that thought otherwise were deluded. Smiling inwardly to himself, Chameleon was beginning to enjoy his new business ventures into the exclusive offshore property market. He’d done well for himself considering. Most of his hard-earned cash had been salted away into legitimate assets, which was more than he could say for a lot of fellow business associates he knew.

  As the train screeched to a halt inside Leicester Square tube station, a new sense of excitement washed over him. He was close, and ten minutes from now he would be sitting in his favourite bar and drinking a much-loved pint of British beer. He watched as the man opposite craned his head as people started to get off. Having spent the best part of his journey hiding behind his newspaper, did he really think he was invisible?

  His mobile pinged, and he checked the display.

  Where are you now?

  Five minutes away, he texted back.

  I’m on my way.

  He could hardly wait!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The moment Jack Mason pulled into Gateshead Police Station car park, heavy rain struck the windscreen. For once the weather presenters had got it right, and ominous black storm clouds gathering over the North Sea that morning, were now unleashing their fury. As he sat quietly and waited for the worst to blow over, he thought about his future. Policing wasn’t the same anymore, and detectives like DI Gamble were working their way into good positions at the expense of talented young officers. It wasn’t right, and something had to give.

  With bloodshot eyes, he ran up the entrance ramp and took the stairs two at a time. Dressed in his favourite leather bomber jacket, jeans and black trainers, Mason looked anything but a senior police officer involved with the Serious Crime Squad. Well, he thought, as he knocked on the Area Commander’s door, might as well get it over with. The last few weeks of bickering had finally come to a head, and morale had reached an all-time low.

  ‘Good morning, Jack,’ the Superintendent said sounding ominously upbeat. ‘Two important visitors are joining us today.’

  Mason detested the term – important visitors. It had a condescending ring, as if a class above the rest. Something was afoot, and whatever it was, he didn’t like the sound of it. Yes, he’d overstepped the mark, but what the hell were two Special Branch officers doing here?

  Formalities over with, he took up a seat opposite.

  The senior officer seemed capable enough, despite his youthful appearance. At a glance Mason thought he looked ex-military. Dressed in an immaculate grey suit, white buttoned-down shirt and tie, his highly polished shoes were the giveaway.

  ‘I’ll come straight to the point,’ the senior Special Branch officer suddenly announced. ‘The man you’ve all been looking for is a former officer of the Russian FSB.’

  Mason stared at him in stunned silence for a moment. This was the last thing he’d expected to hear, and it had knocked him for six. ‘I presume we’re talking about the Chopwell Wood suspect here?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Known as Chameleon, his real name is Grigori Yavlinsky and he operates out of Stuttgart with known connections in London and New York. Born in the Soviet Union, he served as an army special service officer and is known to have worked for the Russian foreign intelligence division. In 2010 he was sent to spy on expatriates who had moved to the West after the dissolution of the Soviet Union, and soon made a name for himself as a ruthless operator. One of his missions was to identify and deal with former Russian Oligarchs who were known to be passing on intelligence and technology to the Americans.’

  ‘What is he, a Russian secret agent?’

  ‘We believe so.’ The officer paused. ‘After returning to St Petersburg, two years ago he took up a position in the banking industry. We now know it was a cover for clandestine work he was doing for the FSB’s foreign intelligence division, which may account for his current position.’

  Mason cocked his head to one side. ‘Which is?’

  ‘Dealing with the seedier side of off-shore banking.’

  Mason listened intently, pleased at the fact this was no longer a disciplinary hearing. There was determination in the officer’s voice. Forceful. As though keen to get his point across. He’d met his like before, but still couldn’t decide whether he was working for Counter Terrorism Command or directly for Security Services (MI5).

  ‘Who is Yavlinsky currently working for?’ Mason asked outright.

  ‘That’s a difficult one.’

  ‘So, what’s his connection with Newcastle?’

  The senior officer’s brow corrugated. ‘Six months ago, the Metropolitan Police were given secret documents highlighting several money laundering red flags involving a series of wire transfers through shell corporations with accounts in Russia. It’s a complex operation, involving dozens of countries. So far, we’ve managed to obtain documentary evidence that shows the money is being wired to banks in South America, then wired back to accounts in Switzerland and London. We’re talking billions of dollars here, dirty money which is being laundered into luxury apartments and high-end capital investment around the globe.’

  ‘And you suspect Yavlinsky is using his banking connections as a cover?’

  ‘Either that, or he’s involved with the Russian Mafia.’

  Mason thought about it. ‘So, what’s the connection between Yavlinsky and this Newcastle barrister, Margaret Cooper?’

  ‘Good question,’ the nameless second officer replied. ‘We now have compelling evidence that proves Yavlinsky is linked to a massive money laundering scam with wider links across Europe and the USA. It’s a sophisticated set-up, and one involving lawyers, bankers, and politicians with connections to several East European investment banking firms. And, might I add, all with offices based in London.’

  Mason suddenly noticed a large green folder stuck on the corner of Gregory’s desk. It belonged to the second officer who kept drumming it with the end of his pen. It wa
s marked: CLASSIFIED. He made a mental note of it and turned to address them.

  ‘So why are you telling me all of this?’

  ‘We believe that Yavlinsky came to England with the sole intention of disrupting the Crown Prosecution Service’s case listed against one of the Russian investment banks.’

  ‘I presume this was the case that Margaret Cooper was involved in?’

  ‘That’s correct. Naturally the main accused. . . the so-called people at the top . . . are keen that their identities are not disclosed. Of course, the Russian government deny any involvement in the matter, but we know of at least two top embassy officials who are implicated in the scam.’ The senior officer raised his eyebrows a fraction before continuing. ‘The solution to ending this problem lies firmly with Moscow – but that’s never going to happen, of course. Which means it’s left to the British Government to resolve.’

  Here we go, Mason thought.

  ‘This is beginning to sound like Spooks,’ Mason remarked.

  ‘Indeed, and we’re merely scratching the tip of the iceberg here.’

  ‘That’s all very well and good but how does this involve me?’

  The senior officer nodded as he opened the large green folder, he’d brought with him.

  ‘Looking at your service records, I see you were brought up in the East End of London, and close to the docklands.’ Mason shot him a glance but quickly thought the better of it. ‘Known as a bit of a risk taker, after several years working with the Docklands Division as a Detective Sergeant you were selected for the Metropolitan’s Murder Investigation Team (MIT).’

  ‘What is this?’ Mason asked finally. ‘A retirement selection committee, or am I––’

  Superintendent Gregory who had sat quietly throughout suddenly raised his hand. ‘Hold on a minute, Chief Inspector. Let’s hear the officer out.’

  ‘I’m impressed.’ The second officer smiled. ‘It’s little wonder the Northumbria Police were keen to recruit you as they did. I admire a man who speaks his mind.’