As the focus of attention now shifted towards Sunderland and South Shields, Mason was having to rethink. If someone wanted to assist the Russian in his escape, they would find it difficult to penetrate his security ring. Now the country’s most wanted man, a plan began to hatch in the Chief Inspector’s head. Even the Kremlin was keen to put a stop to Yavlinsky’s mafia type exploits – or so they claimed.
No sooner had the Rover P4 100’s engine shut down, then the familiar figure of David Carlisle emerged on the scene. Wearing white paper coveralls, latex gloves and overshoes, the private investigator approached the major incident support vehicle with trepidation.
‘Off to a fancy-dress party, are we?’
‘I wasn’t sure what the dress code was, and there wasn’t a Scenes of Crime Officer in sight,’ Carlisle replied.
Mason shook his head. ‘It didn’t take you long. I appreciate you coming.’
‘Any more news on Yavlinsky’s whereabouts?’
‘No, nothing. He’s gone into hiding somewhere and it’s a matter of flushing him out.’
‘He’ll be a difficult nut to crack.’
‘Tell me about it.’ Mason turned to Carlisle. ‘He’s ex-military and trained in the art of survival, so he’ll know when to make his next move.’
‘In which case he’ll probably move when you least expect it.’
Behind the narrow-lipped smile, Mason detected concern. He studied the map briefly and turned to face his companion again. The problem was, with hundreds of curious onlookers now gathered along the clifftop, any one of them could be the Russian. If Yavlinsky was to make good his escape, he’d melt back into the crowd unnoticed. There again, every street corner North, South, East and West of the area was now under the team’s watchful eye. Even Border Patrol had tightened up its security arrangements, and Newcastle Airport and the Tyne Ferry Terminals were all on heightened alert.
Pleased that David Carlisle had now joined in the fray his criminal profiling skills would be priceless. Mason was already indebted to his colleague for getting him out of a tight corner, and it felt like old times again. What a lot of people didn’t know, or perhaps they did, was now that Yavlinsky had declared his intentions to kill the boy, a shoot on sight policy had been sanctioned by higher command. It was a high-risk operation, and no one could rest easy until the Russian had been brought to justice.
Mason pointed to the kettle. ‘Coffee?’
‘I’d love a cup.’
Mason waited for the private investigator to wriggle out of his forensic suit before continuing. Knowing that young Martin Kennedy was now in safe hands, he heaved a sigh of relief. Having witnessed the boy slipping into the back of an unmarked police car and being driven away under heavy armed escort, at least that part of his operation had reached a satisfactory conclusion.
‘What’s your initial thoughts?’
The private investigator scratched his head in thought and took a sip of his coffee.
‘Whoever’s pulling Yavlinsky’s strings will want him out of here.’
‘Or, want him dead!’ Mason quickly added.
‘There is that possibility, of course.’
Still looking for inspiration, Mason stared into space.
‘What about his property in Belgravia?’
‘Anything’s possible, but I doubt he’ll return to the capital. Not with Special Branch breathing down his neck. It’s my view he’ll try and head back to Russia.’
‘Talking of which, I can’t thank you enough for looking after young Martin at such short notice.’ Mason stared at his colleague sheepishly. ‘In truth, I had no other alternative left open to me.’
‘Where’s Martin now?’
‘Social Services are looking after him, so you’ll finally get your house back.’ Mason rolled his eyes. ‘Send me the bill, but don’t go over the top this time, especially if you still want to work for me again.’
Carlisle smiled with satisfaction but remained tight lipped.
‘Fucking birds,’ Mason said, thinking out aloud. ‘The boy’s obsessed with them and that’s all he thinks about all day.’
‘He’s only a ten-year-old child, Jack. . . and it keeps him out of trouble.’
‘Out of trouble!’ Mason shrieked. ‘Let’s not forget that this all kicked off because of a sodding bird hide he’d built in Chopwell Wood. What with trips to the Farne Islands, and now Marsden Grotto, I’m sick to the back teeth of having to wash bird shite off my car.’
‘Think yourself lucky he’s not into elephants––’
Mason saw the funnier side and burst out laughing.
‘What with having to deal with birds, and now poisonous snakes, what the top-brass make of it all I’m dreading to think. They probably think I’m turning into a zoologist.’
‘You’ve certainly got your hands full,’ Carlisle smirked.
‘Hands full––’
‘He’ll grow out of it. Most boys his age usually do.’
Mason shook his head in thought. ‘The strange thing is, I actually like the lad. He reminds me of me when I was his age.’
‘What. A twitcher?’
‘Sod-off!’
The major incident support vehicle was now a hive of activity, and after a series of interruptions they spent the next twenty minutes going back over the missing snake vials.
‘So,’ Carlisle began, ‘what’s the latest on this money laundering scam with the Russian bank? Is the Newcastle trial still set to go ahead?’
Mason’s grin broadened. ‘Remember the USB memory stick that Yavlinsky kindly left in the back of the stolen BMW at Washington Services? Well, the Crown Prosecution Service is having a field day apparently.’
‘So, the Tech Crime Unit finally managed to crack the cypher code?’
‘Yes, and we now have dozens of names of those involved in the scam.’ Mason’s eyes widened. ‘According to the Chief Constable, the National Fraud Intelligence Bureau are claiming it’s nothing short of gold dust.’
‘What have they uncovered exactly?’ asked Carlisle.
‘It’s a sophisticated set-up involving lawyers, bankers, and politicians with connections to several East European investment banking firms – all with offices based in London. The trouble the Home Office are faced with is, will these people simply disappear off the face of the planet or attempt to clear their names?’
‘I bet you’re pleased it’s not your problem?’
Mason shrugged. ‘The sooner Yavlinsky is off my patch, the better I’ll sleep at night. Talking of which––’
Mason stopped mid-sentence as DS Holt tipped his forehead in salute and entered the major incident support vehicle. Now recovered from the suspect’s sand attack, his eyes still looked bloodshot and sore.
‘The tide is on the turn, boss.’
‘What are the chances that Yavlinsky is still hanging around the cliffs?’
‘We still have a few more hours of light, but it’s not looking good.’
‘In which case we need to switch to thermal cameras.’
‘It’s already covered.’
‘Good.’
The sergeant screwed his face up. ‘The media’s our biggest concern. Those bastards are everywhere.’
Mason groaned. ‘Give me a few minutes and I’ll provide them with a brief statement. If nothing else, it might buy us some breathing time.’
‘I’m not sure that’s a clever idea, boss.’ The sergeant shrugged.
‘Probably not, but another million pair of eyes won’t go amiss at this stage.’
Holt studied the map and screwed his face up again. ‘Let’s hope your hunch pays off, boss. If not, you’ll have an awful lot of explaining to do in the morning.’
‘Shit sticks,’ Mason replied, as he pocketed his notebook and pen. ‘Besides, we can’t just sit around and do nothing.’
Mason habitually stuck his hands into his pockets as he moved towards the vehicle’s back door. The public was his best source of information gathering. It was a no b
rainer, and he was happy to oblige.
No matter what bullshit they printed in their newspapers!
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Two-thirty in the morning and the streets around Hebburn were quiet. Apart from a few security lights covering each of the loading bays, the rest of the supermarket delivery yard was bathed in total darkness. One of the lights had a fault and kept flickering on and off every few seconds. It was driving Chameleon mad, but there was nothing he could do about it.
He took a deep breath and tried to steady himself. His hands were shaking, and his whole body felt like it was on fire. With thoughts of cross contamination never far from his mind, he was seriously contemplating injecting himself full of snake venom. It would be quick, and he knew which vial to use if push came to shove.
He removed an old woollen hat from his pocket, put it on, and crept forward to investigate the side of the building. He could hear people talking and thought it might be security guards. These individuals never stuck to a regular routine and constantly hung around in the shadows at night. There was a lot of money tucked up inside the building and they weren’t in the habit of giving it away.
Close to a security fence, he spotted a line of cars. Not willing to chance his luck, it was a scooter that had grabbed his attention. Propped up against the warehouse wall, it probably belonged to one of the nightshift workers.
He moved in to take a closer look.
Through a side door, a figure emerged. He wasn’t a tall man, sturdy, with a huge pot belly bulging beneath a bright orange shirt. Then a second man appeared, and then another. This had to be an official smoke break, he thought. If not, these people were skiving. As headlights flickered in the distance, all kinds of emotions tugged at him.
The moment Chameleon broke cover, one of the workers eyeballed him.
Hold your nerve. Don’t move another muscle!
Seething with anger and frustration, he slipped back into the shadows again. Nerves on edge, he searched for a better option. The walls to the building were irregular and tall, with hidden CCTV cameras stationed at intervals high on the eaves. If he could only reach the scooter, he would be home and dry. There again, there was still the ignition to sort out, but he knew how to fix it.
Bubbling inside with excitement, Chameleon sneaked forward a few paces. It was a gamble. A massive gamble. But he was confident it could work. Moments later a grey-haired man appeared from a side door and stood perfectly still in the shadows. As he lit up a cigarette and blew out a long smoke trail, he turned towards his companions and pointed. Words were being uttered, and it was putting him on edge. But there was something too coincidental about the men’s timing, as if none of them should be there.
When everyone had disappeared back inside the building again, Chameleon decided to make his move. Creeping forward he checked the scooter’s steering lock and found it wasn’t working. At the rear of the ignition he removed the cover and cut the wires leading from the back of it. Next, he hit the kick start and fired up the scooter’s 50cc engine.
Mission accomplished.
Well not quite!
Seconds later, one of the unit side doors flew open and a well-built guy in his mid-twenties and a face like an angry wasp ran determinedly towards him. He was shouting abuse, and waving his arms in the air and threatening to punch his head in. What is it with the English race, Chameleon cursed? Everyone screams obscenities at you at the slightest provocation.
Now stuck on full throttle, the moment the scooter shot forward he almost ran the guy over. It was pitch black, and he still hadn’t figured out the lights. Knowing his presence wasn’t wanted here, he aimed the scooter towards the security gates and threaded his way through the tiny gap. It had been ten years since he’d last ridden on two wheels, and he was fighting it all the way.
The cool air brushing his face, at the junction with Leam Lane he hung a sharp right towards Low Fell. Not the fastest getaway bike in the country, at least he was making steady progress. Easing back on the throttle, he caught the blue flashing spinner lights in his mirror – two hundred metres over his shoulder and travelling towards him at speed. Not impressed, he gathered his composure, wound up the accelerator throttle as far as it would go and watched as the distance between them increased.
Take that, you bastards!
Moments later, he turned his head sharply and his heart sank.
Less than twenty metres away, sirens blaring, a BMW’s bonnet was up close and intimate. Maybe they’d been called to a house break-in somewhere; there again, maybe not! As he wound the accelerator throttle up again, he felt a sudden adrenaline rush.
A gap was opening up!
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Moments earlier Officer Smith thought he was having a quiet shift, up until now, that is. As the TaoTao Thunder 50cc motor scooter flashed past in front of his stationary marked patrol vehicle, he could see the driver wasn’t wearing a helmet. Not the best of moves, thought Officer Smith. Not this time of night. Either the driver was over the drink driving limit, or the scooter had been nicked.
Determined to find out, he slipped into first gear whilst his shift colleague ran the scooter’s registration details through the DVLA licensing system. Not that it made one iota of difference, as the idiot up ahead had already stepped up a gear. Racking up driving offences as if there was no tomorrow. The Officer put his foot down.
At the roundabout with the A184, his colleague switched the blue spinner lights on as Officer Smith hit the accelerator hard. He’d seen it all over the years, and his success rate was second to none. At least the perpetrator knew what he was letting himself in for, and that’s all that really mattered to him. Speed bumps were his biggest nightmare, the damn things were everywhere. If you didn’t keep your wits about you, they could cause a lot of damage.
In your dreams, Officer Smith thought, as he spun hard on the steering wheel and felt his seat belt tighten. Then, in his rear mirror, after entering the Leam Lane Estate, he caught the blue flashing lights of another fast approaching response vehicle. What had started as a routine road traffic incident, was now a full-blown police pursuit.
Officer Smith loved the thrill of the chase, and always got a buzz from it. High speed pursuits and attending traffic accidents was what he’d been trained to do. Usually the suspects would decamp thinking they were getting away from him, but his partner was fast on his feet. It wasn’t the smartest pursuit that Officer Smith had ever been involved in, and after he’d been led a merry dance through the Leam Lane Estate, they re-joined the main road again. Now hitting speeds approaching 45 mph, they were hot on the suspect’s tail.
‘Stinger in place,’ a voice boomed out over the radio waves.
Officer Smith remembered two years ago being caught up in a similar incident to this. He’d been hot on the tail of a stolen Harley-Davidson motorbike after the driver had been involved in a pub brawl. Twenty minutes later, after a high-speed chase involving a stinger had taken place, the driver had hit a brick wall. Not the best of endings, Officer Smith thought, as he was left to pick up the pieces.
As more and more units joined in the chase, escape now seemed futile. Keeping his eye on the road ahead, the officer guessed what Central Control were up to and took his foot off the accelerator pedal. Manoeuvring through Wrekenton, blues spinner lights bouncing off buildings, he suddenly screeched to a halt. Fifty metres up in front of them, on the B1296, the road resembled a war zone. As he pulled in behind one of the stationary patrol cars, he stared at the fireball confronting him. A parked Nissan Note was well ablaze, and the remains of the TaoTao Thunder 50cc motor scooter was trapped under it. Having slid across the road at speed, the scooter had exploded on impact.
His head full of questions, Officer Smith tried to piece together the last few minutes’ events. People were starting to gather from all directions, some stood frozen, others pointing their phone cameras at the unfolding events.
Was the driver alive?
‘Which way did he go?�
� the approaching sergeant shouted.
‘We never saw him decamp, Sarge,’ Officer Smith replied almost apologetically.
Joined by a team of fellow officers, they began a search of the surrounding streets around Ravensworth golf course. Seconds later the sergeant returned carrying a flashlamp in his hand.
‘Best leave it to the dog team’s lads,’ the sergeant announced.
‘He’ll not get far,’ a young constable acknowledged, ‘not if he’s badly injured.’
The sergeant aimed his flashlight towards a clump of bushes.
‘Keep your eyes peeled.’
As Officer Smith bent down to check out the scooter parts strewn across a wide stretch of the road, he blew out a sigh of relief. Best not touch anything – not till Road Traffic had completed their findings at least. And if he was completely honest with himself, this had to be more than just a police pursuit.
The sergeant reappeared this time carrying a clip board.
‘Did you get a good look at the driver?’
‘Around five-seven, balding, with a round ugly face,’ Officer Smith replied.
‘Sounds a bit like the Russian the Serious Crime Squad are out searching for.’
‘Could be,’ Officer Smith replied.
As the Tyne and Wear Fire and Rescue Service Volvo FL appliance arrived on the scene, the firefighters raced into action. Flames spreading from under the bonnet of the Nissan Note, had quickly engulfed the rest of the vehicle.
The sergeant stood for moment, uncertain of what to do next.
‘Whoever the driver was, Central Control have certainly pulled out all the stops to catch him. I’ve never seen so many armed response units as this before.’
‘Me neither,’ Officer Smith acknowledged with a nod.
The officer watched as the sergeant redirected the arrival of the dog handler van closer towards the golf course area, then returned to confront him.
‘We could be staring at tomorrow’s headlines by the looks.’
‘Yeah, but I can’t see any reporters around, Sarge?’
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