CHAPTER 21
DCI Ianthe Seymour was apprehensive about the turn events had taken today. There was the obvious overall lack of progress of Operation Blackbird that was bothering her. The narcotics lead appeared to be genuine, but Brandon Nicholson had been a dead end that had made them waste a lot of time and effort. Then there was the case of Ricky Rowlands. No doubt he was engaged in the narcotics trade, but Ianthe was not so certain about his involvement in the murder of Bert Devos. That could still be totally coincidental. She also felt utterly uneasy about the way Vik had led the investigation into Ricky Rowlands. There appeared to be some thing of a connection she was not aware of. She wanted to ask Vik about it again, but she knew how he would react. Finally, there was the unexplained disappearance of Moira Kelly. She had not mentioned to anyone John’s confession he had been seeing the Brighton marina harbour master socially. It was not forbidden of course as at the time she had not been a suspect, but it had not been wise of him. He had obviously been smitten with the girl and young men do odd things for girls they like. Unless the Moira Kelly situation was cleared up tomorrow, she would have no choice but to take him off the investigation completely, she thought, and discreetly inform Norman about the reason. It should not be allowed to reflect negatively on John’s career. On the contrary. They should have interviewed Moira Kelly more thoroughly. And that had been her responsibility. She could also be the second victim of their perpetrator. She might have seen something that the murderer had realized she might tell John. She had until the end of the week to solve the case. And they were close to nowhere.
At six twenty-three pm she parked her Audi in front of their flat. Most of the time, Tony’s BMW was parked there, but he would be away on business trip with the car until tomorrow. Good. She was not looking forward to the conversation they needed to have. She would use her time tonight to go through her policy book. Perhaps she would see more clearly after a glass of wine, she smiled to herself.
*
At seven pm sharp she stepped out of the shower, wrapped herself in her bathrobe and went to the lounge. She first called an understandably distraught DC John Ryan to offer her condolences and inquire if he thought he would be able to attend the briefing in the morning, which he said he would. He needed to drop off the spare helmet Moira Kelly had been using anyway. He said he did not intend to take leave of absence at this time in the investigation. It was good of him to say, she thought, but she would take him aside tomorrow to tell him she was taking him off anyway.
She opened a bottle of Cutaja Riserva, her favourite Nero d’Avola from Sicily, and poured herself a glass. She settled with her case file at the small dining table and started reading through it. She had the transcripts of the interviews on her computer. She opened it and read all of them again to see if she had missed something.
At four minutes past ten pm she thought of giving up for tonight. She got up and stood pensively at the window. The storm had been forecasted to wear off in the evening, but it was still blowing and raining hard she saw.
She also had the original data from the banks and the phone company that DC Ajanta Ghani had analysed. She quickly went through Bert Devos’s bank statements. Ajanta had marked each of the large deposits he had made. There was the major initial deposit, then one approximately every other week. Ajanta had been thorough as always, she noticed, and had added on a separate page a complete list of deposits with the relevant date, amount and bank in three columns. The final deposit had been two weeks before he had been murdered. Then two weeks before that, then a gap of three weeks approximately, then another two weeks. She frowned. Something was bothering her about these dates, but she could not put her finger on it. She opened her police calendar and looked at the dates. Bert Devos had been murdered Monday night 11 May. His last deposit was Tuesday afternoon 28 April. The one before that again Tuesday afternoon 14 April. Then early morning Wednesday 25 March. And so on.
She checked the dates that Polaris had sailed for France according to the GPS they had analysed. They corresponded closely with the dates of the deposits. The reason was obvious. Polaris had left Brighton for the coast of France off Yport on Monday morning 27 April at five twenty-five am. He had arrived at approximately a quarter past four pm. He had started the return journey almost immediately arriving off the coast of Shoreham at a few minutes to four am in the morning. That would have been well before sunrise, she assumed. To be certain, she googled the ephemerides for Brighton on 28 April. On timeanddate.com she found that sunrise had been at five thirty-nine am with nautical twilight starting at four-fifteen am. Nautical twilight was defined as the time when the horizon was faintly visible at sea under clear circumstances. It would have been quite dark on land. At that time almost no one would have been around. Perfect timing to drop illegal cargo on the banks of the River Adur, she thought. Bert Devos would have received cash payment at the same time and had gone to deposit it the same afternoon. She guessed that the deposit made on Wednesday rather than Tuesday had much to do with the weather. She googled that as well and indeed the weather had been bad off the coast of France in particular on Monday 23 March. The GPS data indicated he must have waited to sail until Monday night. It all made perfect sense. While leaving the relevant webpage she inadvertently clicked on her Google Calendar where Tony and she kept their private events. Its default setting was month view. As 1 May had been a Friday, it also displayed the events of the final days of April. For Monday 28 and Tuesday 29 April the calendar said: ‘Tony business trip’. Coincidence. She paused a second, then clicked back to Monday 13 April. ‘Tony business trip’. Tuesday 24 March. ‘Tony business trip’. She gasped. That was why the dates had looked familiar. She took the table Cliff Hodge had made with the exact sailing dates from the GPS and went through them systematically. With a few exceptions Tony had been on business trip every time.
Bewildered, she sat back. Could there possibly be a connection between Tony’s business trips and what Bert Devos had been doing? It might be pure coincidence though, she thought. After all, plenty of people went on business trips leaving on a Monday and returning the next day.
She took the file with Bert Devos’s phone records for the last thirty days before his murder. Ajanta and Anne Baker had examined it and had not found anything suspicious, meaning no phone calls to any known perpetrators or phone numbers that had been listed as suspicious or of interest in any ongoing investigation in the UK. A lot of calls and texts to burner phones though, in particular to one number. She went through the list quickly scanning from the top, which was 1 April. Tuesday 14 April, four oh-two am. Tony’s phone number. Ianthe checked and checked again with the phone number she had in her smartphone for Tony. No mistake. Definitely his number. But the conversation had taken seconds only. As if the number had been dialled in error. Perhaps it had. She highlighted the entry, then looked further down the list but it was the only occurrence. She wanted to call Ajanta to see if she had phone records from before 1 April, but it was by now ten fifty-six already. She could not really bother her tonight. Instead she sent her a text asking if she had information on Bert Devos’s contacts from before 1 April and could she check for this particular number. She did not mention it was Tony’s number she wanted to have checked.
So, Bert Devos had called Tony early morning of 14 April. Even if it was a mistake, why this number? It could be totally innocent, she thought. He might have wanted to dial a number that was terribly similar and indeed dialled Tony’s erroneously. The briefness of the conversation pointed in that direction. She should ask Tony if he remembered being woken up by a call in the middle of the night. She checked the file with the analysis of Bert Devos’s smartphone, which had all the numbers that had been stored in the phone. Tony’s number was listed as ‘Z’. ‘Z’ as in his last name ‘Zanelatto’. Okay, she reasoned, but even if Bert had known Tony and had his number stored in his phone, that did not mean anything either, as they both sailed. They might have sailed together at some time. It did explain why Be
rt might have ‘butt-called’ this particular number on 14 April.
Her phone beeped. A message from Ajanta. She was still up. The message said she had records going back twelve months. She had them electronically so she could easily check on her PC which she had done. Tony’s number had popped up four times in total. Two more very brief calls and one text message that simply read ‘Arrived’. The message had been sent on Tuesday 14 January at four forty-six am.
She would have to ask Tony when he came back if he had known Bert Devos.
It was eleven fifty-two already. She could do nothing more tonight, she thought. She would ring Tony in the morning to ask when he planned to be back exactly. If he asked why, she would tell him they needed to talk about their relationship, which she had planned anyway. She would go to bed now.
*
Ianthe was about to turn off the light when her phone rang. It was Tony.
“My car broke down. Can you come pick me up?”
“What do you mean? I thought you were in London?”
“Change of plans. Decided to cut it short. Bloody BMW broke down though.”
“Where are you exactly?”
“On the A270. In the parking lot of Philip Evans funeral home. I can text you the coordinates for the GPS.”
“The A270? That’s the Old Shoreham Road. Why did you come from London that way?”
“I’ll explain later. Can you come get me now?”
“I was just going to bed actually. Can’t you call a taxi?”
“Have you seen the bloody weather, woman? No taxis, no ubers available.”
“All right,” she sighed. “I’ll get dressed and come round. Text me the location. It will still take half an hour or so.”
“Try to drive a little faster than your usual granny speed.”
He disconnected. While she was dressing, a text came in with the GPS coordinates.
*
At thirty-six minutes past midnight she drove into the parking lot of the funeral home and parked next to Tony’s BMW. He jumped out of his car, took his holdall from the boot, threw it on the back-seat of her Audi and climbed in.
“Took your time, did you?” he said, obviously in a bad mood.
Ianthe did not reply at all but backed out and turned into the Old Shoreham Road again. They drove home in complete silence. Fortunately, the space in front of their apartment had not been taken in the meantime. Tony did not care to wait for her but jumped out and went inside taking his luggage. He dumped it unceremoniously in the lounge, then announced he would take a shower and disappeared into the bathroom.
Ianthe sat down at the table to put her files away. Her computer was still on. She noticed she had missed one email from a company called RS Electric Boats. The email was to DC John Ryan with her in copy. It had information about the electric RIB Pulse58 attached as well as the list of customers. She opened the first attachment, a commercial document with details about the boat and its price tag, which was 71,291 pounds, excluding VAT. Not cheap. She then opened the second attachment, which was a single excel sheet with the names and contact details of all customers who had purchased the Pulse58. It was a brand-new model that had become available only last year, so the list was relatively short with less than twenty names organised according to the date of purchase. The third name from the top jumped at her: it was her own name. Ianthe Seymour of Belvedere Terrace, Brighton BN1 3AR, occupation DI Sussex Police. The phone number and email address were Tony’s.
She heard the shower running still. She stood up, went to his bag and unzipped it. On top lay his black Musto foul weather gear. Underneath she found an envelope containing roughly thirty-thousand pounds in fifty-pound notes. Also, a cheap smartphone. There was a side-pocket in the holdall as well. She gasped as she saw what it contained. A gun. It was a Smith & Wesson Model 19 revolver, fully loaded, extremely simple to operate. She had had basic firearms training of course and knew how to handle one of those even though it was not standard issue for Sussex Armed Police. She put it on the table next to her computer, then reached for the phone. It was on but the screen was locked. She considered briefly, then typed in the four digits of Tony’s birthday. Bingo. She opened the messaging app and texted ‘tony’ to her own phone number. It beeped, she read her own text and checked the number that had sent the text against the list of phone numbers that Bert Devos had used. It was the number that occurred most frequently of all. Mainly short calls, a few brief text messages, almost all in the sense of ‘omw’, ‘arrived’ or an indication of an estimated time of arrival.
Ianthe closed her eyes for a brief moment and took a deep breath. Then she settled in her chair facing the door. On the table next to her the phone, the money and the revolver. She heard the water being turned off. A few minutes later Tony appeared, wearing his navy boxers and a black northface t-shirt. She stood. He looked a little puzzled to see her standing there. Then he noticed his open bag on the floor. His face turned angry.
“Did you go through my things?”
She did not reply but asked instead:
“Where were you last Monday night?”
He was obviously taken aback by that question but recovered quickly.
“What do you mean, Monday night? You know I was on a business trip. I told you I was in Leeds. Why do you want to know?”
“Is there anyone who can vouch for that, Tony?”
“I don’t know, I’d have to think about that. Why?”
“I think you know why. How did you know Bert Devos?”
He protested, angrily, that he did not know a Mr Devos.
“Please don’t lie. I found this phone in your luggage, Tony. It has contacted Bert Devos many times during the past year. Mr Devos also called your normal phone number a few times, even texted you. And don’t tell me this is not your phone. I unlocked it using your birthday. While we’re at it, I also found a lot of money and this gun. You forget I’m a police officer, Tony. No doubt the gun will have your fingerprints all over it. We know already Bert Devos was involved in narcotics smuggling and bringing in illegal immigrants. Have you been working with him?”
Tony audibly sighed and visibly relaxed.
“Bert Devos was an idiot,” he suddenly started.
“We were on the same boat a couple of years ago when I took part in The Royal Escape, if you remember. We got talking in the pub in Fecamp. It was the time of the big migrant crisis in Calais in France, not sure if you followed that. People were paying tons of money to smugglers to cross the Channel using inflatables that were not seaworthy at all. Madness. Many perished. A lot more than the newspapers reported. The currents are merciless in the Channel. Less than ten percent of people lost overboard will be found. We agreed it would be so easy to make a fortune if we used a better and bigger boat. And what is better and less circumspect than a sailing yacht. There are literally thousands of them on the south coast. And they are practically invisible to coastguard radar systems. Anyway, a bit later Ronnie got sacked from his company. The golden handshake he received allowed him to buy Polaris. He was afraid to tell his wife though. Then he remembered our conversation and came to find me.”
“Was it so easy to start trafficking people then?”
Tony shrugged.
“I had taken it further already and had made contact with traffickers on the dark web. You’d be amazed how easy that is. I had checked out the coast of France as well, sailing there taking time off work. I had already settled on the right spot. You could say I was waiting for Ronnie to call me when he did. And boy, did we earn a lot of money playing ferry!”
“You picked them at Yport and dropped them at Shoreham,” Ianthe stated.
“Ah, you know more than I thought,” he grinned. Yport was perfect. Even in broad daylight there was enough cover to bring a cargo out to sea. And if you arrive under the cover of darkness in Shoreham, you can bring them with a RIB all the way up to the Adur, from where they can go any where in the UK they want.”
“But a RIB makes a lot of
noise, doesn’t it?”
“Not if you are smart enough to buy one with an electric engine like we did,” Tony boasted. “Great little boats they are! Doing over twenty knots with a thirty-five-mile radius on one charge. I actually purchased one using your name. Thought no one would ask questions if a police officer appeared to be the customer. Actually, Ronnie made most of the crossings alone and I waited at Shoreham with the RIB to unload the cargo.”
“And did you expand into drugs at once, or did that come later?”
“That’s where it all went awry with Ronnie, unfortunately,” he explained.
“We were making a ton of money ferrying people, but the guys on the French side asked if we were interested in shipping some coke as well. I mean, a forty-footer like Polaris can hold a lot of people, but even then there is still plenty of space, in particular in the bilges or around the engine where you can pack a few hundred k of coke at the same time. We could easily have doubled or tripled our revenue that way, so I was all for it. But Bert didn’t want to play along.”
“How come?”
“Our Mr Devos was a bit of an idealist. He saw no harm in ferrying refugees to the UK. Of course, he did take money for it, but he soothed his conscience by the knowledge that most of these people were fleeing horrible circumstances. But drugs were too much for his conscience.”
“So, you killed him.”
“I actually sidestepped him first. I told the French guys to put the coke in a holdall and hide it on board Polaris. Told them to put it behind the engine. There is a little service door you can easily open there. I thought that once Bert would have seen how easy it was, he would come around. Unfortunately, he did not.”
“What happened?”
While talking, Tony picked up his sailing gear from the floor where Ianthe had dropped it hanging it on a peg behind the door.
“Bert told me he wanted to stop everything and threatened me he would go to the police to tell all if I continued to bring in narcotics. I couldn’t run that risk, more so since I had just made an arrangement with the biggest distributor on the south coast.”
Dead in the Water Page 30