by Matt Johnson
‘Dr Julian Armstrong. He’s a Taff, like your mate Kevin Jones. Lives in the Black Mountains, gets up at some God-earthly hour to get to work in London. Just don’t get talking politics or religion with him is all I’ll say.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘He hates politicians and, when it comes to religion, he follows a Buddhist order that dates back to the eighteenth century. He might try and convert you.’
‘You want me to take the folder over to him?’
‘No, leave it with me. I’ll pop it over to him in my lunch hour. Give us a chance for a natter.’
I agreed. I was left with an hour to get to Hampstead.
Chapter 60
It was back to square one for the murder enquiry team.
By the time I reached Hampstead, the DCI had sent several detectives to Ealing to sit in on the interviews with the slave girls. It was unlikely they would know where the Romanians were heading when they fled the house, but we had to try.
I was sent with Josh Bonner to wear out some more shoe leather, knocking on doors in the High Street. It was tedious work, especially after the excitement following the lead we had gained from the CCTV at the garage.
Several hours’ slog produced no rewards, save for the knowledge that Relia hadn’t been frequenting the local shops. That made how her killers found the safe house even more of a puzzle.
Rupert rang me at about three o’clock. Julian Armstrong had given the document a quick once over during their lunch together. The reason Rupert had been unable to translate it was due to the fact that it was written in a number of versions of Arabic, as if it had been written by a Palestinian, edited by an Egyptian and then proofread by someone from Saudi. As Armstrong had been able to recognise all of the language variations, he had found reading the text less of a challenge.
Rupert warned me to be patient for a result on the translation. Armstrong had proposed doing a superficial analysis, with notes, to see if the document was of any interest or significance. He would be in contact in a few days if he had anything to report.
I got the distinct impression, though, that Armstrong didn’t consider the extra work to be a high priority. Although Kevin seemed to be anxious to know if the document had a monetary value – maybe even the kind of figure that could buy an early retirement – he was going to have to learn to be patient.
Rupert wanted to know if I had ever heard of something called ‘Al Anfal’. I hadn’t. Apparently, the name was mentioned in the Chas Collins book and in several of the document pages that Armstrong had scanned over lunch. It seemed to be the name for another group, similar to Al Q’aeda. I had to confess to having skimmed some of the Collins book, so I wasn’t too surprised that I didn’t recall reading the name.
We ended the call and I returned to Josh and the job at hand.
Chapter 61
Ealing, West London
Lynn Wainwright turned the Rover into the side street. In the daylight, it looked very different. The local station had mentioned there would be a PC standing outside and there he was, halfway along, looking chilly and bored.
He watched her as she parked the car. Waiting for her to mess up a parallel park, she mused. If so, she disappointed him. One swift movement – a perfect manoeuvre.
She climbed out of the car and greeted him. ‘Hello, mate. I’m Lynn Wainwright from SO19. Just popped back to pick up my torch. I left it here during the entry.’
‘Lucky you, I’ve drawn the short straw. No warm cars for me … Nice bit of parking, by the way.’
Lynn smiled in appreciation. ‘You’re on stag, I guess?’
‘I’ve been standing outside these empty houses for the last two hours. Best entertainment I’ve had has been staring at the windows of the places opposite. Highlight was at about seven, when the lights started to turn on. Would you believe, the routine is almost the same in every house? First the bedroom light, then the bathroom. A few minutes later the hallway and then the kitchen.’
‘Alarm, toilet, cup of tea, shower,’ said Lynn.
‘Exactly. It’s the same in my house too, probably the same for you.’
‘Just starts a lot earlier.’
‘They tell me this was a brothel, which made me wonder why SO19 had done the raid. Prostitution wasn’t normally your thing, I’d have thought. But I guessed maybe the pimps have started carrying guns.’
‘Something like that.’ Lynn looked along the front paths to the houses. It looked like the Murder Squad forensic team had been on scene as well. Both were now closed up, the windows sealed with masking tape. All views from outside were blocked by sheets hung across the window frames. ‘Police Line – Do Not Cross’ tape was tied against the doors of both houses. ‘Do you have a key?’ she asked.
‘It’s all locked up, I’m afraid,’ the PC replied, somewhat meekly. ‘Shall I radio the nick to see if we have one?’
Lynn noticed him glance at her left hand. He was looking for a ring. ‘It’s OK. I have a set in my pocket. But I’ll need you to come with me.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘So I don’t get accused of interfering with evidence or anything like that. I just need you to verify that I went straight up to the loft and came straight out again.’
The PC shrugged. ‘Seems fine to me. Are you one of the SFOs, then?’
‘That’s right … you’re detective material I see.’ She smiled warmly, keen that he should see her comment as a joke rather than an insult.
He laughed. ‘Yeah … sorry. Just didn’t realise there were any women in specialist firearms.’
‘There are two of us. Now … shall we get my torch?’
Reaching into her trouser pocket, Lynn produced a small bunch of keys. ‘Fancy a look inside?’ she said, coyly. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Alastair McCulloch. But call me Al, everyone does.’
There were several keys on the bunch. Lynn struggled to find one to fit the newly repaired front door of the left-side house. Al offered to help.
‘Go on,’ she said. ‘If you can do it, I’ll stand you a tea at refs break.’
Al took the keys and, in turn, tried the three keys in the lock. In the event, only one would actually go into the lock. He twisted the key gently so as not to break it. The lock was stiff, but it moved. A moment later the door popped open. They were in.
As he turned back towards Lynn, she noticed a look of disappointment on his face. The reason was approaching from behind her. Two men had walked in from the pavement and started up the garden path. They looked like CID – both in suits, one much younger than the other. The older one was purposeful, in a hurry, but it was the younger one who spoke.
‘Hello you two. DC Bonner from AMIT. Mind if I ask what you’re doing?’
Al turned sheepishly to face the new arrivals. As he stumbled for an explanation, Lynn came to his rescue.
‘Sorry gents,’ she explained. ‘Spoke to DCI Bowler first thing. He OK’d it for me to come and collect my torch.’
She could see the two detectives start to relax. Perhaps they weren’t in the shit after all.
The DC introduced the older detective. He was a Detective Inspector. She didn’t quite catch the name. It seemed they had called to check out a theory the DI had been working on. As the forensics team had now finished with the house, they had been cleared to have a poke around.
Lynn pushed open the front door. The hallway was bare floorboards. She remembered the smell from the night before; a mixture of stale sweat and spray deodorant. A bit like an empty locker room following a tough game, the team having just headed off to the pub.
The two detectives walked through and turned into the front room, the older one leading the way. She trotted up the stairs. Her new friend chose to stay with the detectives.
On reaching the landing, Lynn realised she was going to need a hand to get into the loft area. She’d forgotten just how high the ceiling was. Returning to the ground floor, she found the others in the front room. The two detectives were in the process
of tipping a double bed onto its side and pushing it against the wall. As she continued to watch, the younger detective, Bonner, pulled back the rug in front of the open fireplace. There was no carpet. The DI finished rolling up the rug and leant it against the bed. He scanned the floor.
‘Check the floorboards, Josh,’ the older detective said. ‘Look for cuts, missing nails. Anything that might look like a hide or a trapdoor.’
She was curious now, figuring the Murder Squad must have had a tip that something was hidden beneath the floor. For several minutes the two detectives tapped timbers and prised at the gaps to see if anything was loose.
‘Nothing?’ said the older man.
‘Let’s try the back room,’ said Bonner.
It was Lynn’s chance. ‘Al … come and give me a hand will you? I can’t get up to the loft.’
‘Teas are definitely on you then,’ he quipped as they ran up the stairs.
He cupped his hands to lift her up. For the second time, she entered the dark void. Fortunately, the torch lay just inside the opening. She dropped it into a retaining loop on her belt and climbed back into the hatch.
And that was as far as she got. As her equipment belt jammed against the wooden frame and then dug her holstered Glock pistol into her side, Lynn realised she was stuck, unable to drop or to climb back up.
Al sniggered.
Lynn was not amused. ‘Just give me a hand.’ She twisted and groaned, unable to move or even breathe properly.
‘How about we make that tea you promised me into dinner one evening?’
‘You cheeky fucker,’ Lynn replied. ‘When I get down from here I’ll be shoving this torch somewhere the sun don’t shine. Now get under me and help me push upwards.’
Al waited. ‘Dinner would be nice, Alastair. Thank you,’ he said.
Trapped and unable to move, Lynn took a deep breath. ‘OK, dinner it is … and if you tell a bloody soul how you got me to agree I’ll—’
‘OK, OK … I get the drift.’ Al cupped his hands once again and placed them under her black, hi-tech boot.
There was a voice from downstairs. It was the DI. ‘We’re nipping next door to check the downstairs rooms there. When you two have sorted out your social arrangements, make sure you shut the door behind you.’
Lynn smiled as she dropped down beside Al. The DI must have heard. Luckily, he also had a sense of humour.
‘You cheeky bugger,’ she said, cracking the torch onto the badge at the front of his helmet. ‘No way are you getting me to buy you dinner. You’ll get a brew and be grateful.’
Al shrugged. ‘It was worth a try.’
Lynn started down the stairs. ‘What were those two looking for?’ she asked.
‘A hidden room. They seemed to think there might be something under the floors downstairs. They’ve gone to check next door now.’
As Lynn walked into the front room, Al followed. ‘I’ve got a hoolie bar in the car,’ she said. ‘That’ll lift the floorboards. I’ll go ask them if they want to try it.’
Al agreed to wait in the first house until Lynn could return. The hoolie bar, or hooligan bar, was an adapted crowbar that would give the necessary leverage to prise up any floorboards. She headed back to the ARV car, opened the boot, pulled out the heavy metal tool and then walked up the adjacent path to the next door house.
Chapter 62
As the WPC started to prise open the first of the floorboards, there was no clue as to what lay below. Then, as what appeared to be a hollowed-out cellar beneath the floor was revealed, there was a yell from the front room next door, followed by the sound of a shot.
I was first to react. ‘Josh … stay here,’ I said firmly. ‘Lynn … with me.’
Lynn dropped the bar and drew her Glock from its belt holster. She was right behind me as we ran out into the front garden. We were just in time to see two men – one in the street and another in the process of exiting the adjacent front garden.
The suspect closest to us was barefoot, explaining why he wasn’t moving as fast as his friend. He stopped, raised a pistol toward us and fired.
As a round zipped over our heads, I dived for cover behind a low wall; Lynn tumbled forward and low onto the grass. Rolling over, she regained a crouch position with her Glock ready. She was fast, very fast. I was impressed. At a distance of about fifteen metres she put two rounds into the torso of her target. Both hit the chest area. It was instinctive, point and shoot, and as good as I had ever seen.
‘Armed police’, she screamed.
Too late, I thought, until I realised that her warning was directed at the second suspect, running up the street.
Save for the rapid beating of my heart and the sound of Lynn’s heavy breathing, the street was now silent.
I stood up slowly. There was no sign of the second suspect. In the adjacent garden, Lynn’s target lay still and on his back. A large red stain was spreading through his white shirt.
‘You check him,’ I yelled. ‘I’ll look for the other one.’
I moved out into the street, ducking behind anything I could use as cover. There was no sign of the second man. Returning to the front garden, I found Lynn checking for a neck pulse with her left hand, her right still holding the Glock. She was shaking, her face pale.
Her voice trembled as she spoke. ‘He’s dead.’
‘Probably before he hit the ground,’ I replied. ‘That was an incredible piece of shooting, miss.’
I realised then that the PC from the first house hadn’t appeared. I was just about to storm in through the front door when Lynn held me back.
‘Wait … there may be others. We should call in help.’
‘No time.’ I called into the house for any signs of life. No response.
Lynn led the way inside, Glock at the ready.
We found the young PC in the front room. He was still alive, but weak from blood loss. Slimy red foam was bubbling from his mouth and nose.
‘Al … Al,’ Lynn yelled at him as she knelt down. ‘Stay awake mate, stay awake.’ She pressed the transmit button on her personal radio. ‘Trojan this is Trojan five three … Officer down … Ambulance…’
‘Can’t … breathe,’ the PC hissed.
For a moment, I was back in another world, one I hadn’t experienced for a very long time. A man lying before me, bullet wound to the chest, familiar symptoms. So long ago, it felt like someone else’s life.
‘Tension haemothorax,’ I muttered to myself, under my breath.
Lynn turned back to me. ‘What did you say?’
‘Tip him up,’ I said, trying my best to sound calm.
‘We should keep him still,’ Lynn argued.
There was no time for debate. If I was right, the PC was close to death. I pushed past Lynn and ripped open his tunic. One wound; lower left chest, into the lung area.
‘We need to look for an exit wound,’ I said, my tone urgent.
Lynn did as I asked without further question. Dark-red blood oozed slowly from the entry wound. There was no corresponding wound to his back.
‘Looks like a nine mil’ entry wound, round still inside.’ I was talking as I thought, deciding my options, reliving times past to work out what to do next. ‘Get me your trauma kit from the car,’ I ordered.
Lynn hesitated for a moment, as if unsure whether to leave the injured PC.
‘Go,’ I yelled.
As she headed back to the street, I kept talking to the PC. It was important to keep him awake, stop him falling into unconsciousness. I was right, I had seen these exact symptoms before.
‘Al … Alastair,’ I said. ‘Come on you bastard … stay with us. Think of the dinner Lynn’s gonna buy you…’
Badly injured and bleeding, the PC grimaced through his pain. He was now grey, his skin turning cold and clammy. I gripped his hand. It was wet … sweaty. I pressed my fingers into his neck, found the pulse. Fast … very fast. A heart powered by adrenalin, trying to maintain blood pressure.
Lynn returned with the firs
t-aid kit and Josh Bonner. ‘I’ve called an ambulance,’ he said.
‘Do you have any duct tape?’ I demanded.
‘Duct tape?’ Lynn replied. ‘’What for? There’s micropore tape in the trauma pack, will that do?’
‘It won’t stick. I need duct tape … sticks better when there’s blood.’
‘There’s some in the boot of our car, guv,’ said Josh.
‘Get it. Be quick.’
Hoping all the while a paramedic would appear in the doorway, I mentally rehearsed what I needed to do. Improvised occlusive dressing. Seal wound. Tape three sides to create one-way valve.
I ripped open the first-aid kit and started to clean the blood away from the PC’s chest. Bandages, a scalpel, scissors, forceps and a plastic sheet fell beside me.
‘He’s slipping away.’ Lynn said, in a low voice.
I tapped Al’s chest, around the wound and across to his sternum, doing my best to look calm. The last thing I needed was for Lynn to continue to argue with me.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked.
‘Listen,’ I said. ‘His chest cavity is full of blood. It should sound hollow. It’s why he can’t breathe.’ I was remembering lessons on battlefield treatment of casualties that I had attended over two decades previously. ‘We need to help him,’ I continued. ‘Rip open a scalpel pack and cut a piece of that plastic sheet to the size of a credit card.
Josh returned and went to hand me the duct tape.
‘Tear me three strips about six inches long,’ I said.
Josh and Lynn performed their tasks without objection.
‘Now keep him still,’ I urged as I used the tape to stick the plastic over the bullet wound to create a seal. If I was right, it would allow him to breathe. As the final strip stuck fast to the surrounding skin, Al’s breathing took a serious turn for the worse. It wasn’t working. The dressing had failed.
Al was now beginning to panic, his legs and arms starting to shake uncontrollably.
I took a deep breath, trying to buy myself some thinking time. ‘Any sign of the ambulance?’