The Englishman

by David Gilman

  Maguire’s phone rang. He turned to Raglan. ‘You need to get to the medics and have that wound looked at.’

  ‘I’ve done that. No need.’

  ‘Basic stuff, Raglan. You need a tetanus shot.’

  ‘All up to date. You never know when you might stand on a rusty nail.’

  Maguire sighed. ‘All right. Give them your statement. I’ll wait.’ He made his way through the gaggle of police officers and the forensic team who were shuffling around the two apartments and landing.

  Thanks to Maguire’s influence it took only an hour for Raglan to be questioned and to give his statement. They quickly saw it to be self-defence and allowed him to leave pending further investigation. Carrying the small holdall, he joined Maguire in the street below. Both men knew the flat was of no use to him now. The main road had been cordoned off, creating an almighty traffic jam. Police cars, outrider motorcycles and an ambulance shared the narrow street. Two unmarked cars full of armed response officers completed the cut-off area. He saw Abbie standing next to a pool car in the taped-off perimeter twenty metres away from where Maguire stood with two younger men. They wore an agent’s street uniform. Leather jackets, jeans and trainers. Similar to Raglan, except he preferred weatherproof trail boots, lightweight and with rubber soles for purchase that gave him a kicking advantage in a fight. One of the two men sported a quilted gilet beneath the leather jacket. Bystanders were being moved on as uniformed officers and detectives began questioning shopkeepers. There would be CCTV footage somewhere showing the killer arriving. There wouldn’t be any of him leaving.

  Maguire beckoned Raglan to him. ‘We’ve got a break. An elderly resident at the kidnap scene on Weltje Road approached the men in the van before the shooting started. The driver was reading an old edition of a daily newspaper. Several days old. Our witness asked if he could have the paper when he’d finished. He uses old papers for his cat’s litter tray. The driver handed it over.’

  Raglan waited for the punchline. An old newspaper taken from the ambush didn’t seem to offer much information. ‘Did the cops get to it before the cat?’

  ‘Apparently, they did.’

  ‘It can’t be as simple as having the address written on it for the paper delivery from the local shop.’

  ‘No, a bit more complicated than that. Some newspapers, including this one, print a unique number on each copy that can be used for competitions for reader loyalty and reward programmes. This number identifies the print site, what time that copy was printed and the lorry that took it to the wholesaler.’

  ‘I’m guessing there are more than a few copies printed,’ said Raglan.

  ‘Yes, initially that was a problem, forty to fifty thousand copies in this case and the paper wasn’t prepared to give out any more information than that. They identified the wholesale depot, which wasn’t much help, but then the coppers promised the paper a scoop on this story so they rifled their files. If a customer used their unique number to enter a competition or take up an offer of any kind then their name and address would be known. What we needed was a breach of data security but arm-twisting and promises go a long way.’

  Then you have an address?’ said Raglan.

  ‘Yes, they wrote in for a dozen packets of seeds at half price. The house is in Brentford.’

  20

  Eddie Roman’s wife was defiant.

  Her Eddie was on the straight and narrow. And no she didn’t know where he was. Not right now. Not this minute. He was on a job. He did delivery work these days. The police warrant gave them the authority to search the modest three-bedroomed house. A police inspector handed her a folded newspaper encased in a plastic evidence bag.

  ‘Eddie’s not been around for a while has he, Shelley? Not like him to miss a Saturday night down the pub, which he did last Saturday. This is your house number and this is the newspaper that’s delivered here every day. Is that correct?’

  Shelley Roman’s face sagged. She nodded and sat heavily into an armchair.

  The inspector turned to the two men waiting in the doorway behind him. Maguire nodded. He’d take over the questioning now.

  ‘Thank you, inspector. See what your search turns up. Mrs Roman, I am a government official. Make no mistake as to the seriousness of our investigation. A man was murdered, another kidnapped. You have seen the news and read the papers. This newspaper was taken from the van driver where those events took place.’

  The colour drained from her face.

  ‘When was the last time you heard from your husband?’

  Shelley Roman was torn between telling the truth and fearing that her answers would further implicate her husband. ‘Eddie? He phoned me… last night. It was last night.’ She nodded. ‘He said he couldn’t talk but that he’d be home soon.’

  ‘That’s all he said?’

  She nodded dumbly. Her hand trembled as she reached for a pack of cigarettes and lit one. ‘Jesus, Eddie, what have you done.’

  ‘Mrs Roman, your husband is known to the police, he is on parole and in the past has been a driver for various robberies. Is there anyone else he would have confided in?’

  ‘No. Eddie kept himself to himself. He never gabbed to no one. That’s why people trusted him to work with.’

  Maguire watched her for a moment. Taking a brief pause during interrogation allowed extra doubt to creep into the mind of those being questioned. ‘He is not a violent man, we know that—’

  ‘Eddie wouldn’t hurt nobody. It’s not in him. He’s a driver is all,’ she blurted.

  ‘But the men he is with are… brutal.’ Maguire let the word hang. ‘Your husband is likely to be in extreme danger himself.’

  She gasped. Her hand trembled.

  ‘Did he say anything at all that might help us locate him?’

  She nodded. ‘Said he wasn’t far from home… that’s all. That there’d been a complication, that things were taking longer than expected.’

  Maguire reached for the mobile phone on the coffee table. ‘On this phone?’

  She nodded. Maguire turned to the police inspector orchestrating the search. ‘He’ll no doubt be using a pay-as-you-go. See what you can trace from last night. We might get the nearest tower and location.’ He turned back to Eddie’s wife. ‘The police’ll caution you. Do you understand what that means?’

  Again, she nodded. This was familiar territory for the wife of an ex-con and local villain.

  ‘What legitimate work has he done over the past few months?’

  She shrugged. ‘This and that.’

  ‘Specifically.’

  ‘Did a newspaper drop, and then picked up delivery work. He spent a few months driving for the road people, y’know, the highway maintenance gangs, but he didn’t fancy that much so he thought he might go back to being a porter at the hospital. Especially with winter coming on.’

  ‘When did he work at the hospital?’

  ‘Last year.’ She ground out the cigarette. ‘He never told me nuthin’ at all about his business. He tried to go straight a million bloody times but he just couldn’t help himself. Stupid. Bloody stupid.’

  Raglan followed Maguire outside. He had remained silent during the questioning. ‘That explains how they got the maintenance vehicle. And a local villain would know local places. Check the hospital. If they’re going to move Carter they might have used her husband’s inside knowledge to steal an ambulance.’

  ‘Good thought,’ said Maguire and beckoned one of his team over.

  Raglan turned towards Abbie and her car. ‘Pass on whatever you get. I’ll have a sniff around the area. The burnt-out van is ten minutes from here. What if they stayed close to home?’

  ‘You suspect anything, call it in. I don’t want you playing fast and loose.’

  ‘Then why bring me in? I’m off the books. I’m unaccountable.’

  *

  Abbie eased the car along the narrow lane where the van had burnt. She had not spoken of the incident at his flat. Maguire had told her what had happene
d and asked if she wanted to be excused duty. She had put a brave face on it and said she would stay as Raglan’s driver. Maguire almost pulled her off the job but knew that if anyone could get Raglan around the city in a hurry it was Abbie.

  As she drove a part of her shuddered at the thought that the man who sat calmly at her side had been involved in a fight to the death. She knew it had injured him, but he gave no sign of being hurt. The contrast between the man’s self-control and what had gone on a few hours earlier confused her. She acknowledged she would never understand what made men and women throw themselves into danger. Raglan asked her to stop, got out of the car and walked into the container storage yard. A packing crate stood next to the nearest twenty-foot shipping container. Raglan used the pallet to clamber on to the roof. He scanned the horizon. A helicopter patrol would have been of more use, but they could not waste police resources hovering over different parts of London on guesswork alone. He had no sense of where they could have hidden Carter. Everything had moved fast over the past forty-eight hours but he didn’t know the city well enough to make even an educated guess. Which, he acknowledged, was why JD had paid Eddie Roman for his expertise. One thing was certain. Where Carter was being held wasn’t a house and it wasn’t somewhere that would have any kind of security patrols near or around it. It would be in plain sight where everyday life went on. Somewhere run down where rough-looking men wouldn’t look out of place. A narrow road like the one he gazed over now would have been the kind of place he’d use. It was a nowhere road. There was no traffic using it. It had to be a similar place that the killers had chosen. He let himself down and went back to the car.

  ‘You have a smartphone? Mine’s only a burner.’

  She handed him her phone. Raglan keyed in their location and brought up a map of the area, zooming in on narrow streets, searching for anywhere that looked desolate.

  ‘If the driver was close to home then we’ll start from here.’

  Abbie put the car in gear. ‘It’s a wild goose chase, Raglan.’

  ‘Then go back to your cubicle and stare at a screen and chase down terrorists posting on social media. You wanted this; don’t pretend you didn’t.’ He could see she didn’t enjoy being reprimanded. ‘This is for grown-ups. It’s not something you read about or watch on the news; it’s happening and you’re part of it. We can bitch and moan later when it’s done. I want to find Carter alive and discover what he and Maguire were up to. Is that clear enough? Make your mind up.’

  She drove smoothly, without anger. ‘They were wrong about you, Raglan. They told me you don’t say much. You must have just used up a whole year’s worth of conversation.’

  Raglan kept the smile of satisfaction to himself. Abbie wasn’t going to be cowed, which was exactly what he’d needed to establish.

  She drove in and out of the various small lanes that led off the Great West Road dual carriageway. The areas they entered were too exposed for the killers to remain undetected for any length of time. ‘We’re not that far from your parents’ place,’ said Raglan as he checked the map. Southall was due north of their location. ‘If we had the time we could call in for a cup of chai.’

  ‘Did my mother’s Indian brew come as a shock? It’s an acquired taste if you’re not used to it,’ she said as she swung back on to the main road.

  ‘No, I’ve had it before.’ Raglan didn’t mind her loosening up – it would make her feel closer to the heart of the operation – but it wasn’t the time for idle conversation. He was concentrating on his immediate surroundings and searching ahead for anywhere they might be holding Carter. ‘Where are we now?’

  ‘Hounslow,’ she answered. ‘There are a lot of industrial units around here. Where next?’

  He looked at the busy road. If Eddie Roman had told his wife he was close to home was that simply a figure of speech? He scoured the map again. The Syon private hospital was a few hundred metres further along the road and would be ideal if they had injured Carter in the attack. Could there be any way JD had got his people into the private hospital? The killers had torched one van. There would be another, but if JD was planning a quick move to another location he’d need fast cars. Raglan felt a growing sense of desperation. When he had been kidnapped and tortured his men had worked day and night to find him. And they had found him moments before his death. ‘Go back in the direction we came,’ he said.

  She gave him a questioning look.

  ‘Just do it. This doesn’t feel right. Get across the other side of the dual carriageway. There are two narrow lanes into an industrial estate.’

  His phone rang. It was Maguire. ‘They tracked the phone signal. There’s a private hospital on the A4—’

  ‘I’m there now,’ said Raglan, raising a hand to stop Abbie from driving forward.

  ‘That’s the base tower, two more in the distance ahead. He’s somewhere there. I’m sending backup.’

  Raglan pointed. ‘Get across there now. Fast. Cut across the traffic. Ignore the lights. Go. Go.’

  She fluffed the gear change but quickly did as he told her. Once across the dual carriageway, she flicked on her indicator to turn left.

  ‘Not this one. The next.’ Raglan never ignored instinct. His was a sixth sense honed over the years. An early warning system that had saved lives, including his own.

  Abbie took the curve and then braked as the road narrowed. They drove slowly along what was an unimportant route for heavy goods vehicles; the area was very overgrown – the bushes couldn’t have been cut for years. She pulled over as a ten-metre-long heavy haulage lorry took precedence on the narrow lane, its company name telling them it was hauling stone aggregate. Raglan saw the ribbed structure of what looked like a stone-crushing plant rising above the treeline. The road ahead fish-tailed. Left to the plant and right to a scrap-metal-recycling unit.

  ‘Stop here.’

  Abbie looked around the desolate area.

  ‘There,’ said Raglan, pointing to the closed gates of the abandoned factory. ‘That’s where I’d go. Hidden behind those gates but with quick access out on to a fast dual carriageway. Stay here.’

  Raglan was out of the door before she could argue. She watched as he tugged out a weapon from the back of his belt. Her heart skipped a beat. She had no idea Raglan was armed. It was no longer the kind of anxiety she had felt going into the French hamlet; this was fear.

  She picked up her phone from the seat and called Maguire.

  21

  Raglan skirted the fencing, saw enough to convince him that there was no one in sight and clambered over the fence. At a crouching run, he went to the main building. Two doors were open on the other side of the yard exposing empty garaging. He knew that the killers had already gone. There was always the chance that a rearguard had remained behind so he edged along the main building, found a side door and pressed down the door handle. He burst in, not giving anyone inside time to react. He levelled the semi-automatic, sweeping the abandoned room, watching for any shift in light that would show movement from a hidden gunman. Then he skirted the room, ignoring the detritus that had been left behind. He checked the doorway into another side room; the stench of a blocked toilet led him to a small annexe where a bucket sat next to the toilet pan. The men who had been here would have taken water from the river at the back of the yard for the bucket latrine.

  Raglan lowered his weapon but kept a firm grip on it. A trail of blood led across the floor to the outside. He checked the yard again and crossed to the open garages. The blood smear widened as if they had laid a body down, then it trailed again towards the mesh fence at the rear of the yard. Somewhere in the distance police sirens wailed. The cavalry was on their way. Raglan pulled aside the wire, which had already been cut, and stepped through the crushed undergrowth towards the riverbank. The shallow water was full of junk. Snagged in the tangled mess of branches, supermarket trolleys and old window frames was a man’s naked body.

  *

  Forensic investigators dragged out the corpse as the
police pathologist was ushered across the now cluttered yard. Police vehicles and unmarked cars from some of Maguire’s people sealed off the narrow road. The body was missing its hands and the face was unrecognizable from the gunshot fired into the back of the head. Raglan went to the gate where Abbie waited uncertainly.

  ‘Go home, Abbie. There’s nothing here for you.’

  ‘I’ll wait and take you back to town.’ Her eyes flitted past his shoulder to where the men were pulling what was left of the man in the river. Raglan stepped in front of her to block the gruesome view.

  ‘Maguire’s waiting for me inside. Go on, get going. I’ll square it with him.’

  Her smile was a mixture of gratitude and regret. She averted her face when she glimpsed the corpse.

  Raglan held her shoulders, turning her so she faced the street. ‘Say hello to your folks for me. You don’t need any of this lodged in your mind.’

  ‘I’ll pick you up tomorrow. Where will you be?’

  ‘I’ll phone you.’

  He watched her leave and then joined Maguire inside as the search teams went about their business. The two men stood amid the detritus in the factory’s main room. It was plain to see where Carter had been kept and tortured. An empty saline IV bottle, a used blood-transfusion bag, hypodermic needles, dried blood on the floor, bottled water and tins of food shared the space with bloodied and dirty hand towels and a soiled pillowcase stained with vomit and blood. In the background someone was retching. Maguire glanced at the young constable from the search team who was sheepishly wiping his mouth.

  ‘They cut out Carter’s eye,’ said Raglan. ‘Forensics have it in an evidence bag.’

  Neither man hid their disgust. ‘They chopped the hands off the corpse. Pretty crude way to stop us identifying him,’ said Raglan. ‘They used hollow-point rounds which blew his face away. If there hadn’t been so much junk in the river the body would have probably ended up in a sewer, never to be found.’