Seventh (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 1)

by Lewis Hastings

  It was Francis in his ‘Number Ones’.

  Purple and green Northern Ireland and blue, white and green South Atlantic campaign medals accompanied some NATO ribbons that Cade didn’t recognise. His family were stood proudly at his side as the shutter clicked on the photographer’s camera on that long-forgotten homage to the unsung hero of a distinguished career.

  They were happier days indeed, but ones littered with bitter conflicts and complex and deadly exploits the like of which many men would never have experienced, let alone survived.

  “You know Mr Francis, if you need a chat with a friendly soul then you can just ring me, you don’t have to keep making up reports of burglaries.”

  Francis looked at him through bloodshot eyes and shook his head.

  “Is it that obvious kid?”

  Cade stopped in the doorway and asked Frank if he fancied putting the kettle on. He did as it happened and their friendship grew from that day on.

  Cade’s ultimate goal was to get Francis clean once more, back to the proud man he was before heroin, and in turn the bastards that dealt it to him had deprived him of a life.

  Cade grew to trust the former warrant officer and even gave him a few simple tasks, for which he rewarded him; enough cash to buy a single beer and the rest in the way of food. No point in setting him up to fail.

  Mission after mission saw Francis providing quality intelligence and he never once let Cade down, never once betrayed him, slowly regaining his confidence and despite disappointments here and failure there he had a glimmer at the end of the tunnel, a future again.

  Francis would later confide that Cade was the only true friend he had had since leaving the services. And heroin or not, he was able to see through the haze of drug-induced bouts of depression to realise that he would be a lot worse off without him. Strangely enough, he had not suffered a single burglary since.

  In turn Cade protected Francis, continuing to provide him with nutritious food and regular health check-ups, but above all a solid, reliable foundation on which to rebuild his tormented life.

  He had called in to see his old mate to inform him that he was moving on, leaving the force and explaining why in graphic detail. Without solicitation a devastated Francis offered to help. He’d met Cooke many a time and despised him. Hated him in fact and that bunch of cowboys he swanned around with; good looking, swaggering bastards all of them.

  “Just give me the nod Jack my son and we are on.”

  He left Francis with a deadly glint in his graphite eyes, a sparkle of life that he hadn’t seen before and one that had he been on the wrong side of the fence would have scared him.

  Sergeant Jack Cade packed his kit away the next morning; placing it reverently into cardboard boxes, he labelled each and wondered when he would ever see or need the contents again. He then sought out a number of individuals he cared about, said his farewells, and handed his locker key to the administration officer.

  “Cheers Jean, it’s been a pleasure.”

  The normally reserved Jean Wilson stood and hugged Cade. She told him she would miss him enormously. “The boss asked to see you before you go. Take care Jack; you are one of the good guys. Everyone knows about Cooke, his day will come. I shouldn’t say it, but I hope he gets chlamydia. Look after yourself.”

  He tapped on the Divisional Commander’s door five minutes later.

  “Sir.”

  “Ah, Jack, just wanted to say farewell. You are a bloody good man and the team at the airport are looking forward to working with you. I will ensure your staff file is written up appropriately and Cooke’s too. Leave that piece of shit to me. I never did like him; in my day we would have made him walk the line like the bloody cons…” His mind wondered back to the heady days of policing the proud Midlands city in the seventies and eighties.

  “Thanks for everything, boss. I see this as a new chapter, a new beginning. I’ve spoken to a solicitor about a divorce, in a way I’m going through two at once. I won’t let you down, thank you for believing in me. Please give my regards to Mrs Jackson. Here, this is for you.”

  He slid a sealed manila package across the desk, popped up a quick salute and said goodbye.

  It was half an hour later when Jackson had cleared his mail tray and opened the envelope.

  As the contents fell out, he shook his head. Cade was good at his job, and the intelligence world had just gained a new champion. He stood, closed his door and locked it.

  The imagery was condemning and final. Each video showed Cooke engaged in varying degrees of sexual deprivation, occasionally with his wife and always with girls clearly much younger than himself. In one grainy shot he was with three women, one was his wife who was blind-folded and unceremoniously duct-taped to the headboard by her wrists as two provocatively dressed school girls, at most only fifteen, sixteen at best performed with each other and Cooke.

  The obvious signs of social drug use were also very apparent.

  The images were evidently taken from a corner of a sordid motel room by an unseen device.

  It was enough. It left Cooke without any excuse, legal or moral and Jackson now had him firmly in his cross-hairs.

  He rubbed his eyes, partly through fatigue, partly to erase the images.

  The last disc slid quietly into the drive and engaged.

  It was CCTV imagery, taken at various points around the city of Nottingham. Each file showed Cade, either in the process of shopping, visiting restaurants or travelling in his car. The timeline on each set of images provided compelling evidence that Cade was never anywhere near Cooke’s chosen motel and therefore completely unconnected to any of the surveillance that had been illegally conducted.

  Jackson had a beaming smile on his face.

  “Clever boy Jack, I pity your next enemy.”

  He slid the discs back into the envelope before sealing them and placing them in his safe. Job done.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Cade slept well over the weekend. His estranged wife had left the marital home, heading back to live, in the short term, with her parents in Kent. She’d soon refer to herself as Penny Stephens again, and frankly that suited them both.

  He travelled west along the A453 and arrived at East Midlands Airport ahead of schedule. He located the police station, parked up and introduced himself to the Front Counter Clerk.

  “Good morning, Sergeant Cade to see Superintendent Curtain.”

  “Ah yes, we’ve been expecting you, the boss asked me to get you to unload your stuff, I’ve got you an office. When you are ready, let me know and I’ll let you back in, then I can sort of access cards and other bits and pieces. Do you need a hand?”

  “No, but thanks, best welcome I’ve had at a nick for years!”

  He meant it. Within twenty minutes his belongings were in the new office and to his surprise it was an office with a fabulous view across the runway. It was a little tired, but the view made up for it tenfold.

  He was finding a home for his clothing and equipment when he became aware of someone stood in the doorway.

  “Great view, isn’t it?”

  The voice belonged to Superintendent Eddie Curtain, or as he was known affectionately, ‘Mad Eddie’. A man with a fearsome reputation for fun, hard work and catching criminals, Curtain was a career cop three years off retirement but with the stamina of men half his age.

  Despite having a full head of well-groomed white hair, he still looked in his forties, slightly tanned, by virtue of a holiday home in southern France, fit and an almost permanent smile. His positivity was legendary.

  “It is sir, thank you, better than I expected.” He held out a hand and introduced himself.

  His new manager replied, “Call me Eddie in here Jack but boss, sir, or whatever the frigging hell you like when we are in company. Jacko told me all about you and that’s why you are here. He told me you are a bloody good operator son, and that is what I need, oh and someone who can make a decent cup of coffee. How you fixed?”

  “I
n an instant boss, give me five minutes to find the kitchen and I’ll get it sorted, where is your office?”

  “I’m kidding, you daft twat, grab your mug and bring it with you, we’ll have one together then I’ll give you the grand tour. When we’ve done, I’ll get Steve Hazard to get you out and about, set you up with a civil aviation pass and get you through a few doors. It’s gonna be a busy week old son so hang onto Stu’s coat tails. He’s one of my best sergeants, can shoot the balls off a fly at fifty yards, but he knows sweet Fanny Adams about intelligence, and that’s where you come in.”

  They visited the kitchen and got two decent-sized cups of coffee; Curtain stole a chocolate biscuit from an open packet as they gravitated back towards his office. Whenever they bumped into people, the boss introduced Cade to his new colleagues.

  The next one was five foot eight – squared.

  “Stumpy, this is Sergeant Jack Cade, top man from Nottinghamshire, been seconded here to set up a decent Intelligence Cell, when you’ve got a minute, you’ll have to show him that file you’ve got, the one with the Eastern Europeans. Jack’s got a real interest in their growth in the UK and the connections to organised crime.”

  They walked further.

  “Brian, meet Jack Cade, number one man from across the border, here to sort out our crappy intelligence gathering systems, I reckon you and him would get along fine.” He pointed to Brian Watts’ collar number before adding, “Remember that number Jack, damned good constable is Brian, submits more intelligence than the rest of the buggers put together!”

  Booth shook Cade’s hand and promised to call into his office once he was settled in.

  Cade couldn’t help noticing that Watts’ collar number was 100. Clearly someone in the stores had a sense of humour.

  Getting from the kitchen to Curtain’s office had so far taken twenty minutes, but Cade felt good about the place already. It had a homeliness which was tethered to a sense of passion and pride. There were photographs of the various teams scattered throughout the corridors and crests from visiting law enforcement teams from around the world.

  “So boss, do you have any female staff here?”

  “Absolutely, one’s a real looker, the other one, not so, but hard worker and popular with the lads. So to speak.”

  Cade was relatively ‘old school’ but still found it strange that women were isolated within what was deemed by many to be the modern era of policing.

  As they reached the largest office in the station a male appeared from a stairwell. A rugged looking ex-royal marine, he had a thick head of blond hair, swept back out of his bright blue eyes and almost stereotypically chiselled features.

  He was wearing the standard black uniform of Magnum boots, combat trousers, polo shirt and black body armour. A Glock 17 was strapped to his right thigh and an H&K MP5 was sat on his chest. Extra magazines for both weapons were placed strategically on his webbing.

  He wore an inordinately large wristwatch.

  Clearly unafraid of being identified, his name and collar number were embroidered in white on a black patch which sat on the right side of the vest.

  “Steven, meet Jack Cade,” Curtain said, acting as an intermediary.

  “Good morning Jack, Steve Hazard, heard a lot about you from a few old team mates at Notts, I was there from ’94 to ’98. Your reputation precedes you – and that is a good thing.” He winked, encouraging Cade to relax, he’d been slightly on edge about anyone discussing why he had left his old force.

  “Boss, if you are happy, I’ll take Jack out and about, show him the ropes?”

  “Spot on, Stevo lad, and don’t forget to show him the shackles and chains too!”

  They all laughed, although as they walked to the car park Cade hoped his new boss wasn’t quite as kinky as his old one.

  They both got into a marked patrol car. The wipers brushed away the early morning dew as Hazard turned the key.

  “He’s a cracking boss Jack, work hard and play hard and you’ll be fine. I reckon you’ve landed a brilliant job here, we need someone to set up some new systems, the world’s a smaller place since Nine Eleven and there are too many bastards trying to get into my backyard – and for these four walls, I haven’t got enough ammo for all of ‘em.”

  He did that fashionable action with the fingers of both hands to indicate speech marks before adding, “Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for equality…”

  It was clear he wasn’t but the recent flood of migrants from Europe and north Africa had already started to impact upon his motherland, so perhaps it was a reasonable attitude to have?

  “They’re flooding across the fucking border pal, Eastern Europe, North Africa, West Africa, East bloody Africa, Russians, Jamaicans, Trinidadians, Asians, in fact if they end in ‘uns then they are coming and they are starting to arrive ‘ere in numbers.”

  Cade threw out a few searching questions and a couple of generic ones: “So where’s home? How many kids do you have? Been here long?”

  He soon grew to like Hazard’s approach. It was direct but underneath the weapon-clad exterior there was a warm soul and a great sense of national pride and well-placed humour. Hazard steered the Mondeo estate into a parking bay and asked Cade to follow him.

  Having been issued with his airport ID cards, Cade now felt a sense of ownership; he also had a strong feeling that the work he was recruited to conduct would define him.

  Forty minutes out of East Midlands Airport a blue and white Boeing 737 was cruising over the English Channel, steadily reducing height and speed and joining the countless contrails that zipped back and forth across the busiest shipping straits in the world.

  Beneath them another 737 was dropping quickly, heading into London Gatwick. To their left another and to their right and higher, a 747-400 climbing now and heading out towards France, then Eastern Europe and the Middle East before arriving ten hours later in Singapore.

  On board the Thompson charter flight, the crew were clearing away the remnants of a meal, stowing the cabinets in the galley and ensuring the cabin was prepared for a safe landing.

  It had been an eventless flight, leaving Spain, crossing France and up over the channel towards one of the quieter British international airports.

  As the aircraft was almost full, the crew had earned their salary once more, pampering to the whims of all and sundry and presenting an apparently never-ending smile.

  In the galley, one of the crew was taking a moment to catch up with a colleague. Kirsty Bell a Derby girl, born and bred who never thought she would get to travel the world was relating what she called a gut feeling to her crewmate and best friend Emma O’Brien, a hazel-eyed Liverpudlian with a sharp wit and an eye for detail.

  “Did you see that guy in 29C? The way he was looking at the blonde girl next to him made my skin crawl. Seriously, what does he look like? Reckons he’s some top DJ from the resorts, offered me a free ticket to his next gig. Says he’s the next big thing.”

  O’Brien replied in an accent so think it could be cut with a machete, “He’s certainly big and he stinks too, poor cow having to sit next to that, if it’s not Lynx its Kouros and if it’s not Kouros it’s…”

  “B.O.!” replied Bell with a giggle.

  “Anyway, she’s beautiful, Russian I reckon or Polish. Those Polish women can be dead gorgeous, fancy having to sit next to him. I saw her writing a note to him at one point, she looked worried so I asked her if she needed help. She said no but I could tell something was up, I’m dead clever me, our Craig reckons I should’ve been a detective.”

  “A defective more like!” offered Bell, which was rewarded with a playful slap.

  O’Brien continued, “No, seriously mate I think she’s upset about something, she had tears in her eyes, she looked really worried, like she was frightened, but I didn’t want to push it. I’m sure she will be alright.”

  The girls agreed, checked their hair and makeup, put on their uniform jackets, ran through some pre-landing safety drills, spoke to the in
-flight service director via the comms system and strapped themselves in for landing.

  In seat 29B a woman with light-coloured hair sat staring straight ahead at the cockpit door, almost fixated, partly willing the pilot to land and equally eager for him to turn around and fly somewhere else entirely.

  She had boarded the flight in Spain on a Russian passport, which was good enough to fool the best of document examiners. The photograph had been substituted skilfully, the laminate hardly broken and only visible to the well-trained eye under a really decent microscope.

  Everything else about the travel document said genuine; stitching, holograms, ultra violet ink, print quality, watermark, all except the fact that the owner – or at least the person using it – was not the rightful holder.

  With a timely smile and a pre-selected male border official, she would make it work, make it appear legitimate.

  What the outside world could not see was the inbuilt dread, the trepidation and the untold fear. Heading to a place she didn’t know, from a place she had to escape from, leaving behind a raft of high-value possessions, all of which were conditional upon being beaten, abused, used and vaguely, strangely, loved by a man she no longer had sufficient words to describe.

  She had also, on the face of it, abandoned her daughter.

  Twenty minutes later Cade and Hazard were drinking the second cup of coffee of the morning as they stood in the control tower at the southern end of the airfield watching a Thomson Holidays 737 arrive from Malaga.

  The pilot jostled with the wind shear, skilfully straightening the aircraft and aligning it with the single main runway just seconds before he put it down, a little too heavily, onto the airstrip.