Seventh (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 1)

by Lewis Hastings

  Curtain rubbed his hair vigorously as if he were trying to rid his mind of the dramas of the last few hours.

  “Sir…”

  “What?”

  “She’s Bulgarian. She’s a redhead. She’s not a hooker and the dead man was most likely transporting her to a certain death. She’s tied up with a significant Eastern European crime group called Primul Val, they are at the forefront of diplomatic-based fraud, right across Europe, high-value vehicle and drug trafficking and I think they could be the leaders in our emerging financial crime issues in the UK. Her ‘boyfriend’ is rapidly rising up the Interpol ranks, and she was working for the Bulgarian government. And there is something else. Something she is yet to tell me. Something major.”

  He paused to let his words sink in.

  Silence.

  “Tell me you didn’t have it off with her?”

  “What?”

  “You heard. The lads reckon you had it off with her in the interview room.”

  “With Terry Barker watching? Boss, it was my wife that was into that, not me. Look, I’ll leave it to someone else to deal with. I needed a few days, possibly weeks but I reckon this could be the airport’s greatest moment. I know you want to kick my arse and I’d gladly let you do it, but I think this is the real deal. But I respect your decision.”

  “Bollocks, Jack, you’ve put me in one hell of a situation. Listen son, I can see the potential here but I’m going to have to talk to the Home Office about this. This is not a case of blurred lines, it’s a fucked-up mess and frankly I’m not sure that having anything further to do with it is wise. But for some reason I trust your instinct. Leave it with me? I’ll cash in a few favours with Frankie Waterman and John Hewett.”

  “Sir?”

  “Yes, old pals of mine, we went to Bramshill on a conference together once. Frank’s doing great things in the Met – organised crime or something, will never happen in our neck of the woods. Young Hewett’s a real flying star: sophisticated, good-looking, athletic bastard, looks about twelve and he wears a Rolex Submariner, loves Aston Martins and all that James Bond shit. Ladies love him. I can’t stand the man!”

  “How can he help?”

  “How? Easy sunshine, he’s on secondment to the Home Office or the Foreign Office, some bloody office, somewhere, you know the type? All exotic tea trays, filo-bloody-faxes and desk tidies made out of the vulcanised foreskin of a South Sea Island pearl diver. Anyway, he’s got the ear of the immigration minister who just happens to think he’s good-looking too, fortunately for John she’s a female.”

  “And that’s a positive?”

  “Course it is. You’ve not seen Hewett yet. Right piss off and go and write this pack of horse dung up into something resembling evidence. Go on, get out.”

  Cade knew when to quit and left swiftly. He smiled on the way out of the office causing Curtain to throw one more rebuke his way.

  “Oy cocky bastard! Stop smiling, I saw you ears moving!”

  “Sir?”

  “And another thing, you did well. Welcome on board. Oh, and Jack.”

  “Sir?”

  “I’ll have that coffee now thanks.”

  Cade provided his boss with a well-made cup of coffee.

  “There you go, boss. Oh, by the way, Bond swears by his Omega Seamaster. He’s too classy to wear a Rolex.”

  “Sling your hook gobshite. I wear a Rolex.”

  “Really sir, I hadn’t noticed.”

  Cade went to find a quiet place to write up his extensive notes on the preceding day’s events. Leicestershire had taken the fatal crash file, and an inspector had reviewed the pursuit, finding no issues, other than the fact that a civilian was driving, who by chance only had a learner’s licence. That aside Leicestershire’s chief constable had agreed to overlook a few of the finer points in favour of the rewards that the intelligence source could bring to the nation. Calling it a case of sweeping it under the carpet for the greater good of the nation.

  Cade spent the rest of the day mapping out the events, obtaining statements from Hazard and his team and even managed to phone his newfound DJ companion.

  Cade was greeted with an answerphone message.

  “Yo, yo, yo this is DJ Pullen Power, leave your number bitch and the DJPP will be right back at you. Respect.”

  The phone beeped allowing Cade to leave a slowly delivered droll message.

  “Geoffrey, it’s your friend from the police. It’s Zero Nine Twenty. Can you ring me sometime soon please? Ask for me by name, oh and Geoff I think it’s about time you got a new message, you live in Derbyshire not Harlem. Goodbye.”

  A young constable put his head around the door.

  “Boss, the boss wants to see you again. Sorry.”

  “Cheers, the name’s Jack by the way, tell him I’m on my way would you?”

  Cade = locked his computer and walked back along the corridor, knocked politely and entered Curtain’s office to find Terry Barker sat next to the curved beech wood desk.

  “Sit down Jack.” Curtain was brief so Cade expected another dressing down.

  Barker spoke first.

  “Jack, someone stabbed your girl late last night at Yarl’s Wood. West African girl – Guinea, Liberia, somewhere in that region anyway.”

  “Shit. She OK?” asked Cade, genuinely concerned.

  “Lucky girl Jack, it appears she may well have had the training you alluded to in your briefing.

  Cade looked puzzled and said, “I’m not with you Terry.”

  Curtain was taking it all in, pen poised on his notepad but writing nothing down.

  Barker continued, “The African girl used a makeshift shank to stab her in the left shoulder. The wound is superficial but she has some cuts to her left hand too.”

  Cade nodded, feeling as if he had somehow betrayed her.

  “I said I would look after her boss.”

  “I know, Jack, but it’s not our job to mother these people, they are refugees for a reason you know, they are survivors, wait till you hear the next bit.”

  Barker cleared his throat and carried on. “Jack, the African girl is in hospital, your little Bulgarian honey kicked seven bells out of her and was about to shove the blade down her throat when the guards got to the cell.”

  “Christ almighty, will she survive? If she doesn’t this is exactly what I didn’t want.”

  “She’ll survive; battered and bruised but she’ll survive. She has a laryngeal fracture from being straight-armed across the throat. The guards entered the cell and found Petrov standing to attention, her palms out in front of her, almost waiting to be arrested. The difference was that her injuries were worse than her attackers – at least visually. So when she explained in English what the girl had done, the guards were quick to believe her side of the story.”

  “That’s good. What this does though is add fuel to the fire boss. This is not a random act of violence; this was orchestrated and we need to get her out of there today. Sooner…”

  “Calm down lad, as I said earlier, we need to make sure you’re not too close to this. We have made a request via Johnnie Hewett – the debonair bastard has come good too. Let’s not ask how but she’s got a spot in a standalone female unit at Dover. Once she’s patched up, she’ll head there. The Home Office wants you to travel there too. Clearly your reputation precedes you Sonny Jim. Chances like this don’t come along very often, best advice I can give you is ride the wave whilst you can, it could change your life. Grab what you need and get there as soon as you can. Stop overnight. If you get stuck for a bed a mate of mine, ex-job, runs a B and B in town, called The Armada, stay there until she arrives. I want you fresh for this. As you say, this could put us firmly on the map.”

  “Sir, thank you, I’ve got a good feeling about this…”

  Curtain interrupted, “I’m pleased to hear it, sergeant, just make sure it’s not in your groin, will you?”

  Cade shook his head vigorously and smiled an enforced smile before departing for his off
ice.

  Barker made his excuses and was about to leave when Curtain stopped him.

  “Terry, Jack has stumbled across something here you know, the Home Office have got his initial report, that’s why he’s heading to Kent. They genuinely think he’s found a very big piece of the jigsaw and it’s a jigsaw that has been costing the UK millions. It’s not without risk but they are willing for Jack to handle her as a Covert Human Intelligence Source due to the fact that it falls under the interests of the economic wellbeing of the United Kingdom.”

  “My, that is pretty weighty stuff Eddie. Isn’t there a risk of a male working with a female?”

  “Abso-bloody-lutely,” replied Curtain using another of his famous tmesis quotes. “But somehow they see it as a risk worth taking.”

  Two days later Petrov was deemed to be fit enough to transfer. She left the daunting Yarl’s Wood for the equally intimidating but historically more impressive Dover Immigration Centre.

  The secure vehicle drove from London and onto the M20 motorway where it cruised for about an hour, passing the impressive Eurotunnel operation before steadily climbing up and onto the top of the iconic White Cliffs of Dover.

  The driver and his passenger saw the impressive vista open out before them, the Eastern Docks in the distance, sitting below another impressive cliff face, the crowning glory of which was Dover Castle, arguably one of the most impressive Norman fortresses in the world.

  The ancient town was now littered with tourist shops which were fortunately supported by numerous historical strongholds, legacies of its roles in countless wars and none was more impressive than the castle. However, as the crew reached a small roundabout, they obeyed the road sign and indicated left and once more climbed a steep hill up to a place known as The Citadel.

  At the summit they turned left and entered Dover Immigration Centre which had opened that year but had formerly been a youth prison and an adult facility too, prior to that it was owned by the British Army. Surrounded by an impressive moat it was an ideal location on which to establish a penal institution.

  As the crew approached the main gate, they looked to their left and could see the coast of France, clear enough to touch, but twenty-one miles away at its shortest point. Countless people crossed it daily and as many ships cruised up and down the Straits – the busiest in the world.

  Four hundred feet below in the relative calm of Shakespeare Beach, a fifty-year-old cross channel swimmer began her own personal challenge. Alone, cold and intimidated by what lay ahead, frightened but at the same time excited she set off on her solitary journey.

  In the back of the vehicle Nikolina Petrov was experiencing the same emotions. Wearing a large field dressing over a half inch wound which had been cleaned and Steri-Stripped, she winced as the guards helped her out of the white anonymous Iveco van and onto her feet. She offered a bandaged hand as a gesture to one of the guards who awkwardly shook it.

  She wasn’t secured, despite her previous involvement in a violent attack. She had friends, clearly.

  An hour later the swimmer looked over her shoulder, the coast of England was becoming smaller with each stroke. She began to wonder what lay beneath her as well as ahead, shivered involuntarily but dug deep and carried on rhythmically pounding through the swell.

  She crested each wave but was caught broadside by the seventh. It took her breath away and a moment of brief panic set in. Her support crew on board the pilot boat Optimist offered her immediate encouragement until she was back in control and once more able to plough through the water. The battle was obviously physical and very much psychological; seventeen hours, thirteen minutes and exactly fifty seconds later she would eventually win the war with nature, dragging her exhausted body onto the French shore.

  At the same time Nikolina Petrov stood in her room, a cell by any other name, albeit it had a small television and a smaller window onto the outside world. She could see land in the distance and assumed it was France.

  In the water a small white and blue boat made its way steadily south east. She wondered who was on board and where they were heading and wished for the first time in months that she was back in her beloved motherland.

  She eventually walked away from the window and lay on her firm but surprisingly comfortable bed, rested her head on the less comfortable pillow and drifted off to sleep.

  She woke the next morning, groggy after a restless and noisy night. She could hear women shouting to one another until the early hours; some languages she understood, French, Spanish and even some basic Arabic. The theme was always the same: How to get back into Britain.

  She washed and then ate the supplied breakfast.

  A female guard knocked on the door and opened the viewing window. She could see that Petrov was sat on her bed and didn’t constitute a threat. She entered the room leaving her colleague standing just outside the door, ready to respond if the need arose.

  Petrov looked up at the overly blonde guard and spoke.

  “You can tell your friend that she won’t be needed. I’m not here to harm anyone. I have been put here for my own safety. One day someone will come for me and I will leave, until then I can assure you, I will never cause you any trouble.”

  “After reading the report about what you did to Miss Akinyemi, I’m glad to hear it Miss Petrov. Actually, I’m here to offer you your rights. Do you wish to contact your government, you know, let them know you are safe? I can supply you with a mobile telephone – you can keep it whilst you are here.”

  “Thank you, Officer Taylor, but my government are the reason I am here, so no thanks. I would like access to a computer. Is that possible?”

  “It is, but not in your room. Anyway, how do you know my name?” The officer enquired, not feeling threatened, just curious.

  “Easy. On the wall of the main office there was a list of staff names, one was Julia Taylor. You are wearing a necklace with a J on it. I added up the rest.” She smiled. It was a warm and friendly smile but the guard now felt that she was dealing with someone different, capable and possibly trained to a higher standard than her own.

  As she left, she told her colleague to be aware and to exercise caution around the new Bulgarian girl.

  “I hear she gave some Liberian bird a real hammering at Yarl’s. The daft cow stabbed her with a wooden shank and thought she had the upper hand until Charlie’s Angel in there took her apart. She’s clever that one, something tells me she’s not going to be here long but let’s watch her like a hawk.”

  Cade was a few miles away from the centre and saw the same impressive view as he crested the white cliffs. He couldn’t see France as clearly as it was shrouded in cloud.

  The locals had a saying. If you could see France it was going to rain, if you couldn’t, it already was. Cade should know, he was one, once. It had been a long time, but it felt like home.

  He reached the roundabout and accelerated the Ford Focus up Military Hill until he reached the visitors’ car park. He got out and using the driver’s window as a mirror straightened his tie before walking the short distance to the main reception where he identified himself to a bleach-blonde guard.

  “Morning boss, I’m Julia, I’m in charge of Hythe Wing. How can I help you today?”

  “Morning Julia, you can help me by allowing me to speak to Nikolina Petrov.”

  He said nothing else which allowed the staff to look at each other in an inquisitive way.

  “Sergeant Cade, what is so interesting about this woman? She gets stabbed, beats some African girl half to death and gets moved here. Now you show up and I’m getting the feeling that you are not a conventional copper, so…”

  “So what? All you need to know is that she’s most likely to be coming with me. Whilst I talk to her can you ensure that all of her possessions are organised and ready to go please? Now, if you don’t mind can you take me to her, or bring her to me so I can talk?”

  “I can but I think you have absolutely no chance of taking her with you. She’s being held u
nder the Imm…”

  Cade interrupted her: brusque, but not rude. He closed his eyes, twice – it was a way of gaining time and it often threw people, mainly females, off the scent long enough for him to gain the upper hand.

  “I am most aware of what Act she is being held under thank you Julia. Just get her for me, will you?”

  “I will, but not before I have spoken to the unit manager.” Taylor was a little more defiant now and was enjoying the sparring.

  Cade let her walk just far enough away to make her return journey more humiliating.

  “Officer Taylor.”

  She turned on her heels, ready this time.

  “This letter is from Jeff Rooker. You might have heard of him? Feel free to read it whilst one of your colleagues collects Miss Petrov.”

  Cade wasn’t one to name-drop but having a letter signed by the Immigration Minister himself somehow added weight to his demands and ensured that the battle of wills was well and truly ended.

  “Indeed, Mr Cade. Apologies, I will fetch her myself. Tina, can you lend a hand please in case our little Bulgarian friend decides to take us on too?”

  Cade smiled nicely and sat in the reception area, accepting a cup of tea from a less hostile member of staff and flicking inattentively through a well-worn copy of National Geographic.

  An overly long fifteen minutes later Petrov entered a side room and almost ran to Cade. If nothing else it added to the mystery.

  Cade held her at arm’s length – it was a deliberate move on his part; partly to retain an air of professionalism but also for his own personal wellbeing. He caught the guards exchanging knowing looks but at that moment had more concern for his prisoner.

  “You look good, Miss Petrov.”

  Cade offered the line somewhat unconvincingly.

  “And so do you, Sergeant Cade. I knew you would come to get me out of here. It is what kept me alive. Tell me, the girl who attacked me, is she OK? I had to do it Jack.”