Seventh (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 1)

by Lewis Hastings

  He looked around the room and noticed that O’Shea had already left.

  His briefing had been thorough and passionate. He fielded a couple of simple questions, then walked out of the room and walked a few paces to O’Shea’s desk. He decided to be direct with her as it had quickly transpired that any other approach was liable to leave him open to an onslaught.

  She looked good this morning, slightly prim, very preened. He thought internally that she was ‘like an attractive owl’, wise beyond her years but with an undisclosed secret. It made him smile, for in reality it was a ridiculous analogy. The warning signs were clear to him: he found her attractive.

  He stood at her desk; he was wearing a light grey suit, pale blue shirt and a darker blue tie, classy but understated. His shoes, as ever, were immaculate; the leather uppers glistened as layer upon layer of Parade Gloss created a shine that was worthy of any military establishment.

  His horological addition was a silver Seiko Kinetic Direct Drive divers watch. He favoured its looks, and the weight suited his wrist, and as a bonus it kept excellent time.

  He slid the blue shirt cuff back to reveal the time and pointlessly pressed the crown.

  “Miss O’Shea, I feel I am a little late for breakfast, my sincere apologies, something came up, however, as the Italians will tell you we are not yet too late for cappuccino. Would you care to join me?”

  She placed her favourite pencil into the sharpener, and with equal futility sharpened it. It was a similar gesture, designed to give her a moment to compose her response.

  “Well, Sergeant Cade, I’m neither Italian nor a coffee drinker, so your apology is not accepted.”

  “Is that roight, well in dat case it’s a good job we share some Oirish ancestry, Miss O’Shea. Perhaps your ladyship would allow me to buy her a cup of English tea instead?”

  What she wanted was to tell him to go forth, but for the first time since Harry Hodgson had asked her out in the sixth form she felt truly attracted to a male; giggly, almost schoolgirl-silly. And she hated him for it. Her pencil whirred in the housing as she battled with her internal dialogue.

  ‘Damn you Jack Cade with your perfectly fitting bloody suit, your perfect shiny bloody shoes and those damned eyes. My God, I could drown in those damned things.’

  She appeared to glaze over, so he clicked his fingers. The rapid compression and decompression of air as his finger and thumb rubbed together was enough to bring her back to reality.

  “Miss O’Shea – if you are not careful you’ll wear that pencil away. Your chariot awaits.” He pointed to the lift.

  “I’d rather take the stairs.”

  “Then the stairs it is, after you.” He gallantly held the door open, allowed her to walk through, then got into the lift.

  When she joined him in the public foyer, she seemed somewhat displeased.

  “Are you an arsehole all the time, Mr Cade?”

  “Yes, well, most of it anyway, Carrie. Look, I’m sorry but you challenged me and I won’t back down. It’s childish, I know, but honestly, I think you are as bad. So, what say we wipe the slate clean and start again, after all I value my thumb and I hear you are a mean shot with the old pencil?”

  It was a gamble, but it paid off. She laughed out aloud. The reaction even made the concierge look up. He knew it was O’Shea, but he had truly never known anyone that was able to break the sea ice that surrounded her. He nodded to Cade and winked. Cade reciprocated and allowed her through the main doors.

  They sat down in the nearby café. Cade ordered a cappuccino, O’Shea an Earl Grey tea.

  “Grab some food, please, my treat.”

  Cade ordered eggs benedict, his new partner ordered a three-egg omelette, extra bacon, and another tea.

  “Hungry girl, I like it. Must be the Emerald Isle coming out?”

  “Mr Cade, it’s got sweet Fanny Adams to do with me being Irish and everything to do with me being hungry, on account of you making me wait and besides, you are paying.”

  “Touché, O’Shea.”

  “Fuck off, Cade.”

  “That’s more like it. Now we can start again. I’m Jack, my dad is Mr Cade. I’m in my later twenties, been in the job for a while and recently after dumping my sex-obsessed swinging wife ended up at East Midlands Airport on secondment, which in truth was an old boss’s favour to get me away from an irritating prat of an inspector. The role was to pick up the incoming intelligence and establish a new unit there. The theory being that like most provincial airports it was vulnerable…”

  She was nodding now, apparently interested. Even if she wasn’t, she knew how to play the game.

  “…I’d only been there five minutes when Petrov’s aircraft arrived; she got kidnapped by an as yet unidentified Eastern European male, we ended up in a pursuit across half of north Leicestershire with me behind her in a battered Vauxhall Astra at the hands of a sweaty DJ, and to add to the growing paperwork she nearly got shot in the equation. I ended up interviewing her for hours. She was heading for London, she thought it was to start a new life but in fact she was heading for a shallow grave in Epping Forest.”

  O’Shea almost wanted to make notes, she was captivated.

  Their food arrived along with the extra tea. She pointed to the teapot.

  “Help yourself.”

  It was an opening and one he could build on.

  “Thank you, I will. As I was saying Petrov came into my life when I least expected it and before you could say, ‘Get in my office Cade’, I had a telephone directory down my trousers and a worried look upon my face. Needless to say, I had a great boss – it helps. He saw the potential of what she held close to her chest and the rest as they say is history.”

  “Have you had a good look at that chest, Jack?” She was almost playing with him here.

  “No, not yet, and I doubt I will either Carrie.” First name terms now.

  “Tell me you are not interested and I’ll pay for breakfast, you’re a northern sergeant so I know how poor you are.”

  “How kind, actually, yes, she’s a pretty girl, but no, I’m not attracted to her, I never mix business with pleasure. It’s like scotch and orange, it just doesn’t work. Oh, and Carrie…”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m richer in many ways than just money, I have a lot of friends and I’d like to think that now includes you.”

  Direct, to the point, flirtatious almost. She was almost hooked.

  “Pity you’re not rich Sergeant Cade or I’d think about taking you off the market myself.”

  “Who said I wasn’t?”

  Hook, line, sinker.

  “Well, are you?”

  “I am. Hang around long enough and you’ll find out why. One day I will be even more desirable. An old lady told me once that I would find my fortune in a mystical place. She was a medium, although to be honest I’d put her on the large side.”

  “The eternally intriguing Jack Cade, where will it ever end, I wonder?” She looked over the top of her teacup and held his gaze for about five seconds.

  “As I mentioned, hang around long enough and you may find out.”

  Her eyes lit up, dopamine excited the neuro triggers in her pupils causing them to dilate and then she inhaled almost imperceptibly. Her brain was being flooded with norepinephrine as her hands unintentionally moistened. As strong as she was normal, she suddenly found herself completely out of control.

  Cade felt it too.

  “Right, talk to me about Eastern Europe, what do you know, what you don’t know, your theories, hypotheses, I want them all. It strikes me that the Met is ignoring the growing threat on their doorstep and trust me, from what Nikolina tells me it’s only just beginning. The sooner we formulate a plan, engage the banks and engage the bosses, and then lastly the government we can start. And if we don’t start soon, it will become cancerous and then, I suspect, too late.”

  “I’m all yours, Jack. Do with me as you wish. If its analytical brilliance you are looking for, you’ve foun
d it. I’ll get back and start plotting the known occurrences on an i2 chart; from there we can add any CCTV imagery and perhaps throw our net wider; someone needs to talk to Interpol. Any news on that body at Camden?”

  “All good ideas; no, no news at all, he’s just another random victim. The big difference is he has the tattoo.”

  “Tattoo?” she asked inquisitively.

  “The First Wave – it’s the unit I’m hunting.” He checked himself, “I should say we are hunting. Set up by a Romanian national who has experienced the power, prestige and financial allure of leadership within a criminally minded group. He’s learned how to steal high-value cars and ship them across the borders of Europe and interestingly how to manipulate the diplomatic world in order to launder money.”

  “Don’t tell me, that’s where your perfectly formed hot little redhead comes into it?”

  “Find her attractive, do you?”

  She bristled. What had he heard? That bastard Wood had been talking again.

  “No, Sergeant Cade, I do not.” The wall had been rebuilt.

  He made a mental note to watch himself in future and apologised.

  Breaking down her own instigated wall, she offered an olive branch of her own.

  “Look, I’m sorry. Do you fancy going out for dinner tonight, nothing flash, tapas, local place; cheap and nasty like me?”

  “And the Rioja?”

  “Even nastier!”

  “I prefer Crianza but the Rioja is fine; young and fruity. It’s a date, but don’t tell Wood, we don’t want him all jealous now, do we?”

  She found herself questioning quite how he knew so much about her already.

  “Who is your source? Roberts?”

  “Yes. Does that bother you?”

  “Not really, I’m the talk of the office; the Welsh bastard deserved everything he got, he took advantage of me. It will never happen again.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, Carrie. It’s a man’s world in there, we both know that, but I’d like to think I’m a little different to the pack. Tell me about your accident?”

  “There’s nothing to tell. A total prick of a male chauvinist who wouldn’t back down, we crashed, I got injured.” She favoured her left side, subtly trying to shield it.

  “Don’t cover yourself up. It’s characterful. Look…”

  He rolled his left sleeve up to reveal a substantial scar on his forearm, which ran from his wrist to his elbow.

  “Me too. I’m proud of it. Mako shark got me in the Indian Ocean.”

  “My God. Incredible. You are a lucky man.”

  “I am. Trust me, the only shark that’s ever attacked me wore a wedding ring like mine. Actually, I ran through a plate-glass window as a kid, tore the bloody thing to pieces; nearly killed me. My dear old mum wrapped some fresh nappies around it and stemmed the bleeding. We drove across the Kent countryside in an old Ford Escort, right through the biggest thunderstorm I’d ever seen. I got a pound for every stitch.”

  “Bastard! At least now I know why you are rich.”

  “You do, but let’s keep it as our secret. I’ll get dinner tonight and I’m not taking no for an answer.”

  “It’s a date. I need to ensure that Petrov is housed and secure, then we can relax. Your team are doing a fine job; forgive me if I appear a little…paranoid?”

  “It’s quite refreshing actually, Jack. No-one seems to care anymore; I can tell you care deeply for her.” She was being genuine, but fishing nonetheless.

  “I do, but not in the way you are insinuating Carrie. I was treated terribly by my ex-wife and to be honest, I doubt I will find another woman that I trust for a very long time. But in you I see someone who I can work with, and frankly, that’s a start.” He chinked his teacup against hers.

  They finished lunch and headed back to the office.

  As they negotiated the stairs Roberts came bounding down towards them.

  “Jack, Carrie, car park now, we’ve got a break!”

  “A break – you mean a burglary?” Where Cade came from it meant just that.

  “Negative, a break in the case, my dear chap.” He smoked an imaginary pipe, emulating the great Sherlock Holmes.

  The three got into Roberts’ Mondeo. Before Cade could be a gentleman and offer O’Shea, the front seat the car was on the move. Cade jumped in and clicked the safety belt into place.

  “Why the hurry mate?” Cade asked, reasonably.

  “Branch of the Royal Bank of Scotland on Grosvenor Place has been done; I reckon it’s our team. I want to get there sharpish in case they are still in the area.”

  “OK, I get it, is Petrov OK Jason? I need to know, she’s my responsibility.”

  “She’s fine, Jack, relax. This is the Met, my son! Clive is keeping her very close at hand today. He’ll pump her for everything she’s got.”

  Cade looked in the passenger mirror and saw O’Shea discreetly shake her head from side to side. O’Shea stabbed him with a pencil when he misbehaved, Petrov would disfigure him and ensure he never manhandled a woman again. O’Shea had heard a few stories of her empty hand fighting techniques from Cade and quietly hoped Wood might let his wandering digits explore. Just a pity she wasn’t there to watch events unfold when the inevitable happened.

  Roberts skilfully whipped through the late lunchtime traffic and pulled up onto the pavement, dropped the sun visor down displaying the Met Police logo, locked the car, straightened his lime green tie and walked into the branch.

  Cade waited outside the stone building, which was originally called Iron Trades House, now just another commercial building, one of many nestled around the far more impressive Buckingham Palace. Like so many in the area, it was steeped in some form of history. Built in the 1930s it had just been completely modernised, everything about it was fresh and clean.

  O’Shea joined him and observed quietly.

  Roberts was like the proverbial bull in the oft-associated china shop. He’d been talking to the staff at the counter for a few minutes when he realised his team members were outside.

  When he joined them, he found Cade photographing the ATM and pointing out almost imperceptible marks on the outer surface of the till. Roberts watched, always willing to learn but feeling slightly out of his depth.

  Cade unfolded a Swiss army knife and gently lifted a piece of glue off the facia. He held it up and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger.

  “The whole building has recently undergone a makeover, Jason. It’s as clean as it was the day it was built. I’m sure you would agree this will work in our favour.”

  He continued to rub the fresh adhesive in his hands until it dried and dropped onto the pavement. He then brushed his hands together to remove the last of the residue.

  “It’s peelable, probably easily obtained from a DIY store. This is one of the m.o.s that Petrov had told me about.”

  Roberts moved closer, he’d remembered what Cade had showed him at the previous branch.

  “But I thought you said the devices they used are internal Jack? Grabbers you called them?”

  “I did Jason and they are, but this one…is different. This represents a whole new era of bank-related offending. Can we get Scenes of Crime here, sharpish?”

  Roberts nodded before Cade continued.

  “I’d like a set of photographs and a fingerprint job putting in too. I’d like every possible second of local CCTV securing, and can we close this machine to the public until that happens? Tell the manager why it’s so important, he may be the first of a kind in the UK; something to put in the bank industry newsletter.”

  Roberts took the job on, phoned for a scenes of crime officer to attend as a matter of priority, grabbed some incident tape from the boot and with O’Shea gathered a few road cones from a nearby workman and created a ‘no-go’ area. Satisfied the machine was now off limits, he rang one of his team.

  “That’s right, SOCO, straight away. I want every bank that has an ATM within a square mile of this place to be visited. I do no
t want to drop the ball on this one sunshine.”

  Cade walked up the street, looking up, down and sideways as he always did at a crime scene. Seeing only a few remote cameras and the daily rush of vehicles, he returned to O’Shea who was studying the ATM.

  “Is it really that simple, Jack? Really that lucrative?”

  He smiled. “I’ve been studying this for a few years now. It started as a bit of job-related hobby but since Petrov arrived I’ve read up on nothing else. I found a court case stemming back to 1996.”

  Cade recounted how Andrew Stone, a computer security employee from Hampshire, was convicted of stealing around seven hundred and fifty thousand pounds from ATMs.

  “He did it by filming his victims from across the street – using high-powered video cameras. He made sure he obtained the card and PIN numbers, and importantly, the expiry dates. Then later he would return home and use blank cards and an embossing machine to produce cloned bank cards; quite brilliant, you have to admire his skill at a time when cyber-attacks on banks were almost unheard of.”

  O’Shea could never see herself admiring any criminal, but she nodded anyway.

  “The really clever bit Carrie was how he realised that if he produced multiple cloned cards, he could also beat the daily limit set by the banks. The man was an emerging genius. At his peak he could withdraw nearly ten thousand a day, and life was very rosy, until he got caught of course. He got sentenced, but as with all financial crime, it rarely matches the monetary gain and I suspect he’s back out on the streets now.”

  Roberts had finished organising one half of his team.

  “I’m putting some resources into this, Jack. I don’t know why, but something tells me you are onto something. This could be the next big thing. We just need to get one step ahead of them.”