Green For Danger - Volume II of the Operation Jigsaw Trilogy

by Hayden, Mark

  ‘I got my results,’ he said to Elspeth.

  ‘And?’

  ‘I need to revise my knowledge of immigration law, but I passed.’

  ‘Tom! Well done. Sorry, I mean: congratulations, Potential Detective Inspector Morton.’

  ‘That somehow seems less impressive, but thank you.’

  She looked over his shoulder at the security barrier and buzzed the door open. Only staff and known visitors were allowed through this entrance. ‘Here’s someone else who’ll be pleased for you.’

  Tom turned to see Frazer Jarvis from the Bank of England approaching. Much to his embarrassment, Elspeth insisted on telling the man his news straight away.

  Jarvis shook his hand and then said, ‘Have you got a minute, Tom? Something’s come up.’

  The visitor was issued with a pass, and Tom took him upstairs. Frazer declined coffee (always a wise move) and quickly got down to business.

  ‘You can guess why I’m here, I’m sure.’

  ‘PiCAASA?’

  ‘That’s right. The same notes that were being circulated by the Moorgate Motorhire gang have started turning up again.’

  ‘Are you sure they’re the same?’

  By way of an answer, Jarvis took two evidence bags from his case and put them on the desk. ‘You can open them and take a look,’ he said.

  Both contained £20 bank notes. To Tom, they looked not only identical, but also indistinguishable from the real thing. On the last case, he had left the counterfeiting side to Frazer and focused on the money laundering, but if he were going to follow this up, he would need to be certain.

  He turned the two notes over and felt the quality of the paper. He examined the holographic seal and held them up to the light. A second portrait of the Queen looked back at him from the watermark.

  ‘How do you know?’ he asked Frazer.

  ‘These are level eight forgeries.’

  ‘Sorry, I must admit I haven’t been on the counterfeiting course. How many levels are there and what do they mean?’

  Frazer ticked the items off on his hand.

  ‘Level one is the appearance. A good inkjet printer can make something that looks like a banknote.’

  Tom nodded.

  ‘Level two is the paper and level three is a basic silver strip. Anything less than quality rag stock just doesn’t feel right in the hand. It’s very rare for notes up to level three to get accepted in shops.’

  Tom looked at the holographic strip on the forgeries. Alternating images of pound signs, the number 20, and silhouettes of Adam Smith flickered under the lamp.

  ‘That’s level five,’ said Frazer, ‘the images on the holographic strip. Level four is the watermark and level six is the raised print. And there’s the problem. Anything up to level six can be checked by the naked eye. A few minutes’ training with a shop assistant, and they can spot all of them. You need a machine to go higher than level six.’

  ‘And machines are expensive.’

  ‘Too right. To detect level seven, the notes have to be put through a security scanner. On the high street, only bookmakers and casinos can afford to check for level seven and above. Oh, and by the way, level eight is the little yellow dots. They have to be in a certain pattern. After that we don’t tell anyone except our partners what the advanced security features are.’

  ‘Am I a partner?’

  ‘No. The partners are a select group of hi-tech scanner manufacturers. We don’t even tell the banks who use them. A bank will scan every deposit over a certain figure and reject the fakes. If you’re trying to run a pub or a corner shop, you can have your whole profit margin wiped out when you pay into the bank. It can ruin small businesses.’

  The notes still looked real to Tom. There must be a very sophisticated press somewhere which was churning these out. ‘Are you sure these are from the same forger?’

  ‘After the PiCAASA operation was wound up, they changed the plates and the paper stock. These notes started turning up in June, and it took us three months to realise what was happening. It was only when we did a spectrographic analysis of the ink we discovered the similarities.’

  Tom took one final look at the notes and slipped them back into the evidence bags. If Frazer said they were from the same source, that was good enough for him. Everything else was technical detail. ‘So, where are they this time? Essex again?’

  His colleague frowned and stowed away the bags. ‘No, that was another confusing factor. They’ve been turning up all over the West Midlands in quantity; Blackpool and the Republic of Ireland, too.’

  ‘All of the West Midlands or mostly Birmingham?’

  ‘Not so much in Brum: more to the north west of there.’

  ‘Aah. Yam Yam Land.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was a solicitor in Edgbaston. Brummies used to call the Black Country Yam Yam Land.’

  ‘Erm… yes, Tom. I’ll take your word for it. I knew you’d want to know about this, but because it’s so far out of London, I don’t know what you can do about it.’

  ‘Can you send me the reports?’

  ‘Of course. Soon as I get to the office.’

  They stood up, and Tom escorted him out of the building. Back at this desk, he sent DI Fulton an email asking for a meeting to discuss something personal.

  There is a small parade of shops on the Elijah estate which has kept going despite the existence of two major supermarkets in Earlsbury. On one end is an Indian takeaway and at the other end is a hairdresser. In the middle is a minimarket which all the locals refer to as Derek’s. The eponymous former owner died in the 1970s but the name lingers on. Derek wouldn’t have known what a cappuccino was if it had been poured over his head, and had only eaten croissants on holiday, but Ian Hooper was munching one and slurping the other outside Derek’s and enjoying the sunshine. He didn’t count it as a break because someone would come and talk to him sooner or later. He didn’t expect it to be DS Griffin, however.

  ‘Awright, ’Ooper. Awm ya doing?’

  ‘Bay ’arf bad, sarge.’

  ‘That’s what I like about you, Hooper. You’re not ashamed of your roots.’

  Griff was notorious for testing new recruits by talking broad. If they didn’t get what he was saying, they were likely to be the butt of jokes for some time.

  ‘You here on business, sarge?’

  ‘I need a favour, Hooper.’

  Ian tipped the dregs of his coffee down the drain and threw the packaging in the bin. He dusted crumbs from his hands and tried to look competent. He didn’t want to be too keen, but it didn’t hurt to be helpful.

  ‘I’ve had intelligence about one of the lock-up garages being used as a store for stolen bicycles,’ said Griffin.

  ‘Sounds about right. There’s barely half of those garages used for legit business.’

  ‘I know. I also know that it’s impossible to put surveillance on ’em because they’re wide open and there’s no CCTV. We can’t get a warrant until we know which garage.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  Griff went into the shop, and Ian walked off towards the garages. The detective was right. There was a large rough space outside the garages which ended in allotments. There was nowhere to mount a surveillance that wouldn’t get spotted in seconds. Three kids with BMX bikes were messing around. One of them looked familiar and his suspicions were confirmed when the lad shot off in the opposite direction as soon as he clocked the uniform.

  Ian took out his mobile and scrolled down to Earlsbury High School. There were four direct numbers listed, and he chose the one marked Attendance & Welfare. Who knows? This could be the second step on his road to CID.

  Tom’s boss always kept a pile of rubbish on his only spare chair. When DI Fulton wanted to talk over a case, he always came to see you, not the other way round. When Tom was summoned after lunch, the chair was cleared and ready for him.

  ‘Congratulations, Tom. Well done with the exams.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’r />
  ‘You don’t need to tell me your plans; just give me the heads-up when you’re off to pastures new.’

  ‘Don’t you want to keep me?’

  Fulton laughed and leaned back in his chair. ‘You don’t need me to put a stamp of approval on your career. You’re a good detective and you’ll make someone a good DI. That’s if we’re still around once this new lot get started with the cuts.’

  It was true. The coalition government were making a lot of noise about deep cuts in all sectors of public spending. Unusually for the Tories, the police and the Army seemed to be in their sights along with their perennial targets in local government.

  ‘Something else has come up,’ said Tom. Fulton nodded for him to continue. ‘Jarvis from the Bank of England has been to see me. Those counterfeit notes have surfaced again. In the West Midlands.’

  Fulton weighed up the news. ‘How much?’

  ‘More than last time and spread over a wider area.’

  ‘Have you alerted Midland Counties police?’

  ‘Not yet. I don’t want this going through normal channels.’

  Fulton leaned forward and pushed his face towards Tom. ‘If you say the M word, I’ll get annoyed. My team – your team – is solid. There are no Moles in Economic Crimes.’

  Tom held up his hands in surrender. ‘I agree. No question. Everyone is whiter than Persil. Even you, sir.’

  Fulton’s mouth twitched and then he laughed: his was the only black face on their floor of the building. Tom continued, ‘There may not be a mole, but I believe – I really believe – that there’s a leak from somewhere in London. I want the chance to track down the big players behind this operation, and I don’t want them tipped off again.’

  ‘You want to go to Birmingham? Didn’t you get enough of it before you joined the Force? Sorry, Tom, that’s a non-starter. You’ve got four active cases that won’t wait. Sometimes you’ve got to learn to let go.’

  ‘You didn’t.’

  The two men stared at each other. Fulton had been nearly killed by drug dealers and had risen from his hospital bed determined to track them down. He did it by following the money and had earned himself a place in MLIU. Tom was determined not to blink first.

  ‘Give me a good reason that’s not connected to PiCAASA, and I’ll think about it.’

  Ian Hooper planned his attack carefully, first gathering intelligence on when the target would be at home. It wasn’t in the same league as the raid on Ezekiel House, but trying to track down a teenage boy is a challenge in itself.

  He knocked on Carol Davis’s door and the target himself, Finn Davis, answered.

  ‘Hello, Finn. Does your mother know you weren’t in school today?’

  The young lad gripped the door and looked around him. In the films the lad watched, the suspect would slam the door in the policeman’s face and run away. Ian Hooper was about three times Finn’s size, and had already taken a step over the threshold. Finn let go of the door and walked upstairs instead, leaving Ian to find Carol in the kitchen.

  ‘Why have they sent the police? Couldn’t they have texted me after registration?’

  ‘He was there for registration, but skipped off afterwards. The attendance officer told me they’re going to put in some new system for taking the register every lesson. You know what this means, don’t you?’

  ‘It means that crime must be very low in Earlsbury if they can send a policeman round to chase up every truant. Are you going to follow him around every minute? Check when he goes to the toilet? If the school looked after him properly, he wouldn’t bunk off so much.’

  ‘It’s not the truancy I’m here about. It’s what he does when he’s off that worries me.’

  His tone of voice struck something in Carol’s conscience, and she turned off the grill to give Ian her full attention. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I saw him hanging around the yard with two people who never went to school, either. That red BMX of his is very distinctive.’

  ‘It’s green,’ said Carol automatically. ‘His dad bought it for him last year. Are you sure it was Finn you saw?’

  ‘Go out the back and have a look. If it’s not red, I’ll go home for my own tea and leave you in peace. Otherwise, I think we both need a word with him.’

  ‘Do you want a brew?’

  Ian allowed her the delaying tactic. He wasn’t going away without some answers, and if Carol needed time to face up to the issue, so be it. When the kettle had boiled, and the teabag was floating around a Best Mom in the World mug, she wiped her hands and went out the back door. Seconds later she marched silently through the kitchen and up the stairs. Ian finished making the tea while shouts and then sobs came from Finn’s bedroom.

  By the time he had drunk it, his notebook had three names, a garage number and a confession for theft.

  ‘It’s your last chance, Finn. Next time I’ll have to arrest you.’

  Carol was shredding a tissue; she had done most of the crying. ‘Are you sure you can keep his name out of it? If those boys ever think he’s grassed them up, they’ll kill him.’

  ‘I won’t say anything if he doesn’t.’ Ian fixed Finn with a stare. ‘If we raid that lock-up and it’s empty, I’ll know that you’ve tipped them off. Got that?’ Finn nodded and Ian left them to it.

  On the way home he called DS Griffin with the news.

  ‘Bloody hell, Hooper, that was quick. Where did you get that from?’

  ‘You know, sarge, just asking around. It’s good, though. I wouldn’t hang around if I were you, this tip-off has a short sell-by date.’

  ‘Very good, Ian. Protecting a source. I like that. Fair enough. What shift are you on tomorrow?’

  ‘Early.’

  ‘I’ll get the warrant and meet you outside Derek’s at eleven o’clock. I’ll make the arrest, but we’ll need someone to go through all those bikes. If they’re there.’

  Griffin strikes again. Ian had found the stash but CID would get the glory, and he would be up to his armpits in stolen bikes for weeks. On the other hand, his application for Angela Lindow’s maternity cover would shine even brighter now.

  DI Fulton examined the file that Tom had presented to him. It was the thickest folder in Tom’s in-tray, and by far the biggest lost cause in Fraud since Bernie Madoff.

  ‘Are you serious, Tom?’

  ‘It’s the only way I can make progress on the Islamabad case, sir.’

  ‘It’s a snake pit out there. And I don’t mean Pakistan.’

  Three years ago, the Bank of England had notified them of several large transactions that had been routed to Islamabad, and that were linked to Islamic fundamentalists. Sums of money like this clearly pointed to groups in Britain who, if not engaged in terrorism themselves, were almost certainly promoting it. Somewhere. Over the years, Tom had added hundreds of pieces of evidence which might or might not be linked until the file resembled something from a CID car boot sale.

  It was also like one of Nostradamus’s prophecies. Looked at the right way, it could mean almost anything. Tom had selected four pieces of evidence that pointed to Birmingham and written a summary. On the other hand, he knew what Fulton meant. The complex multi-agency unit in Birmingham which came under the heading Counter Terrorism was indeed a snake pit. Shadowy representatives of MI5, MI6, GCHQ and for all he knew the CIA, would slip in and out of the offices near the Bullring in an attempt to forestall active terror plots.

  ‘You can have a week in Birmingham on two conditions. First, have you got a mate with a spare room? My expenses budget is way over.’ Tom nodded. ‘Second, you’ve got to find this bloke before I’ll let you go.’ Fulton tossed the Islamabad file back to Tom and pulled out one of his own.

  There was a Post-it note on the cover which said Lord Lucan. Tom peeled it off to reveal the name of a serial conman who had absconded from an open prison, much to their embarrassment. Fulton clearly didn’t expect Tom to be going anywhere in the near future.

  He studied the file on the wa
y back to his desk and came across the list of visitors to the prison. There had been various attempts to locate these men, but Tom had another idea.

  The job offer from Anthony Skinner had come suddenly, and Kate would soon be on her way up north. Pembrokeshire would have to wait. She wasn’t leaving town for a couple of days, but Diana Morton had been insistent: it was the autumnal equinox on Tuesday, and that’s when they had to get together. As well as saying goodbye to Kate, they would be reviewing their Solstice Resolutions.

  ‘So can you tell us where you’re going?’ asked Di.

  ‘Of course. I’m not working for SIS, you know. I’m going to Tyneside, but I can’t tell you the client or the target.’

  ‘Why you? I get that you’re a white hat hacker but I thought all hackers, no matter what colour their headgear, were spotty boys who need to get out more.’

  ‘We do have a couple of those on the team. In fact one of them works exclusively from his bedroom in Swindon. I don’t do hacking.’

  ‘Yes, you do,’ said Tom from the kitchen.

  ‘Well, not much. It’s my job to try and attach gadgets to their network. Makes the real hackers’ jobs a lot easier if they can physically get inside the system.’

  Diana’s expression was starting to glaze over so Kate didn’t go into packet sniffing and Wi-Fi intercepts. ‘I’ve got a job, so that’s my Midsummer resolution completed. What about yours? Have you finished three pieces for your exhibition?’

  ‘Yes, I have. Do you want a look?’

  ‘Dinner,’ said Tom, and he served them one of the dishes from his summer cookery course.

  Di waved a fork at him and said, ‘Did you make this for Ingrid?’

  ‘Lay off him, Di,’ said Kate. ‘He’s entitled to a bit of fun in the sun.’

  ‘I know. It was the resolution I made for him – get laid and forget Caroline for five minutes. Well, however long it took. I didn’t tell him to get revenge by shagging a married woman.’