Green For Danger - Volume II of the Operation Jigsaw Trilogy

by Hayden, Mark

  Tom wondered whether the training course for detectives now included The Bill for dialogue purposes.

  ‘What did he have today?’

  ‘A pile of blank V5C forms from the DVLA.’

  Tom remembered that there had been a big theft of vehicle registration documents. It was so big that every car in the country was being issued with a new one, but until they could be rolled out, a perfect forgery could be produced for any stolen car.

  ‘What would he have to do before you actually charged him? Drugs? Child porn?’

  Ian laughed as if Tom had made a joke and offered him a cup of coffee. Tom opted for tea, and Ian returned a few minutes later with four teas and DS Griffin. Ian handed them round, and Griff took one mug for himself and one for the man inside the interview room.

  ‘Morning, Tom. Good journey?’

  Tom nodded, and Ian left them alone. Griffin continued, ‘You’re the expert here, not me, but I know this witness. Don’t hold back if you’ve got any questions, but let me start off, okay?’

  ‘You’re treating him as a witness, then?’

  ‘Of course I am. Kelly has been registered as a CHIS on numerous occasions. All done properly when necessary, but not today, I don’t think.’

  There had been so many scandals about the way that the police used Confidential Human Intelligence Sources that an elaborate code of practice had been introduced. In reality, most police officers carried on as before and only filled in the additional paperwork if a significant arrest was in the offing. Inside the room, Griffin made the introductions. Tom detected a light Irish accent when the informant said hello.

  ‘Where’ve you been, Mr Griffin? Haven’t you kept me here for ages. I’ll miss me lunch.’

  ‘Give over moaning, Kelly. Those V5Cs could be used for all sorts of mischief. Count yourself lucky that we’ve stopped them falling into the wrong hands. We’re doing you a favour by catching you out.’

  ‘That’s one way of putting it. I might have said something different meself.’

  ‘Let’s cut to the chase, eh? My colleague has come all the way up from London to talk to you, Kelly, so don’t hold back. DS Morton, could you show him the money?’

  Tom took a bunch of the counterfeit notes from his pocket and spread them in a fan on the table. There was silence while all three men stared at them. Kelly sniffed and reached out to the notes, taking one and examining it.

  ‘You’ve missed the boat on this one, gentlemen.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Tom.

  ‘They’ve gone. The guys that were selling these have moved on to pastures new.’

  The two policemen looked at each other and then back at the witness. ‘Tell me more,’ said Griffin. ‘Tell me all of it.’

  ‘Eastern Europeans, they were. Turned up a while ago and started selling these in a couple of the bars. It was nice and easy work for us – you give them a ten pound note and they give you a twenty. So long as you’re careful where you spend it, you can’t go wrong.’

  Tom took out his notebook and clicked his pen. Griffin took the hint and prompted Kelly to give descriptions and dates:

  According to Mr Kelly (witness), two men of foreign extraction (poss. Albanian?) had appeared with counterfeit notes to sell. They had turned up occasionally over the summer, but had now moved on. One man was tall and heavy and wore a leather jacket; the other was short and did most of the talking. They would only sell a maximum of £100 at a time. They didn’t appear to have any local partners.

  When Tom had finished writing, Griffin took him outside. ‘That fits,’ he said.

  ‘With what?’

  ‘Haven’t you checked your email since you got here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That bloke from the Bank – Jarvis – copied me into an email he’s sent you. Apparently a large amount turned up in Manchester at the back end of last week. Looks like we were just too late. Sorry.’

  Tom put his notebook away carefully. ‘Thank you, DS Griffin. That’s been very helpful. And could you pass my thanks on to DC Hooper. I think he’ll fit nicely into your team: you’ve trained him well.’

  The irony of Tom’s remarks seemed lost on Griffin, who clapped him on the shoulder and promised to keep an eye out for the distributors coming back. ‘That’s if you haven’t caught them first.’

  Tom handed in his badge at reception and stood on the steps. The few shoppers on the High Street were wearing heavier coats and the older residents had already dug out their winter scarves.

  It was bullshit, all of it, but Tom had no idea who the bull might be.

  There was no way that some Albanian gangsters from Central Casting had started to run the distribution. Thornton’s gang in Essex was 99 per cent White British (with Mina Finch as the 1 per cent). Whoever had set Thornton up in business wouldn’t stray too far from what had worked the first time, but they had been tipped off. Yet again – as soon as he started to follow a lead, the thread was whipped out of his fingers. Maybe the operation had moved to Manchester, but the timing was no coincidence: as soon as Tom had arrived in Earlsbury, the money had left.

  There was no way that DI Fulton would let him go further up the M6 to hunt them down. He would have to hope that South Lancs police were more on the ball than Midland Counties. He called the Holiday Inn to cancel his reservation and then called Elspeth at City Police headquarters.

  ‘Tell the boss I’m coming back early,’ he told her. ‘I’ll see him tomorrow morning.’

  Kate’s team was at a holiday cottage in Scotland which would also be their home during the operation. It’s very nice, thought Kate, though it might get rather cold. Should that bother her now? Afghanistan could get very cold in the winter, but she wasn’t a soldier any more.

  It was a completely different team from the one which had taken apart the firm on Tyneside: this one was older, quieter and much more expensively dressed. Their hacker actually wore a hacking jacket: perhaps he thought it was ironic. One thing that hadn’t changed was the gender balance – Kate was still the only woman.

  Their previous target, in Newcastle, had been a specialist manufacturing company who wanted a security report to clear them for Defence work. The first job had been so easy that Kate had deliberately spun it out for two weeks because she wanted to do some shopping and try out a new look.

  After two days’ surveillance, Kate had got herself a job as a cleaner with the contractors who covered the target’s offices. Their resident hacker was only nineteen, and it had taken him precisely nineteen seconds to access the computer and change the roster to put Kate on duty.

  In two days, she had found several passwords, installed several snooping devices and picked up a bunch of flowers from one of the engineers who liked to work late. If he hadn’t been married…

  So now they were in Aberdeenshire, and Kate’s new look was about to be road-tested for the first time. They had been told to unpack and unwind until fifteen hundred and then meet in the dining room. That was too long. If she’d not had time to think about it, she would have just grabbed the first thing that came to hand and gone downstairs, but with time to think, every item had been spread on the bed or hung from the chairs.

  Her hair had been cut to shoulder blade length (that hurt sooo much), but she couldn’t decide whether or not she was a skirt person, especially as the weather dictated thick tights. The only skirt she really liked was a tartan – everything else that suited her shape was in black, and she’d vowed only to buy one black item (which was the trousers). Was she allowed to wear a tartan skirt in Scotland? Would she look like a div? She texted Diana, the only civilian she knew well enough to ask:

  K: Can I wear Tartan skirt in Aberdeen? Shd I stick to trsrs?

  D: Send pic of skirt

  K: Sorry. No camera on phone. Long Story. Trsrs make me look like army dyke

  D: Go naked or wear jeans on first date

  K: Am at work not on date

  D: Trsrs + heels. Don’t argue.

  It
was ten to three. Kate spent five minutes walking up and down the room in her only pair of heels and then changed into her jeans.

  The reason why Patrick Lynch went to jail for the first time was because he had been caught red-handed with the stolen goods. After that mishap, he tried to make sure other people handled the goods, and he was very careful about using the telephone. The trouble is, when you’re running a business people have to be able to get in touch. On Earlsbury Market, it was easy. They would come up to him, have a chat and place their orders: he knew everything about everyone that way.

  Although he still owned two market stalls and visited often, Patrick had to find other ways of doing business. One of them was Dermot. The lad was going to take over the business one day so it was in his best interests to make it as successful as possible – and not to double-cross the old man. His other means of keeping in touch was the golf course. It wasn’t as good as being back on the market, but it was the next best thing.

  His opponent today was a property developer who liked cash business, and Patrick always had a bet with him. There was a third person on the greens with them, but he wasn’t a good enough golfer to join in. Like Patrick, Griff enjoyed his golf, but didn’t have the time to practise properly. Not only that, Griff had joined the club under a false name and never went in the clubhouse. A man in Griff’s position couldn’t be seen associating with a convicted criminal.

  Patrick had a thing about the number thirteen, and rarely played that hole well. Griff said that it had nothing to do with luck and everything to do with the slope on the green.

  The property developer had already played straight and long down the fairway. Before Patrick could place his own tee, Griff stood in the way.

  ‘Fifty quid says that I can beat you on this one.’

  ‘I wouldn’t take your money, Griff. It may hurt your pride, but I’m a better golfer than you.’

  ‘I know, but this is number thirteen. Fifty quid says I’ll beat you by one stroke. A hundred if either of us wins by two strokes: bet’s off for a draw.’

  Patrick was about to argue when his phone rang. Only Dermot and Fran were allowed to interrupt the game: he saw his nephew’s name on the screen so he took the call.

  ‘Make it quick. I’m about to take a hundred quid off DS Griffin. The man doesn’t know when he’s beaten.’

  Griff could hear every word and shouted, ‘Tell the old man to quit, Dermot.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Patrick.

  ‘I’ve just had a message from Red Hand. He said that because the next delivery is going to be so large, he wants additional security. All types of security – including Griff to head off any other police interest.’

  ‘That’s good timing. Thanks.’

  Patrick ended the call and looked at Griff. ‘If I let you win this hole, will you do an extra job for me?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I’ve done what you asked. I’ve cut out all distribution of counterfeit notes in Earlsbury but we’re still acting as wholesalers. I need your help keeping an eye on a transhipment in a couple of weeks.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Obviously, you’d be in for a cut of the proceeds.’

  ‘No. If you’re going to branch out, fine, but it’s nothing to do with me. Now are we playing this hole or not?’

  It’s all about connections, thought Patrick. Griff is under the impression that he has a choice in this matter, but there’s a man who knows different. Whoever Red Hand was connected to would have a word with someone else. Patrick didn’t know who that was, but he was fairly confident that someone would have a word with Griff in due course.

  Patrick placed his tee and addressed the ball. He relaxed his shoulders and looked at the distant flag on the green. Then he raised his club for the swing and gave it his best shot.

  Mina was spending some quality time with her new jaw. She could go out on to the wing and talk to the other prisoners, but she liked to spend time after lunch feeling her way around the stitches with her tongue, testing their strength and pushing into the firmness underneath. For years she had kept her tongue out of the right side of her mouth, but now it could go where it liked. There would be plenty of time for talking later.

  When she was sentenced, her barrister had said, ‘Don’t think of it as four years. Think of it as eighteen to twenty-four months.’

  That was good advice, but it didn’t help. Mina was still in prison and she wasn’t going anywhere for a long time. Good God, she would be getting on for thirty when she was released.

  The tannoy announced the start of visiting, and she wrapped one of her two scarves around her face. They were plain but soft; nothing that might stir up jealousy among her sisters in crime. Four gates and two sets of searches later, she was admitted to the family room.

  As each prisoner was admitted, one more table would become complete, and their heads would turn away from watching the door.

  Her brother had said he would visit, ‘The next time I’m in England, okay?’ So not at all, in other words. Her father and her other brother were ashes in the Ganges; her mother had disowned her when she married Miles, so there was only one person who could visit her: the priest.

  ‘How are you bearing up, little one?’

  The old man embraced her gently to protect her face, but she buried it into his shoulder and sobbed until one of the officers separated them. While she dried her tears and rearranged the scarf, the priest talked of nothing and made observations about the other families.

  ‘Tell me, little fish, is the large lady over there also newly arrived?’

  Mina glanced over and looked away. It was not a good idea to make eye contact with Shelley. ‘No, she’s one of the longest serving. Don’t ask what for.’

  ‘I see. It’s just that her hair is so black, I assumed that she must be new. Surely it would go grey in here?’

  ‘They let us dye it, you know, but there’s a limited range of colours. You can’t go wrong with midnight black. Suits me well enough. I might get new teeth in January … if I’m good.’

  ‘Ganesha is watching you. And so is someone else.’

  His eyebrows rose and fell with a smile, and he went to the senior officer, who handed over a package. Crossing back over the room, Mina realised just how old he really was; the limp had become more pronounced since they had last met.

  ‘Have you been to the doctor, Baba-ji?’

  ‘I am not your father, Mina. You must not forget him or try to replace him. You can call me uncle, if you wish. That’s what I put on the visiting order.’

  ‘Have you been to the doctor, Uncle-ji?’

  ‘Yes. He says I need a new hip. So there. Now, I have two presents for you. You must promise to read both of them properly.’

  ‘I promise.’

  The priest, Mr Joshi, handed the package go Mina, but only after removing a folded piece of paper and putting it in his pocket. He gestured at the package. ‘Look at this while I get us some tea.’

  Mina would have saved him the pain of walking to the hatch, but only visitors were allowed to have money. She opened the package and a stonking great book tumbled into her hand – a well-thumbed copy of the Mahabharata.

  Great. She’d been tricked into giving her promise to read the longest holy book in the world. Her mother said that was her biggest problem – twisting older men around her little finger to get things from them and then doing whatever they asked in return. Mother had been thinking about her father when she said that, but it could apply equally to Miles or the priest. She was turning the pages when he returned with two teas.

  ‘I expect you to have read many pages before my next visit. I will ask questions.’

  Mina looked up, and he met her eyes. He was very rarely serious, but when he was, Mina could feel something tingling in her face. She looked down. ‘Yes, Guru-ji.’

  ‘Good. Now for your other present.’

  The folded piece of paper reappeared, and he handed it over. It was the printout from a we
bsite called The IPL Review – Full Scorecards and Analysis. It was full of details from cricket matches. She turned it over and looked again. Two of the scorecards were in a slightly different layout. What had Conrad said about developing an interest in cricket?

  ‘That young man of yours is very clever.’

  ‘He’s not my man and he’s not so young. That’s part of the problem.’

  ‘From a great distance, two points may seem close together. When you get to my age, everyone under fifty is young. He’s definitely yours, though, and he’s definitely clever.’

  Mina remembered one of the few details about Conrad’s family that he had let slip: his mother worked for GCHQ. Was there a code somewhere here?

  ‘I see that you’ve already spotted that he has altered two of the scorecards. Starting with chapter thirteen, look at the batsman’s score – then count in that number of words. The next game is chapter fourteen. The messages won’t be long, or frequent, but I’ll bring them in when I can. I’m afraid there’s no mechanism for you to reply. Yet.’

  It was thrilling, but Mina didn’t know whether she wanted to be thrilled or not. Conrad was ten years older than her. Was she repeating the same cycle again? Whether she was or not, if Conrad’s letters meant that Mr Joshi would keep visiting her then she was all in favour of it. Even if it did mean reading the Mahabharata.

  She stood up and kissed the old man.

  ‘Last warning, Mina,’ said the officer. ‘Next time you touch him, you’ll be sent back to the cells.’

  Chapter 5

  Earlsbury — London — Aberdeen

  Wednesday — Thursday — Friday

  20-22 October

  When Patrick, Fran and Elizabeth had arrived for the St Modwenna’s parents’ evening, there was a large sign in the foyer which said:

  Parents and Girls must switch their mobile phones OFF inside the school.

  Typical of St Modwenna’s, thought Patrick. Although his middle daughter was ten years older than Elizabeth, when she had gone to the local Catholic comprehensive they had always referred to Parents & Guardians, and the kids were always Students. That’s what he was getting for his money – a school which expected their girls to have both parents still in tow, and if there had been a messy divorce along the way, you were expected to turn up together.