Game Point

by Malcolm Hollingdrake

  ***

  The sound of Big Ben’s chimes erupted from Cyril’s mobile. It was 04:30. The noise didn’t wake him, he had beaten his alarm by a good forty minutes. He had showered, shaved, dressed and was on his second coffee. He could not sleep, he just wanted to be in his office and in the Incident Room. He needed to review any new intelligence that had arrived overnight, but most importantly he needed to focus, focus on the most important thing and that was finding Liz. He knew that by finding her he would be a step closer to Charles.

  As Cyril crossed The Stray he took a moment to look up; the sky was full of stars, it was clear and cold; so far the walk could be described as bracing, it was the first time this year that he had seen the grass veiled in a fine filigree of ice. It glistened in the yellow streetlights, complementing the star-studded darkness. He filled his lungs with the fresh night air whilst contemplating Liz. Would she be able to see the stars, to breathe in the air or was she no longer of this earth? He did not let the thought dwell but set off again at a brisk place, quickly replacing the fresh morning air with the mint flavoured vapour and a dose of nicotine.

  People were busy on his arrival; the work of the Harrogate police didn’t stop. DC Paul Mortimer did a double take on seeing Cyril enter the Incident Room. He glanced at the clock. “Couldn’t sleep, Sir?”

  Cyril simply shook his head. “Anything?” Cyril’s voice sounded almost pleading.

  “Great response from your request for dash cam footage, loads. Going through it now and reg. numbers are being cross-referenced. There are one or two interesting leads that are being chased up. Forensics has come up with some positive DNA matches from Liz’s coat. According to those at Hogwart’s…”

  Cyril pulled a quizzical face, it was too early for games.

  “Sorry Sir, my name for The Jeffrey’s Building, Forensics, you know. Hogwart’s is the school of witchcraft and wizardry.”

  On a normal day, Cyril would have shown a degree of displeasure but at this time in a morning he was a tad more tolerant. “Go on!”

  “The evidence clearly points to the fact that Liz’s coat carries a good deal of Christina Cameron’s DNA. They assure us that, at some stage, she must have worn it. There’s also food detritus, I think we know them as crumbs, detected on one of the leather settees from the Stray Agency and from Liz’s coat. More to the point they match! Fabric particles from her coat were found on the settee too.”

  “Really? Slow down just a little.”

  “Sorry, always find this stuff exciting, get carried away. You should hear my missus!” Cyril’s expression brought an abrupt halt to his domestic musings.

  “Drug traces located on the floor in the same room and in the kitchen.”

  “Do the ‘wizards’ know which?” Cyril humoured him.

  “The Toxicology wizards are the best, Sir. One moment. “He walked over to a computer.

  Why he had joined in with the wizardry analogy he would never know but Cyril felt it lift his spirits a little.

  “Here we are, take your pick.”

  Cyril read the list. He pointed to the drug, Ketamin.

  “Just a second, says here that traces were found on the floor, and on minute fragments of what are believed to be from a ceramic cup. Incidentally, it was also recorded that there were six saucers but only five cups in the kitchen. No broken cup in the bin either. If they’d damaged a cup recently, it was removed from the place.” He scrolled down the report. “Liz’s finger prints found on the frame of a painting in the same room, also on door handles and the settee. From the spread, it can be safely assumed that she was there for some time. As a matter of fact, your prints were also found but only in the hall and Grant’s office. You might also like to know that we have some prints belonging to John Cooper.”

  Cyril wasn’t too fazed by that information. “We know he’s been there, he told me he visited on a number of occasions, so nothing strange in that. What else?”

  “It’s just that one of his prints overlaps one of yours, suggesting he’d been there last week after your visit.”

  Cyril raised an eyebrow and sat on the edge of the table. “I want all this stuff ready for the morning briefing, I also want you there. Contact ANPR Control and see what’s been processed regarding the cars spotted on the dash cams. The sooner we have that information the better.”

  Providing that she had arrived on time, Cyril estimated that Liz had left the Agency building at about three thirty, because there had been no appointment. She had phoned Shakti and told her that she was on her way home. Cameron was aware that Grant would not be at the meeting on Friday, so why had she not telephoned Liz and cancelled? If she had forgotten to do that, why would Liz have gone into the other room and possibly have had a drink when everyone knew she was desperate for an early finish and to get home?

  “I want Christina Cameron in and I want her in before the sun’s up. I want her flat scouring. Please arrange the search and let me know the time it’ll happen. And to be safe, I want an armed unit present. I’ll clear it now. Get Owen out of bed. I want him there and in charge.”

  Cyril thought about getting Cooper and Grant in for questioning, but then had second thoughts. He believed that the best course of action would be to get Ruth to bring Cooper in about some fictitious need to identify some of Valerie’s belongings. Grant could wait.

  ***

  Christina Cameron’s apartment was some distance from the centre of Harrogate. Two cars and an unmarked Police Armed Response Vehicle pulled up outside the Victorian terraced house on King’s Road. Owen had already arrived, ready and prepared, he was wearing a ballistic vest that was clearly marked ‘Police’. The apartment was on the lower floor. The standard procedure had been well rehearsed, the rear of the building was covered. When everyone was in place, Owen checked the names of the occupants of both apartment she had been handed before he went up and rang the bell. It seemed strange that armed police were close by and yet it was accepted practice to believe the occupier, at this stage at least, was innocent.

  His senses were alive as adrenalin coursed through his veins. He rang again keeping his finger on the bell, unsure as to what to expect. An upstairs light came on quickly followed by hands parting the vertical blinds. Anannoyed but reluctant face peered onto the road, suddenly becoming more aware of the blue, flashing strobe lights on the police vehicles lighting the garden and the surrounding buildings intermittently, He looked down onto the path at the three dark figures standing apart, the reflective ‘Police’ label proudly visible. Owen waved and pointed to the door. Moments later the hallway light illuminated the door’s transom window, shedding more light onto the pathway.

  The door opened until the security chain snapped at full stretch. A man in his sixties stared out at Owen and then he turned his attention to the figure, positioned a little further down the path dressed in helmet and goggles and holding a gun.

  Owen spoke. “Mr Turnbull? Police, open up!”

  Confused, the man momentarily retreated before sliding the chain on the back of the door, opening it fully. He immediately put his hands in the air.

  Owen could not help but smile, whether it be this reaction or a sense of relief that they were in the building, he was unsure. “Which is the door to Christina Cameron’s flat?”

  Turnbull lowered one arm before pointing to a door set away from the porch, about halfway down the corridor.

  “She’s not in, saw her do a flit about eight last night, two bags, said nothing, not even a goodbye. Snooty cow, never liked her. What’s she done?”

  Owen ushered Turnbull outside before nodding to the officer behind him. Someone brought up an Enforcer, a steel ram that made short work of the door lock. The sound of splintering wood could be heard above Turnbull’s complaints. He was put into one of the cars for safe-keeping, as a pair of boxer shorts and bare feet were inadequate cover for someone of his age to be standing about in outside on such a chill morning.

  Once the apartment was deemed safe, the w
aiting SOCOs moved in and Mr Turnbull was ushered back upstairs. There would be little chance of sleep; the front door remained open as a constant stream of white-coated figures passed in and out. He watched with curiosity from an upstairs window. Owen appointed an officer to quiz Turnbull about Cameron.

  Owen called Harrogate Police Control to initiate a border check and a watch on all single females matching Cameron’s description. He was under no illusions. By now, if her name was not Cameron, she would have reverted to her original name or be travelling under a false passport. She could be anywhere. After contacting local taxi firms, Owen received a positive identification. Amir Patel had collected a lady from the King’s Road address at 19:50 and driven her to Manchester Airport, dropping her at Terminal One. His records showed that he had arrived at 21:47. All she had told the driver was that she was looking forward to visiting relatives; no destination had been mentioned.

  That narrowed the border checks considerably and the best match was found, a single female answering to Cameron’s general description, travelling first class on Turkish Airlines, departing 23:45 to Ataturk Airport, Istanbul, under the name of Rosalyn Bruce. The ticket had been purchased in the afternoon of the departure day.

  ***

  Cyril peered at the screen on his desk, DC Mortimer had been most efficient. He was watching a dash cam recording taken on Friday evening. It showed a Ford Transit parked close to the Stray Agency. As the vehicle passed the van, the headlights picked up a clear image of a man, carrying what looked like a rolled up carpet. It was only brief but remarkably clear.

  Cyril shook his head. Clichéd crime! Getting rid of a body by wrapping it in a carpet, he mumbled to himself. But very effective. He looked again and paused the film. Unfortunately, the bundle was draped over his left shoulder, the shoulder closer to the road, consequently blocking a clear view of the man’s face. He wound back the video until the front of the van was visible and checked the number plate. It was clear and would therefore be tracked within the region’s’ ANPR data. There was a knock on the door and Cyril didn’t turn, expecting it to be Owen. “Stop blocking the light and come and see this wizardry, right up your street! The clarity of these cameras is quite…”

  He heard a polite cough. He was wrong, it was not Owen. He turned to see a woman in her early thirties. He then noted the police security neck lanyard.

  “DCI Bennett?”

  Cyril stood. “Correct and you are?”

  “DI Margaret Podmore, National Crime Agency.” She checked her watch. “Couldn’t sleep and assumed you’d be in the same boat, always happens to those close to the victim. I can come back if you’re busy or have an appointment with Owen, was it?”

  Cyril held out his hand. “Cyril, Cyril Bennett. Blame my mother for the Cyril bit.” He smiled and pulled out a seat.

  “And your father for the Bennett? Margaret, but people call me Peg, please feel free. It seems our parents pleased themselves!” She smiled and raised an eyebrow.“I’ve gone through the files. The crucial thing that I have to ask immediately.” She paused. “Have you kept the computer believed to belong to Valerie Atkins open? By that I mean able to receive the Internet? If the person holding Liz is going to communicate, the likelihood is it will be through that.”

  Cyril immediately picked up the phone and called Newby Wiske, requesting that the technicians responsible for the Atkins’s case call him as soon as possible.

  Peg continued. “There may be something already waiting in the ether. My experience tells me there is unlikely to be a ransom demand from the evidence I’ve read. This kidnap hasn’t been done for financial reward, and if what you believe is true, it’s been done to make a point. Simply put, it’s a vendetta. How safe your colleague is at this moment depends on what happened to those working for this Charles fellow. I don’t need to spell out the worse case scenario to you. Had they wanted to just kill her, you’d have located Liz’s body by now. You have two bodies already so killing is not a problem for them; two or three makes no difference to a man who is used to that depth of criminality, he has nothing further to lose. In my experience, she, Liz, is still alive and held locally, probably within a thirty-mile radius of the point from which she was abducted. Once we know there have been no further communications, we can start formulating a strategy from the evidence we now have and draw in the minutiae. Cyril, nothing must be missed.”

  ***

  Liz’s body shook involuntarily, her teeth chattered as she tried to control the tremors. As the night hours dragged on, the cold seemed to permeate every bone in her body, regardless of how she wrapped the blanket around herself. Every time her body succumbed to exhaustion and she nodded off, she was soon awakened by the gnawing cold.

  The yellow glow from the electric lights filled the recesses of the small, cell-like room as she marked another line on the wall with a shaking hand. She breathed out and watched the air billow in grey clouds, warm breath against cold air. It was at the precise moment when she saw the breath slowly disappearthat she had the first real, clear thought, a mental image came crystal sharp to mind. She could see Cyril Bennett standing in front of her, the vapour from his e-cigarette forming a similar cloud. She closed her eyes and welcomed that moment from her past. It was clear and focussed. She could see his facial features and she smiled to herself in the excitement. She concentrated harder looking beyond Cyril. Yes, she could visualise his office, neat and orderly. She opened her eyes briefly and then closed them again. She could see his shoes, like two black mirrors, his trousers, sharply pressed and then she saw his hands. They were perfectly manicured. A sense of relief flooded her body.

  Suddenly, she no longer felt the cold as shementally grasped at these new found images that seemed to appear out of the mists of time. It was like putting together a jigsaw where a few pieces are ‘picture up’ but the majority are face down. Now, however, more and more were being flipped over in her mind’s eye. It was then that she could see Owen and the envelope, she could see his lips moving but she heard no sounds before they broke into a broad smile. She saw her hand move to his head; she struck him. The words filled her head, French letter. She said the words over and over again whilst keeping her eyes firmly closed. Next she saw a face that she knew so well, it was Shakti; she was laughing.

  “Shakti, dear Shakti!” she said out loud. A warmth of satisfaction bubbled inside her as she scratched three names on the wall above the calendar marks, Cyril, Shakti and Owen. She was now determined to turn more of the puzzle pieces over whilst ensuring that none of her newly found memory was lost. She ran her finger over the freshly scribed marks. It was only then that she realised that she had stopped shaking and no longer felt the cold.

  The crashing sound of a door slamming open some way off in the unknown world that existed on the other side of her cell walls, brought an immediate halt to her reminiscence. Shadows moved like black ghosts, elongated and discernible; clearly the many interlinking forms were cast from a number of people, their muffled conversations audible but indecipherable. She strained, trying to catch the odd word but with little success. It was then that she heard the engines, one followed by a second and then a third, trundle just outside her window. A faint whiff of diesel fumes permeated the ill-fitting window frame. Her senses became acute as she listened for the slightest clue as to what was occurring. Maybe this was normal, maybe this was the first day that she was alert enough to appreciate her immediate surroundings and make something of her newfound senses.

  Chapter Sixteen

  DC Mortimer stood against one of the white boards and watched as a number of colleagues streamed in and found a place to perch. Cyril entered with Margaret Podmore. All eyes followed her, a thirty-something, tall female, with brown hair tied up in a sort of bun. She carried a file under one arm and a brief case. She had more the appearance of a company secretary than a copper.

  Cyril didn’t sit; he glanced around the room as if taking a mental register. “Morning, and my apologies for this early start.”
Cyril introduced DI Podmore who nodded to the group but remained silent.

  If she had a pound for every time a look of scepticism appeared on colleagues’ faces when they became aware that she was from the NCA, she would be retired and living in the Caribbean by now. She took the opportunity to look each in the eye whilst maintaining a smile.

  “A good deal of information has come to light over the last few hours. I’ve got to say a big thanks to Paul who is now doing a second shift, so before he goes home he’s going to fill everyone in on the various findings.”

  Paul explained about the suspect vehicle seen on the dash cam images and the tracking of the van only as far as Pateley Bridge.

  “There’s a search in the area and a NPAS helicopter (National Police Air Service) will be assisting. Operation Hawk is in full swing in that specific area and the teams have been told to stop and search anything that seems out of the ordinary."

  (Operation Hawk is a North Yorkshire Police initiative. Specialist Road Teams, usually comprising two police cars, one unmarked, work together using in- car technology to identify and cross-reference a suspect vehicle’s history and owner details. The cars are linked to the Control Centre in York. This technology allows the successful and swift response to actionable intelligence.)

  “We’ve also asked for unusual heat source detection in the area from the over flights, as it’s suspected drug farming may be the reason for the abduction and the murders.”

  Owen reported on the early morning search revealing that Christina Cameron had travelled to Istanbul under the name of Rosalyn Bruce. He also explained that Istanbul had a connection to an earlier case involving Charles, the suspected murderer. He emphasised that the flight had not been pre-planned as the ticket had only been bought on the day of the flight; the destination, however, might well have been. Interpol had been briefed as had the Turkish Police, but that was all he could say at this stage.