Deadly Game

by Matt Johnson

  ‘What do you mean, twice?’

  ‘Just a couple of days ago … in Romania. Would you believe I took what might have been the very same gun off that very man?’

  ‘I don’t understand? How … how … I thought you meant you recognised him as a known criminal. You mean you’ve met him before?’

  ‘At the wedding me and Jenny went to. He was one of the men working for the family that invited us … the Cristeas.’

  ‘The Cristea family?’

  ‘Yeah. They’re the publishing folks that invited me to their daughter’s wedding.’

  ‘Oh my God … oh my fucking God.’ Nina started walking in small circles, her head held tightly in her hands. ‘You’re kidding me … the Cristeas? Seriously, Finlay? This isn’t some kind of a wind-up?’

  ‘At a time like this? Are you kidding? Why … do you know them?’

  ‘Do I know them? Finlay … the Cristeas are the reason we have a sex-trafficking problem in London.’ She stalked off towards the car park without another word. I followed, my heart beat picking up once again.

  When we reached our car, she stopped, opened the driver’s door and, jabbing her finger in the direction of the passenger seat, indicated for me to get in. With the doors closed, she paused for a second, appearing to compose herself.

  ‘The Cristeas are one of the reasons this squad has been formed. They’re into trafficking in a big way. Relia was going to testify against them.’

  ‘You never mentioned them.’ I said.

  ‘Not by name, no. But I would have as you learned more about how things work, what exactly we’re investigating and the scale of it. Jesus … I don’t bloody believe it. We are in so much shit. If it gets out that you’ve been holidaying with them…’

  ‘But I had no idea.’

  ‘Didn’t you think to check them out before you went?’

  ‘Not in detail, no. I think I just assumed, with MI5 knowing about them, they were just a publishing company.’

  ‘Really? Christ’s sake. You’ve been away from real policing for way too long. You should have checked. And I can’t believe that Toni Fellowes didn’t warn you.’

  ‘You know her?’

  ‘Of course … our paths have crossed many times.’

  ‘So … what am I going to do?’

  ‘What are we going to do, you mean?’ Nina paused, seemingly running things over in her mind. An idea seemed to come to her. ‘You definitely haven’t done any checks on the Cristeas?’ she asked. ‘No PNC check, no Interpol, nothing?’

  ‘It never occurred to me,’ I replied. ‘I just thought they were an ordinary family – pretty well off, but normal. I saw some of them carrying sidearms at the reception, but I thought that might be normal for backwoods Romania. To be honest, I’ve been a bit distracted since the bombings … not thinking straight.’

  ‘I’m sure Complaints Branch would be very sympathetic … just before they sack you. So, there’s no trace on any electronic search to say that you could have known that gunman?’

  ‘No … none.’

  ‘Do you know his name?’

  ‘No … and one other thing, those pictures from Interpol: there was one with a girl in a very distinctive dress. I couldn’t say for definite, but she looks like a girl that lost a dance competition at the wedding.’

  ‘I know the picture you mean, we see a lot like that.’

  ‘A lot of murdered slave girls, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, a lot of them end up dead, dumped at the side of the road.’

  ‘You seem to know so much about trafficking.’

  ‘Let’s just say there are family connections. My father was Romanian, worked in the embassy over here, that’s how he met my mother. We settled over here but my old man knew a lot of people involved in trafficking.’

  ‘Why is the Romanian connection so relevant?’

  ‘During the war my father’s country fought with the Nazis. He told me how the Germans set up what they called “Joy Divisions” in the concentration camps and “Soldattenbordell” elsewhere.’

  ‘Brothels for soldiers?’ I asked, guessing at the translation.

  ‘Exactly. And they used Romanian soldiers to run them. At the end of the war those men had learned the trade and how lucrative it could be. It didn’t take long before they were forcing women into it again.’

  ‘You know a lot about the subject.’

  ‘It’s been a particular interest of mine for some while.’

  ‘I’m impressed. But it’s not going to help me at the moment.’

  ‘I agree. Didn’t you think that maybe you should have said something? I mean, we do have rules about associating with criminals and accepting gratuities.’

  I managed a half-smile. ‘I’ll have to tell the local Murder Squad what I know.’

  ‘They’ll hang you out to dry, Finlay. You’ll be on a disciplinary hearing faster than you know it. Christ, that bastard Youldon will be rubbing his hands with glee.’

  ‘No choice…’

  ‘Let me think…’

  I went to speak but Nina raised her hand to silence me.

  After a few moments, she spoke. ‘You do have a choice. It’s not your fault you’re an idiot. To my way of thinking, to err is human. Trouble is … to forgive isn’t job policy.’

  ‘Got a suggestion? I have to tell them…’

  ‘No, you don’t. You have to give a description and, in case anyone in the street saw the chase, you will have to say what happened. But you don’t have to tell them that you’d met the gunman before … you don’t have to say that the Cristeas are behind it.’

  ‘Why not, if the Cristeas are the killers, then they’ll need to know?’

  ‘You leave that to me, Finlay. Relia was Romanian and came through the slave route … and I’ll explain that we were hoping she was going to give us evidence against the Cristeas. I’ll tell the Murder Squad that they have to be considered prime suspects.’

  ‘You think that’ll work?’

  ‘For your sake … for our sake, I hope so. Now, just do yourself a bloody favour and leave the detective work to those that know what they’re doing.’

  I didn’t answer. Nina was offering to cover for me. She would steer the Murder Squad in the right direction without saying how she knew.

  With little option, I had to agree. ‘OK,’ I said. ‘I will. One thing though.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘If the gunman dived under the Jaguar straight after leaving the flats, he was hiding there for maybe half an hour. Why not sneak off? Why stay there?’

  ‘Maybe they were still around when we arrived. He saw us and hid in the first available place.’

  ‘But we were a good twenty minutes inside the flats. He could have used that time to make good his escape.’

  ‘Maybe he was waiting to be picked up.’

  ‘Yeah … maybe. Or maybe he was watching us. And only hid when we wandered over to look around the car park.’

  ‘Who knows, Finlay?’ said Nina. ‘Like I said, we’ll leave that to the detectives to work out, shall we?’

  Chapter 44

  I gave a description of the gunman we had chased to the local CID before we left. They circulated it over the radio and started to organise a search of the local streets. I guessed it would be fruitless. He was long gone.

  For most of the return journey to New Scotland Yard, we didn’t speak. Nina was clearly brooding, her mood sombre and quiet, her driving more sedate. I didn’t push the conversation. I thought hard about the advice she had given me. I had been a fool, there was no doubt of that. Her generosity in covering for me surprised me a little. In truth, she hardly knew me. One day, I promised myself that I would return the favour.

  It was pretty clear to me that Relia had been located by the very same people who had brought her into the country. She had known too much and had been willing to name names, identify traffickers and help bring other victims who might also be willing to help. The slavers had found and silenced
her.

  Breaking the atmosphere, Nina finally spoke – explaining to me what happened when she had tried to get Relia into the embryonic witness protection programme.

  ‘Every resource, every officer was already committed to supergrass enquiries – you know the type of thing: crooks giving evidence in gangster trials. I had to protect an innocent victim on my own. And now, that’s cost Relia her life.’ Nina sighed deeply.

  She was right when she said that the individuals responsible for that lack of support would now be looking to protect themselves from the inevitable criticism.

  With Nina’s driving now a lot smoother, I took the opportunity to flick through the remainder of the Interpol reports. There were many, almost all involving drug smuggling. We were on the down ramp into the underground car park at New Scotland Yard when Nina suddenly hit the brakes. The files on my lap slipped untidily into the passenger well of the car.

  ‘What’s up?’ I asked.

  ‘She knew.’

  ‘I’m sorry … I don’t follow. Who knew what?’

  ‘Toni Fellowes … she knew. She knows about the Cristeas; she has to. I’ve been thinking about it and it’s the only answer I can come up with.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

  ‘When she arranged that trip to Egypt – did anything happen to throw you and the Cristeas together?’

  ‘I wouldn’t exactly say we were thrown together. Marica – the daughter – she wanted to do a course and needed a dive partner. The school suggested that I could do it.’

  ‘And I bet there was an incentive, like it was a freebie?’

  ‘Yes, it was. Are you saying Toni engineered me meeting Marica?’

  ‘It’s a theory, but it fits. I bet she couldn’t believe her luck when you got invited to that wedding.’

  ‘You’re saying Toni wanted me to meet the Cristeas … that she sent us over there knowing they were criminals?’

  ‘You bumping into one of the Cristea gunmen in the street, having just met him at a wedding is a hell of a coincidence. Isn’t it more likely Toni Fellowes had been planning all along for you to have contact with them?’

  ‘But why would she do that? Why put us at risk?’

  ‘She’s a spook, Finlay. You of all people should know they only see people like us as assets. She probably figured she could use you to get close to the family. Maybe MI5 has an interest in them too.’

  I didn’t reply. The trust I had placed in Toni Fellowes had just taken a serious knock.

  Matt was waiting for us when we arrived back at the office. News of Relia’s murder had filtered through.

  ‘Boss wants to see you both,’ he said.

  Nina slammed her handbag and the Interpol file onto her desk. ‘Does he now?’ she replied, angrily.

  I made to speak, but the tall DS held up her hand to silence me. ‘Leave it to me, Finlay. She was my witness … and it’s my head. Besides, I can handle our beloved Superintendent better on my own.’

  The phone on my desk started to ring. It was the Hampstead SOCO. He got straight to the point. ‘You mentioned a footprint on the entrance door to 43 Redhill.’

  ‘That’s right. In the light it looked like the sole of a trainer.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry … I looked carefully, but there was no mark. No sign of one anywhere.’

  I paused for a moment. I was certain I’d seen a mark. ‘You’re sure?’ I asked.

  ‘Definite.’

  ‘Could one of the boys have brushed it off as they walked passed it?’

  ‘Maybe … I guess. But I wouldn’t have expected an accidental brush to have removed it completely. Smudged it, yes, but there was no mark at all on the door.’

  ‘Shit.’

  I had a shrewd idea what had happened. I’d seen it before. A young DC accidentally damages key evidence and rather than leave it and own up, he removes it completely and denies it was ever there. One of the Hampstead lads had probably brushed against the door, realised their mistake and then wiped the door clean. It was shit practice but it happened.

  ‘One other thing,’ the SOCO added.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The victim; when we lifted the body from the bath, her left hand was missing … hacked off at the wrist.’

  I grimaced. ‘Christ. With the cleaver from the kitchen, I guess?’

  ‘Looks like it. Place had been searched as well. No jewellery, no cash to be seen. And our best estimate is there were at least two attackers, maybe three.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘Two sets of trainer marks in the kitchen and like I said, somebody searched the bedroom. Whoever did that didn’t leave any blood on the floor, so we figure there was probably a third suspect involved.’

  ‘Unless they searched the bedroom before killing her?’

  ‘Could be,’ said the SOCO. ‘Our boss figures at least two, though.’

  ‘Overwhelmed by numbers. Poor kid never stood a chance. Do you think that the blood trail we found was from her hand?’

  ‘Could well be. It was just a few spots. Not likely to have been from a wounded suspect who was running – that would probably have produced a larger spread pattern. I can’t be sure until we compare the DNA to the body, but there was no blood under the Jaguar, suggesting the man you chased was uninjured.’

  ‘No luck with him, I guess?’

  ‘None. Long gone. I’ll need you both to come up and look at some pictures of local villains later and I’ll need to take shoe imprints from both of you.’

  I thanked him for his help and hung up.

  Nina was still in with the Superintendent. For a moment it crossed my mind to knock on the door, pull her out and give her the news about Relia’s missing hand. The raised voices that reached my ears persuaded me otherwise.

  Chapter 45

  Later that day, Nina and I drove back up to Hampstead, where we provided the forensic team with samples, footprints and statements. After several failed attempts to contact Toni Fellowes, I left a message with Nell, her assistant. I explained – without mentioning the gunman – that I had learned of the Cristeas involvement in sex trafficking and that I was curious why I had been allowed to travel to Romania. I couched it in no stronger terms than that. Although I was angry, I didn’t want to start sounding off; I was hoping there might be a perfectly good explanation. And, I had to remember, Toni had been very supportive and had gone out of her way to help my family. In many ways, we owed her.

  That evening, I met up with Kevin to make the one-hour journey from Central London to Gayle Bridges’ new home.

  Kevin picked me up from Victoria Street at seven o’clock, and almost immediately began to tell me what had happened to Beaky on television. It transpired the BBC had been doing a TV interview when Terry Field, one of the senior NCOs from Hereford, had popped out of the audience with Beaky’s personnel file.

  The interviewer had then posed Beaky a couple of searching questions about his supposed time in the SAS. It was a set-up. Not surprisingly, Beaky couldn’t bullshit his way through the interview with Terry sitting opposite him, the truth in a cardboard folder on his lap. Beaky had lost his temper and stormed out of the studio. Rumour had it he also chinned one of the cameramen. I thought it a sad end to a sorry episode.

  It looked like Beaky was going to have the last laugh, though. According to the newspapers, the book had gone to a second print run, such was the demand after the BBC exposure.

  I had little interest in Beaky or his book, though. My immediate problem was helping Gayle Bridges dispose of her late husband’s trophy pistol. I was also curious as to what might be contained in the paperwork that Bob Bridges had seen fit to keep hidden for so long after his retirement from the army.

  As an experienced army wife, Gayle knew how to receive soldiers into her home. The kettle was on and, as she showed us into the front room, there was a plate of Garibaldi biscuits ready on the coffee table. If there was one thing she remembered, it was that soldiers were always thirsty
and hungry.

  Gayle started out by apologising for not replying to the message I had sent to her through the pension branch. She had decided to cut all ties with her husband’s past life. It was only finding the pistol that had changed her mind.

  In the car, on the way to the house, Kevin and I had discussed how we would deal with the questions we thought Gayle might ask. It didn’t take long before our planning paid off. She soon raised the subject of her husband’s murder, the attacks on the other former soldiers and the end result.

  Kevin had been uncertain as to how much to say. I had decided. We would tell Gayle about the Irish lads that had been taken out, the Arab who had turned out to be another Irishman, and the fact that the threat was now over. Of Monaghan, the former SAS commander turned MI5 officer, we would make no mention.

  Gayle listened quietly while I related the story of how Kevin and I had managed to work out who the terrorists were, how we had then been attacked ourselves and gone on to overcome our would-be killers. I explained that the final terrorist had died of food poisoning in prison, just a couple of days previously.

  ‘Did he die, or was he killed too, Finlay?’ she asked me.

  ‘From what I read in the papers, which is really all we know, it seems it was an illness. I suppose we might all hope he suffered a bit, but nobody seems to be claiming it was anything else.’

  ‘I just wondered…’ Gale began. And then she stood up and left the room.

  I exchanged glances with Kevin. He shrugged. Our shared curiosity was answered when Gayle returned carrying a cardboard document box. She sat down on the settee, placed the box on the coffee table and opened the lid.

  On the top of a pile of A4 size papers, about an inch in thickness, lay a Browning 9mm pistol, a spare magazine and three small boxes of 9mm rounds.

  ‘Would you mind taking the gun?’ Gayle looked at Kevin as she asked.

  Kevin picked the pistol up by the grip, removed the clip and pulled back the slide. A live round flicked out onto the floor.

  ‘Loaded. One up the spout,’ he commented, leaning forward to retrieve the bullet.